by R.J. Ellory
New York City Herald Assistant Editor-in-Chief, Leland Winter, leaned back in his chair. He steepled his fingers and looked enquiringly at Karen Langley, Senior Crime Correspondent, the woman for whom John Costello worked as a researcher.
John Costello counted the bonsai trees on Winter′s desk. There were eight. The second from the right was almost perfectly symmetrical.
′So what do you want from me?′ Winter asked.
′Three pages, three consecutive Sundays,′ Langley said. She glanced at Costello and smiled.
′Feature editorial on the serial killer victims that never make the headlines?′
′Right,′ Karen Langley said.
Winter nodded slowly and then turned to Costello.
Costello looked at Winter. He tilted his head to one side. ′Can I ask you something, Mr Winter?′
′Sure,′ Winter said.
′The trees . . . the ones on your desk—′
′John,′ Karen Langley interjected. The sound of his name was a whispered syllable, a prompt, a reprimand.
Winter smiled, leaned forward. ′The trees . . . what about them?′
Costello nodded his head. ′I don′t know that I′ve ever seen anything so beautiful, Mr Winter. They really are the most remarkable specimens.′
′You know bonsai?′ Winter asked. ′And for God′s sake, John, no-one calls me Mr Winter except the IRS and the police. Call me Leland.′
Costello shook his head. ′Do I know bonsai? No, not really, only enough to know when someone else knows what they′re doing.′
′Why thank you, John. That′s most appreciated. They really are a great passion of mine.′
′I can see that, Leland, I really can.′
Leland Winter and John Costello sat there for some moments. The room was silent. They looked at the bonsai trees from opposite sides of the desk. Karen Langley believed she might as well not have been there.
Eventually Winter turned and looked at her. ′So propose me something, Karen . . . put a few boards together, let me see how it looks, okay? I don′t know about three full pages, but let′s see what we′ve got, okay?′
Karen Langley smiled, rose from her chair. ′Thanks, Leland, that′s great . . . we′ll get something together by the middle of the week.′
John Costello stood up, took a step forward, extended his hand.
Leland Winter shook it, smiling. ′How long have you been here, John? At the paper, I mean.′
′Here?′ Costello turned his mouth down at the corners. He turned and looked at Karen Langley.
′Eight and a half years,′ Karen Langley said. ′John′s worked for me for eight and a half years . . . started about six months after I arrived.′
′I′m surprised we′ve never met . . . I mean, I′ve only been here half that time, but even so—′
John Costello nodded his head. ′No-one told me you had bonsais, Leland, or I′d have been up here a long time ago.′
Leland Winter smiled some more, and showed them out of his office with a self-satisfied expression.
′You′re unbelievable, John,′ Karen Langley said. ′That was just the most outrageous thing I ever saw.′
′So maybe you get your pages, eh?′
′We′ll see . . . you gotta help me put something together now, okay? Gotta have something for the planning meeting, latest Wednesday.′
′I′ll check my calendar,′ Costello said.
Langley swung the leather portfolio she was carrying and connected with Costello′s arm.
′Check your calendar . . . Jesus, you should do a half-hour stint at the Comedy Club on Saturday night, get it out of your system.′
They reached the elevator, she pushed for down.
′Question,′ Costello said. ′Why did you tell him I′d only been here for eight and a half years?′
Karen smiled. ′I didn′t say you′d been here for eight and half years, I told him that′s how long you′d worked for me.′
Costello raised his eyebrows.
′John, seriously. I tell people that you′ve been here for nearly twenty years it bothers them that they don′t know who you are. It - well - it makes them feel awkward.′
Costello opened his mouth to say something but seemed to change his mind. He shrugged his shoulders, then turned toward the stairwell.
′Oh right,′ she said. ′No elevators.′
He smiled unassumingly, then made his way through the doorway and started down the stairwell. He counted the treads as he went, same as always.
FOUR
Morning of Monday, June 12th, Max Webster was caught in a jam on Franklin D. Roosevelt Drive. Had planned to take the Queens Midtown Tunnel, changed his mind when he saw the depth of gridlock at the end of East 42nd, figured that the Williamsburg Bridge might be a safer bet, and took it. Max was middle-aged, whatever the hell that meant. Salesman out of the lower east side, small but profitable chemical firm on Rivington Street that hawked its wares as far north as Waterbury, Conn., as far south as Atlantic City. Max was a regular guy; a guy that would never be known for anything but his decency and basic goodness. Part of that fraternity of simple people with simple lives, long beyond the point of frustration about what might have been, could have been, should have been, never would be. Not complicated, just limited.
Max had two client visits, and then back to the office to cold-call some prospects. His firm, Chem-Tech, didn′t have to fight for the trade any more, and in some small way Max was aware that the challenge had slipped right out of the business. He wasn′t hungry these days, not like ten years ago. Back then it was closing pitches, ′buy nows′ and lead-times faster than the competition. Back then it was arguing with stock managers and delivery crews and warehousemen. Back then it was three Hail Marys as he climbed from his car and made his way toward the site office, pumping hands, grinning wide and foolish, making the prospect think he was calling the boss to see if they could shave a point off the dollar if the order exceeded three grand and change. Back then it seemed like something to get up for. Five years and he would call it quits, buy a boat and go fishing, and five years of routine and repetition he could stand. For Max Webster was a decent stand-up guy, a guy that would die and leave people remembering little of him at all except that he was okay.
Gridlock he could do also. He was on schedule for his appointment. But that morning he′d drunk a second cup of coffee, and seated in his car on Roosevelt he felt like someone cruel had tied a knot in his bladder and was squeezing the contents into the base of his gut. Max, for all his good points, was not so good at breakfast. Maybe he smoked too much. Whatever the reason, he seemed to wake with food as the last thing on his mind. Always been that way; wouldn′t eat until ten or eleven, and this morning that second cup of coffee rolled around inside him.
Fifteen minutes later he′d crawled no more than a quarter mile forward. His knuckles were white as he gripped the wheel. A thin film of sweat had broken out along his hairline, and he felt that if he didn′t go he would pee his pants right where he sat.
He glanced right toward the empty emergency lane, and then turned sharply, hit the accelerator, and burned down the last few hundred yards to the turn-off. He cut underneath the expressway and pulled up on the edge of the East River Park. A water-filled balloon was trying to push its way out the middle of his body. He hesitated for a second or two then, in a moment of unbridled spontaneity, he killed the engine, exited his car, and hurried down the embankment toward an outcrop of trees by the river.
Relief was overwhelming and immediate. He urinated with such force he could have broken a pane of glass. He urinated like the State champion. As was always the case in such moments, the quantity he produced was far, far greater than two cups of coffee, and he glanced nervously both left and right to insure he wasn′t being seen. The trees were dense enough, their cover ample, and it was only when he glanced down that his sense of relief drew to a stuttering close.
At first he merely frowned, and then as realization qu
ietly dawned, slipping into his mind like the sun into the Gulf of Mexico from Ponce De Leon Bay, he squinted at the ground, began focusing on what he was seeing there. Amidst the fallen leaves and bottle caps, amidst the damp shreds of discarded newspaper and a single rusted Coke can, amidst the things one would expect to find in a clump of trees at the side of the highway, lay a single human hand, palm upwards. The fingers were curled toward him, almost pointing, almost accusing, and though the wrist had disappeared under a damp heap of fallen leaves, it seemed that the fingers were growing from the earth like a bizarre and unnatural plant.
Max Webster, decent guy though he was, sprayed the front of his antique brogues. The last shot of urine soaked the right leg of his pants and, his pecker barely back inside, he was hot-footing his way out of the trees, turning suddenly and nearly falling, the blood drained from his face, his eyes wide and staring as he hurtled up toward his car. He snatched his cellphone from the dash compartment and called 911, and for the first time in as long as he could remember he said the F-word - like, There′s a fucking body, a goddamned fucking body down in the trees! - and the operator on the end of the line kept her cool and made him explain where he was and what he had seen, and gave him strict instructions not to move.
And he didn′t move. Didn′t even want to look back down toward the trees. Thought for a moment what he would tell them, whether there was a law against urinating within a couple of hundred yards of Franklin D. Roosevelt Drive, but good guy that he was he decided that the truth was the truth. And he told that truth to the guys who came down in the black-and-white, a couple of youngsters who couldn′t have been more than a year or so out of police academy, and one of them stayed with Max while the other went down to the trees to confirm that the hand Max had seen was in fact human, and not some dumbass trick-or-treat stage prop thrown in there by some kids.
The hand was real, the body beyond it equally real, and the police officer came out from the trees looking similarly shocked and pale. He called it in. Operator contacted the ME′s Office, and the County Deputy Coroner was dispatched forthwith. His name was Hal Gerrard, mid-forties, knew that without an Act of God he would never be the coroner, and had philosophically resigned himself to the fact many years before. He took a CSA with him, a man called Lewis Ivens, and between the two of them they cleared the area around the body and found a second one. Two girls. Young, no more than sixteen or seventeen. Gerrard made initial notes, concurred with Ivens′ TOD estimate of twenty-four hours. One girl had been shot in the back of the head, then in the chest; the other in the back of the head, the exit wound near her right eyebrow, and had taken a second bullet which had exited behind the left ear. Despite their young age, both girls were dressed for work, the first girl in denim cut-offs and pink halter-top, the second in fishnets and stilettos, a mini-skirt no wider than a belt.
′They′re already working,′ Ivens asked, ′at this age?′
Gerrard just shook his head resignedly. He said nothing. He′d seen it all and then some, and there really was nothing to say.
They searched the immediate area to verify there was nothing else of significance or interest. They found a purse, in it lipstick, breath spray, a can of mace and six condoms. There was a crumpled Marlboro pack nearby, three cigarettes left, a matchbook from the EndZone nightclub squashed down inside it. Gerrard and Ivens cordoned the crime scene with black and yellow tape, took a whole roll of shots from every conceivable angle, and then called for a second vehicle from the County Morgue.
The attending policemen, John Macafee and Paul Everhardt, took a brief statement from Max Webster as he sat in the back of their black-and-white. They took his business card, his cellphone number, told him they′d contact him if they needed any further information. Max walked back to his own car and called the office. He told his area manager what had happened, asked if he couldn′t blow out the appointments and take the day off. The manager, a compassionate and understanding man, said he would take care of the appointments himself. Max Webster drove home. He would read about his discovery in the newspapers, see his own name in typeface, would tell the story a further twenty-three times at assorted get-togethers, barbecues, garden parties and sundry business appointments. He would speak to a Detective something-or-other Lucas only once, a relatively brief telephone conversation, but as far as dead teenage girls were concerned he had played his part, played it like a pro, and he was off the hook. Never again did he drink two cups of coffee in the morning, and never again did he pull over to urinate at the side of the highway.
Word got out to Karen Langley at the City Herald within the hour. One reporter was dispatched to find Max Webster, a second to survey the site of the discovery. The first hack was met with a frosty reception by Max′s wife, Harriet. She told him in no uncertain terms that Max was not available for comment. The reporter was not blessed with the same defense-attorney-style charm as Karen Langley, and thus went away empty-handed. The other reporter stood at the top of the incline looking down toward the clump of trees, black and yellow-striped crime scene tape encircling the trunks and sectioning off the area, and he wondered what the hell he was supposed to do next. He took a couple of photographs, but there were uniforms down there and they wouldn′t let him approach.
Karen Langley called the coroner′s office, sweet-talked Gerrard and got the scoop on the dead girls.
She called John Costello. He was quiet for some time.
′John?′ she prompted.
′The caliber. They were shot, right? I need to know what caliber.′
′God knows, I didn′t ask. Why?′
Again, Costello was quiet for some time. Karen Langley could hear him breathing through the earpiece.
′Can you find out, Karen? The caliber of gun they were shot with? Can you find out if it was a .25?′
′I don′t know, John . . . I′ll call Gerrard back.′
′Yes, if you could do that. That would be good.′
Karen hung up, frowning. Costello was a strange and remarkable man, no doubt about it. Extraordinarily bright, an exceptional memory, an encyclopedia of facts, most of them dark and disturbing. She knew of his history, had read the ′Hammer of God′ articles, and though she had asked him about it one time, he said little and made it obvious he didn′t wish to discuss it further. Regardless, twenty-some years in the newspaper business and she′d never had a researcher like John Costello. She didn′t want to lose him, so she hadn′t pushed the point.
She called Hal Gerrard. He was unavailable but she got Ivens.
′I can′t tell you that, Karen . . . confidential, you know?′
′I need to know if it was a .25, Lewis, that′s all.′
Lewis Ivens was silent. He was thinking. And when he spoke there was something in his voice that Langley recognized. ′You want to know if they were shot with a .25 caliber?′
′Yes, a .25.′
Once again Ivens was silent for a few moments.
′If I guessed they were shot with a .25 would I be incorrect?′ Langley asked.
Ivens inhaled, exhaled slowly. ′If you guessed that they were shot with a .25 I wouldn′t have any problem with that,′ he replied.
′I appreciate that, Lewis, I really do.′
′Nothing to appreciate,′ he said. ′We didn′t speak today. I don′t know you. We′ve never met.′
′I′m sorry . . . I guess I got a wrong number,′ Langley replied, and hung up.
She picked up the phone again, dialed Costello′s extension.
′A .25,′ she said matter-of-factly.
′And there were two of them? Teenage girls, right?′
′As far as I know, yes.′
′Okay, okay, okay . . . leave this with me. I might have something for you in a few days.′
′Like what? What we got here?′
′Something—Nothing. I don′t know yet. Before I can be sure I have to find another one.′
′Another what, John? Find another what?′
′Leave
it with me . . . I′ll let you know if it comes to anything. If I tell you now you′re just gonna get excited and be a pain in the ass.′
′Fuck you, John Costello—′
′Hey, that′s just un-fucking necessary,′ he said, and she could hear him laughing as he hung up.
FIVE
A little after one p.m., Monday, June 12th, 2006, the bodies of fifteen- year-old Ashley Nicole Burch and sixteen-year-old Lisa Madigan Briley were formally identified in the County Coroner′s Office by Deputy Coroner Hal Gerrard. Lewis Ivens was present, as was Jeff Turner, lead Crime Scene Analyst from the Grant murder case. There was no similarity between the cases - Turner was not present for any reason other than that he knew Ivens personally. That afternoon they were scheduled to attend a seminar given by a Dr Philip Roper from the Scientific Investigations Division, Support Services Bureau, on Undocumented Origin Bullet Recovery: Lands, Grooves, Riflings, Striations. They left together at one-twenty, bought coffee at Starbucks, drove west in Ivens′ car. Hal Gerrard called Detective Richard Lucas of the Ninth Precinct, he of the brief telephone conversation with Max Webster.
′Got your girls here,′ Gerrard told him. ′Reports done, as much as you need right now. Two shots each, point blank, from a .25 caliber . . . Putting the bullets through the system, but you know how these things are, right?′
Lucas asked if someone had been to tell the parents.
′Not a clue . . . your territory, my friend, and you′re welcome to it.′
Lucas asked about drugs.
′Alcohol, a good deal of it. They′d have been walking sideways I think, but no drugs.′
They said their farewells, and the call ended.
Lucas called up one of the female officers from the duty roster, sent her over to collect the reports and the victims′ addresses, waited for her to return and then told her to accompany him. The addresses were on the same block of the Chelsea Houses off Ninth Avenue at Chelsea Park.
