by R.J. Ellory
′I don′t have any teenage gunshot victims,′ Irving interjected. ′Not in the last couple of weeks. When was this?′
′No, you′re right,′ Langley said, ′it′s Detective Lucas at the Ninth.′
′So you′ll have to speak to him about that.′
′Okay, one other thing . . . this clown killing thing—′
′I hate that you do this, you know?′ Irving said.
′What?′
′Give these things a name, for God′s sake.′
′Not guilty, Detective . . . think you′ll find that that was someone else′s unbridled creativity.′
′Yeah, okay, but it′s bad enough having to deal with this stuff without the free press that these animals get. Jesus, the vic was nothing more than a kid. What was he? Nineteen years old?′
′I′m sorry, Detective Irving—′
Irving sighed audibly. ′Hell, I don′t know what I′m complaining about . . . seen enough of this to last any number of lifetimes. What was your question, Ms Langley?′
′So the victim was found on Saturday, right?′
′Right, Saturday. Two days ago.′
′And can you tell me whether he painted his own face or it was painted by his killer?′
′What?′
′If he painted his own face . . . you know, like he was going to a party or something? Or if his killer painted his face. That′s what I wanted to know.′
′I can′t tell you that, Ms Langley, not because I don′t want to, but because I don′t know.′
′Was he dressed as a clown?′
Irving paused.
′Detective?′
′I heard you.′
′So . . . was he dressed as a clown? If he was dressed as a clown then it seems more likely that—′
′I know where you′re going with this, Ms Langley.′
Karen Langley was silent. She waited patiently for Irving′s response.
′Why?′ Irving eventually asked.
′Why? Because I have an interest in whether or not—′
′An interest?′ Irving echoed. ′You have something on this one?′
′Something? No, I don′t have something on this one in particular—′
′You′re asking specific questions about three unrelated cases, Ms Langley.′
Langley was silent.
′Right?′ Irving prompted.
′My turn to say nothing,′ Langley replied.
′You have them connected?′ Irving asked.
′They could be,′ Langley said.
′Blunt force trauma, gunshot victims, and a strangulation . . . unrelated victims, three different locations, two different precincts. The MOs—′
′We extrapolate, Detective Irving, just as you do.′
′Don′t start something with this, Ms Langley.′
′Start something?′
′Something in the newspapers, something that gets people all worried that there′s more going on here than there actually is.′
′Four teenage murders in seven weeks?′
Irving leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. ′Ms Langley, seriously—′
′I just wanted an answer to a couple of questions, Detective, that was all. We make something out of it, or we don′t. Maybe if you answered the questions it would dispel whatever ideas we—′
′That′s bullshit, Ms Langley, and you know it. You can′t honestly believe that I′m going to fall for that.′
′We do what we do, Detective, and we do it whichever way we can. Thank you for your time.′
′You′re not going to give me any leeway on this, are you?′ Irving asked.
′Leeway?′
′You′re gonna cook up whatever story you can think of, and then run it without liaising with us.′
′When did the press ever liaise with the police department on such things?′ Langley asked, a smile in her voice. ′More pertinently, when did the police department ever liaise with us?′
′Isn′t that half the problem?′ Irving asked.
′I′ll take that as rhetoric. I asked, you answered, or didn′t answer, and that′s the end of it.′
′I s′pose it is.′
′You have a good day, Detective Irving.′
′You too, Ms Langley . . . oh, one moment.′
′Yes, Detective?′
′You were a trainee reporter from which paper?′
′Very funny, Officer Irving, very funny.′
The line went dead and Irving hung up.
He opened the Wolfe file on his desk and stared once more at the brutally garish painted face of the teenage clown, the startling red wig, his body jammed into a hole in the ground, his tongue swollen and protruding, the starkly defined ligature marks on his throat.
Kind of a life is this? he asked himself for the thousandth time, and then reminded himself that it had in fact been his choice.
EIGHT
As far as the attending crime scene analysts and the city coroner could determine, the three teenage victims discovered in the early hours of Monday, August 7th, had been dead for less than eight or ten hours. At first the killings seemed unrelated, for there were two crime scenes, but the simple matter of cellphones clarified the connection. Beneath an overhang of the Queensboro Bridge, the naked and battered body of a teenage girl was found. Nearby, still switched on and displaying a screensaver image of a young man, was her cellphone. The attendant CSA called up the last number dialed, pressed the little green phone symbol, and was surprised when it was answered by a voice he recognized. The CSA at the second crime scene - the discovery of two teenage boys shot and left in the trunk of a car - answered the cellphone found in one of the boys′ jackets. They later learned that his screensaver was an image of the murdered girl. Perhaps the last thing each of them had seen was a digital image of the other. The primaries were thirty-seven blocks apart - two different jurisdictions, two different precincts - but the presence of identical tire tracks at both locations made them one murder case.
NYPD Homicide Detective Gary Lavelle, Fifth Precinct, was assigned to the dead girl. ID on her person identified her as seventeen-year-old Caroline Parselle. From cursory examination it appeared she had not been sexually assaulted, but she had been strangled with something.
′Not a rope,′ the CSA told Lavelle. ′More like a bar, you know? Like whoever this was used a bar, a length of something, and forced her down against the ground with this across her throat until she choked.′ He walked the detective over to where the girl′s body still lay spread-eagled in the dirt. ′See,′ he said, pointing to the fury of marks around her feet, her hands, her elbows. ′She fought against it, tore at the ground . . . she put up a struggle but someone just leaned down on her throat with something. It was someone a hell of a lot stronger than her, and that was that.′
The other primary was a great deal more disturbing. Overseen by a detective from the Third Precinct, the dark grey Ford, its trunk unlocked, was cordoned off and a wide perimeter established. The car had been noticed earlier that morning, parked on the corner of East 23rd and Second, just across the Gramercy jurisdictional line. A curator for the New York Police Museum, an ex-sergeant from the Eleventh Precinct, had approached the car simply because it was parked in a no-park zone. The fact that the trunk was visibly ajar, and a bullet hole evidently punched out through the upper edge of the rear wing, gave him cause for suspicion.
Within an hour the boys had been identified and cause of death established. Seventeen-year-old Luke Bradford had died from two gunshots to the head. One of those bullets had first passed through his arm as if he′d raised it in self-defense. The second victim - Caroline Parselle′s eighteen-year-old boyfriend, Stephen Vogel - had been shot four times in the head, one of those shots a cranium through-and-through, its exit path travelling out of rear wing of the car. In all, six shots had been fired. The boys had been murdered in the trunk of the car, and the car had been left unlocked and visible.
Simply stat
ed, it was as if the killer had wished it to be found as soon as possible.
Ray Irving ate breakfast at Carnegie′s that Monday morning. He ordered pancake-style bologna omelette, drank two cups of coffee. Traffic was heavier than usual, and by the time he arrived at the Fourth it was past nine-thirty. There was a message on his desk. Go see Farraday soon as you arrive.
Irving and Captain Bill Farraday maintained a dispassionate working relationship. Farraday had been at the Fourth Precinct for sixteen years, and the burden of those years followed him like a second shadow, forever clouding his eyes with an ever-present sense that something somewhere was going wrong.
′Ray,′ he said matter-of-factly as Irving entered the room.
′Captain.′
Irving sat down. He scanned the month since they′d spoken, tried to count the number of incomplete and unresolved cases. There had to be fifteen, perhaps more.
′Tell me about Mia Grant,′ Farraday said. He perched on the window ledge, his shoulders against the glass.
′Specifically?′
Farraday shrugged. ′Tell me anything you′ve got.′
Irving turned down the corners of his mouth. ′Very little. Teenager found by a couple of kids at the edge of Bryant Park back of the library. Head staved in and her body wrapped in black plastic. Father′s a lawyer.′
′Apparently she was responding to a want-ad?′
′Apparently, yes. At least that′s what she told her folks.′
Farraday nodded slowly. ′I didn′t read the file, you know,′ he said. His voice was measured and calm.
Irving frowned.
′Know how I know about the want-ad?′
Irving shook his head.
′I read an article that may or may not wind up in the City Herald.′
Irving opened his mouth to speak, but Farraday stayed him, said, ′You know a guy called Richard Lucas at the Ninth?′
After a moment′s thought Irving shook his head. ′Can′t say I do . . .′ And then he paused. He thought of the call from the reporter. What was her name? Langdon? Langford?
′He got a case in the second week of June. Couple of teenage girls found about two hundred yards from Roosevelt Drive. Gunshot vics.′
Irving shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He too felt that something somewhere was going wrong.
′And you got something on Saturday, didn′t you?′ Farraday asked. ′Some kid in a warehouse. Had his face painted, right?′
Irving nodded.
′Do you read the City Herald?′
′No.′
′I do,′ Farraday replied, ′and so does the Chief of Police. He and the editor are buddies it seems, and the Chief got a heads up on this thing . . .′ He leaned forward, lifted some papers from his side of the desk and tossed them to Irving.
The heading shouted at him:
Washington Copycat Mimics Past Murders
The byline was Karen Langley.
Irving looked up at Farraday.
Farraday raised his eyebrow. ′You can read, right?′
Irving looked back at the pages. Before he even started he felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
′This is the rough draft of a proposed feature,′ Farraday said. ′Right now the Herald′s editor is holding off on it, but he′s only doing that because he owes the Chief a favor.′
Irving started to read:On Tuesday, May 1st, 1973, a want-ad was placed in the Seattle Times regarding a job at a local gas station. The ad was replied to by a 15-year-old girl named Kathy Sue Miller. She was helping her boyfriend find work. The man who answered the phone when Kathy Sue called told her he was looking for girls, and Kathy Sue agreed to meet him after school. The man arranged to pick her up outside the Sears Building, then drive her over to the gas station to fill out the application forms. Kathy′s mother insisted that her daughter not go to the meeting with the prospective employer. Kathy promised she would not. She later disobeyed her mother, and was never seen alive again.
On June 3rd, two 16-year-old boys found Kathy Sue Miller′s body in Tulalip Reservation. The body was wrapped in black plastic and was so badly decomposed it was at first difficult to ascertain the gender of the victim. Identification was made with dental records, and the autopsy determined that she had died as a result of severe blunt force trauma to the head.
Many years later the killer, a man called Harvey Louis Carignan, ultimately responsible for as many as fifty homicides, was asked a simple question: If you could be any animal what would you be? His answer: A human being.
Thirty-three years later, again on June 3rd, two schoolchildren found the plastic-wrapped body of a 15-year-old girl called Mia Grant amongst the trees at the edge of Bryant Park. She had died as a result of severe blunt force trauma to the head. There is a strong possibility that she was responding to a Murray Hill want-ad for part-time domestic work in the local free newspaper, colloquially referred to as the freep.
Irving looked up. ′This is true?′
Farraday shook his head. ′Who the fuck knows? I hope to hell not. Read the whole thing.′
On Thursday, June 12th, 1980, the naked bodies of two attractive teenagers were found on an incline off of the Ventura Freeway in Hollywood. Their names were Cynthia Chandler and Gina Marano. Cynthia had been shot twice with a .25 caliber weapon, the first bullet entering the back of her head and lodging in her brain, the second penetrating her lung and causing her heart to burst. Gina Marano had been shot twice also, one round entering her head behind her left ear and exiting near her right eyebrow, the second through the back of her head. Two days later a woman called the LAPD Northeast Division at Van Nuys. She told the detective who answered the phone that she thought her lover might be a murderer. ′What I′m trying to do,′ she said, ′is to ascertain whether or not the individual I know, who happens to be my lover, did in fact do this. He said he did. My name is Betsy.′ Before the call ended she changed her name to Claudia, and added, ′He has curly brown hair and blue eyes. His Christian name is John, and he′s 41 years old. I′ve found a duffel bag in his car, full of bloody blankets, paper towels, and his clothes.′
To date the full details of the killing spree perpetrated by person or persons known as the Sunset Slayers are not fully clear. Three people were involved - Douglas Clark, Carol Bundy and John ′Jack′ Murray. They killed Los Angeles prostitutes, at least five of them. Carol Bundy and Jack Murray were lovers. She loved him so much that on Sunday, August 3rd, 1980, she shot him twice in the back of the head, repeatedly stabbed him with a heavy boning knife, and then decapitated him. For a while she drove around with Jack Murray′s head in the passenger seat of her car. Carol Bundy ultimately went to prison for life, Douglas Clark to Death Row at San Quentin.
And now, twenty-six years later, on Monday, June 12th, the bodies of 15-year-old Ashley Nicole Burch and 16-year-old Lisa Madigan Briley were discovered by a travelling sales representative called Max Webster.
Irving was shaking his head. ′This can′t be right,′ he said. ′If this is true then—′
′You′ve read the entire thing, right through to James Wolfe?′
Irving turned back to the paper, a sense of disorienting unease growing ever more profound and unsettling.
In the locale of the emergency exit off Franklin D. Roosevelt drive, in a bank of trees in the East River Park, the two bodies were found a little after nine in the morning. Both girls had been shot with a .25 caliber weapon, two bullets each. The pattern of wounds was precisely that of the June 1980 Chandler/Marano killings.
It has often been stated that once is circumstance, twice coincidence, and yet a third time indicates conspiracy.
Such must be considered in light of the most recent case.
John Wayne Gacy, one of America′s more infamous serial killers, was responsible for the murder of a 17-year-old teenager called John Butkovich in Chicago. Butkovich maintained and raced his ′68 Dodge, an expensive hobby which he supported by doing remodeling work for Gacy′s firm, PD
M Contractors. On Tuesday, July 29th, 1975, Butkovich, believing that Gacy had withheld some of his pay, went to Gacy′s house. Employer and employee argued bitterly. The argument did not resolve, but later Gacy called Butkovich over to the house. Apparently, he apologized to Butkovich, agreed there had been a misunderstanding, and after offering the teenager a drink he killed him. Gacy wrapped the body in tarpaulin and dragged it into the garage. There it stayed until the smell became an inconvenience, so Gacy, unable to easily move the body to another location, dug a drainage hole approximately three feet by one and a half feet in his garage floor. Due to rigor mortis Gacy had to jump up and down on Butkovich′s body numerous times. When Butkovich′s body was finally recovered the coroner determined that he had been strangled to death with a rope.
On July 29th, just eight days ago, the body of 19-year-old James Wolfe was found in a three-by-one-a-half-foot hole in the concrete floor of the Wang Hi Lee Carnival & Firework Emporium on East 39th Street. He had been strangled to death with a rope.
The only additional, and perhaps most disturbing aspect to this case, was the fact that James Wolfe had been dressed as a clown. His face had been painted, and on his head he wore a bright red wig. The attire in which he was found is significant. John Wayne Gacy was a dedicated public figure, apparently philanthropic, an organizer of the Polish Constitution Day Parade, an event where he was photographed shaking hands with Rosalynn Carter, then-First Lady. Gacy raised money for retirement homes; he was Secretary-Treasurer of the Norwood Park Township Lighting District, and finally part of the ′Jolly Joker′s Club′ - that band of individuals, too old to be Jaycees themselves, yet still allied to the River Grove Moose Lodge. It was in his capacity as a Jolly Joker that he dressed as ′Pogo the Clown′ to entertain children at parties and in hospitals. It was Gacy, finally on Death Row, who was quoted as saying: There ain′t nothin′ more scary than a clown after dark.
Three individual murder cases, a total of four victims, each of them precise in manner of death, precise also as to date. Each of them almost identical in method and manner to earlier killings perpetrated by people who have since been executed, or are still held within the confines of the Federal penitentiary system. There are facts unknown at this time. In the case of Mia Grant, did her killer use a hammer to inflict the fatal wounds to her head as Harvey Carignan did in the original Kathy Sue Miller case? Only the County Coroner and those intimate with the specific details of that case would know such a thing. And after the gun killings of the two teenagers found by Max Webster off the East River, did an anonymous female call the police and leave a message identical to that left after the deaths of Cynthia Chandler and Gina Marano in June of 1980? If so, then who? And, more importantly, why?
