The Anniversary Man

by R.J. Ellory

  Irving nodded. ′I′m sorry, I wasn′t meaning to pry, I′m just fascinated by the whole thing.′

  ′It′s a fascinating business. Anyway, you want another beer?′

  ′Sure,′ Irving said. ′Let me get them.′

  ′Good man,′ Chaz said. ′I′ll have a Schlitz.′

  They talked around things for an hour. Close to ten-thirty Chaz said he had to go. He put Irving on the spot. What did he want? What was he looking for specifically?

  ′Multiples,′ Irving said. ′More than twenty years old, preferably showing clear details - you know, clothes, body position - stuff like that . . . not just faces, you know? The whole thing.′

  ′Just that? Just multiple homicides, right?′

  ′Anything with two or more, yes. Two victims, three, four. Or anything out of the ordinary, like the victim was dressed up, made to wear something that was significant to the killer.′

  Chaz took a beer mat and scribbled his cellphone number. ′Call me lunchtime tomorrow, one, one-thirty, you know?′ he said. ′I′ll have word for you.′

  Irving smiled, seemed surprised. ′So fast.′

  ′Gonna do something, do it professionally, that′s what I say. I can either get you what you want or I can′t. It′s not complicated and I′m not gonna bullshit you. Call me tomorrow and I′ll let you know if I can help you.′

  They parted company in the parking lot back of the bar. Chaz had drunk four beers at least, should not have gotten behind the wheel of the station wagon, and Irving prayed that he wouldn′t be stopped. A night in the tank would not bode well for tomorrow′s phone call.

  Irving walked back to St Vincent′s, picked up his car and headed back to the office. It was nearly midnight by the time he arrived.

  From the beer mat he took Chaz′s cellphone number and the license number of his station wagon, and ran a search on both.

  Charles Wyngard Morrison, 116 Eldridge in the Bowery. Irving found his landline number, his Social Security number, the fact that he worked as a computer software technician for a small firm in Bedford-Stuyvesant. Chaz Morrison had no record, though he had been given a warning for obstructing a police officer at a crime scene. He was a murder junkie. Probably went down there to take pictures.

  Irving spent an hour filling out the required paperwork for a phone tap on both the landline and cell. He was thorough and careful. He missed nothing out. He stressed the point that he was scheduled to call Morrison by one p.m. on Saturday, and thus the tap needed to be on his phones as early as possible. Irving hoped that Morrison would leave his calls until late the following morning and not make them tonight.

  The pictures he′d bought he locked in the drawer with Leycross′s DVDs. He was becoming quite the collector.

  He left close to one-thirty, drove home slowly. He was tired but he knew he wouldn′t sleep. He would find that dime-width escape route on the radio dial, and there - as if they′d been waiting for him - would be Dave Brubeck and Charlie Mingus.

  Made him think of his father, the fact that he had not visited since May. Reminded him that the living required as much attention as the dead.

  THIRTY

  Thinking not of Deborah Wiltshire but of Karen Langley, Irving woke with the underlying headache attendant to insufficient rest. It was six forty-five. He lay still until seven, tried not to think, tried not to be anywhere at all, and then he rose and showered. It was Saturday. It should have been late breakfasts and weekend newspapers, perhaps plans to see a ball game, a movie, the theater. But there was no room for such things in Irving′s life these days - at least not yet.

  He called Farraday from the Fourth, drove to his house and had him countersign the phone tap request. He took it directly to Judge Schaeffer, tough bastard, head like a mallet, known for his willingness to work with the police as opposed to against them. The tap was up and running by eleven, two uniforms briefed and stationed to listen in on every call that was made, incoming and outgoing, and Charles Morrison′s sordid little world was on record. If he now organized the purchase that Irving had requested by phone, they would know who his contact was.

  With little else to do but wait, Irving turned his attention to the Winterbourne group. If Costello himself was a potential suspect, then any member might be the one. He didn′t know who they were, and the likelihood of obtaining a warrant to enforce the release of such information from the hotel proprietor was very unlikely. Costello had been nothing but co-operative, yet his willingness to involve himself in the investigation, formally or otherwise, was the very thing that raised Irving′s suspicion. He knew little of serial murderers, their whys and wherefores, but he did know that it was not uncommon for a perpetrator to engage with the police, even to assist in the investigative procedure. A child abductor, for example, organizing locals to search an area for a child they themselves had kidnapped, raped, dismembered and buried; or a killer of young women presenting themselves as a volunteer, ready to walk the streets and show pictures of the missing victim. What prompted such actions? Self-denial, an effort to disassociate themselves from the crime by becoming their own apparent nemesis? Some belief that, by doing this, they could determine how much information the police possessed and take measures to insure no further progress was made in their identification? A desire to prove themselves better, smarter . . .

  Irving stopped for a moment.

  He walked to the window of the incident room and looked down into the street. He could see the edge of Bryant Park, and across to the 42nd Street subway station. Pedestrians were still sparse at this time of a Saturday morning, traffic still relatively light.

  A desire to prove himself better . . .

  He was reminded of something Costello had said - had it been Costello? - that the anniversary killings were replicas of killings perpetrated by people who had all been caught. Some of them were buried forever within the federal penitentiary system, others had been executed, one had died of natural causes as far as Irving could recall. And then there was the Zodiac letter. For sure, it had been a word-for-word transcription of a Shawcross letter, but it had been in the Zodiac′s code, the code broken by a history teacher and his wife after failed attempts by the FBI and the Office of Naval Intelligence. The Zodiac, by all accounts, had never been identified, and certainly had not been knowingly caught. Perhaps the Zodiac was even now languishing in a cell within some state prison, caught, tried and convicted for some unrelated crime, and no-one was any the wiser. Perhaps he would die someplace and leave evidence of who he was, what he had done . . . perhaps an explanation of why he did it. But currently he remained unknown. In serial-killer terms, Zodiac was a success. He did what he did. He got away with it. He remained an enigma.

  Irving searched through the stack of pages on his desk for notes he had previously made until he found what he was looking for - the complete list of all Zodiac killings, confirmed and unconfirmed.

  Michael Mageau and Darlene Ferrin, both incontrovertible Zodiac victims, had been shot on July 5th, 1969. Mageau survived, Ferrin did not. Further victims who were attacked or killed on dates preceding September 16th numbered twenty-seven. Irrespective of the year, for there were murders attributed to the Zodiac from October 1966 all the way to May 1981, there were five carried out in February, nine in March, one in April, two in May, three in June, five in July, one in August and, prior to today′s date, the 16th, there was one that took place in September. The anniversary killer could have replicated any one of them, and even if he had adhered solely to those confirmed, it would have been a Zodiac anniversary on July 5th. As far as Irving knew no double murder had been reported on July 5th anywhere in the state of New York, and had there been, then Costello surely would have known about it.

  Irving accessed the system and checked. He was right. There was no case county-wide that in any way bore similarities to the Vallejo shooting of Michael Mageau and Darlene Ferrin on July 5th, 1969. Which meant what? That the killer replicated only those killings perpetrated by identified and
convicted individuals? Then why employ the Zodiac code to relay the Shawcross letter? Was he simply insuring that they got the connection between what he was doing and these past murders, or was there some other reason?

  At twenty-five past twelve Ray Irving called the New York City Herald. He didn′t find John Costello, but Karen Langley took the call.

  ′Hey there.′

  ′Karen.′

  ′You′re after John?′

  ′I am, yes.′

  A moment′s hesitation, and then Irving said, ′I was going to call you—′

  ′You don′t have to,′ Karen replied.

  ′I know I don′t have to, I want to. But I′m up against it, you know? You understand this shit. You get deadlines, right?′

  ′Sure I do.′

  ′I had a good time, Karen.′

  ′I know,′ she replied.

  ′You are such a wiseass.′

  ′So, John′s not here, he′s home today. Well, I presume he′s home. Tell you the truth, I have absolutely no idea what John does with his time.′

  ′You have his number?′

  ′I can′t give it to you.′

  ′You can′t give it to me or you won′t?′

  ′I won′t. I wouldn′t do that to him.′

  Irving was silent, a little puzzled.

  ′Oh come on, Ray, you′ve met him. You know how he is. He doesn′t deal with people very well. He doesn′t like a change in his routine.′

  ′So how the hell do I get to talk to him?′

  ′I′ll call him. I′ll tell him that you want to speak to him. I don′t know whether he′ll call you . . .′ Her statement was left incomplete and Irving had to prompt her.

  ′He has an issue,′ Karen said.

  ′An issue?′

  ′An issue with you.′

  ′What are you talking about?′

  ′The fact that we went out. John has a concern about you.′

  ′Me? Jesus, what the hell is that about?′

  ′Well, I′m his friend. We′ve worked together for years. He considers me his responsibility in some way. There′s never been anything between us but a professional and platonic relationship, but he still considers that what happens to me is his business.′

  ′Okay,′ Irving said. ′I can appreciate that, but what did you tell him? Did you tell him I was an asshole or something?′

  ′No, of course I didn′t.′

  ′So what′s the deal now? If I want to ask you out again I have to ask him to chaperone?′

  ′Don′t be sarcastic, Ray. Deal with it. So do you want me to call him or not?′

  ′Please. That would be good. Tell him I need his help with this thing.′

  ′You need his help?′

  ′Sure. What′s so odd about that? He′s the fucking Rainman, isn′t he? He′s the one who can remember three hundred-thousand murder cases.′

  ′Enough already—′

  Irving took a deep breath. ′I′m sorry, Karen, but—′

  ′But nothing. You treat him like anyone else, okay? Don′t patronize him. If I hear that you′ve upset him—′

  ′I won′t. I′m sorry, I really am very sorry, okay? I didn′t mean that to sound the way it sounded.′

  ′Well it did, and I don′t like it. He′s a good person, and a very close friend of mine. You upset him and not only will you not see me again, but I′ll run whatever fucking stories I like and you and the Chief of Police and the Mayor can go to Hell, okay?′

  ′Karen, seriously—′

  ′Okay, Ray, that′s all I need. I need a simple acknowledgement here.′

  ′Yes. Okay. I understand.′

  ′Good, so I′ll call John. You talk to him nice. You piss him off and I′ll come down there and slap you. Then, when you get a moment, you can call me and talk nicely as well and I might go out with you again. And you can send me some flowers or something as an apology for being an asshole, all right?′

  ′You are un-fucking-real—′

  ′I′m hanging up now, Detective Irving—′

  And she did.

  The receiver burred in his ear accusingly.

  It took him ten minutes to find the number for a city florist. As he reached for the phone it rang. Startled, he snatched it from the cradle.

  ′Detective Irving.′

  ′Mr Costello?′

  ′You wanted to speak to me.′

  ′I did, yes. Thank you for calling me.′

  ′You′re gonna have to be fast. There′s a TV program I need to watch.′

  ′Yes, of course. Jesus, you′ve caught me on the hop. It was just—′

  ′Something about the case?′

  ′Yes, something about the case . . . about our perp. The killings he replicates and the letter he sent.′

  Costello laughed - a brief and unexpected reaction. ′You and I have been thinking the same thing it seems,′ he said matter-of-factly.

  Irving frowned. ′How so?′

  ′The question I have is why does he only replicate killings carried out by people who were caught, and yet he used the Zodiac code to send the Shawcross letter. Is that what you were wondering?′

  Irving sat open-mouthed for some seconds.

  ′Detective? Are you there?′

  ′Yes . . . yes, I′m here . . . yes, of course. Jesus. This is a little unexpected. Sorry, you′ve caught me unprepared. I . . . I was—′

  ′Thinking the exact same thing?′

  ′Yes I was. That′s quite remarkable.′

  ′No, not really. When you look at this thing objectively you can see that this doesn′t make sense. That′s the first thing you have to do with anything like this. Look for the one thing that doesn′t make sense.′

  ′And I went through the dates of all the confirmed and unconfirmed Zodiac killings and found that—′

  ′He could have replicated any one of them in any month except January. There were reported killings in every month of the year except January.′

  ′Right . . . and the one that took place in September before today′s date was—′

  ′On September fourth,′ Costello interjected. ′Alexandra Clery. Beaten to death on September fourth, 1972. A Monday. Unconfirmed.′

  ′So he is not replicating the Zodiac.′

  ′Not yet, no,′ Costello said. ′Though there were three other attacks that took place in September, but later than the sixteenth.′

  ′So where does that take you?′ Irving asked.

  ′Homage,′ Costello said quietly.

  ′Sorry?′

  ′The letter, I believe, was a homage to the Zodiac.′

  ′A homage?′

  ′Sure. He kills like other killers. What is he saying? He′s saying that he can do what they do. He can do it better. He can do it without being caught. He sends the Shawcross letter in the Zodiac code to serve two purposes. First, he knows that the police are not as smart as he is, so he has to make sure that they get the connection between the hooker found down near the pier and the Steffen girl that Shawcross killed in ′88. Secondly, and I think more importantly, he wants to tell us where he′s going—′

  ′Where he′s going?′

  ′Into the textbooks, you know? Onto the True Crime channel. He wants to be a star of stage and screen.′

  ′He wants to be as famous as the Zodiac.′

  ′He wants to be Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy, probably even wants to be the real Hannibal Lecter, you know? But he wants to remain forever unknown like the Zodiac, and maybe he even wants to break the record.′

  ′Jesus, but Carignan killed over fifty people—′

  ′Unconfirmed. Confirmed kills were somewhere between twelve and twenty. That′s always the difficulty. These people habitually lie about what they′ve done. They admit to killings they didn′t do, and they refuse to acknowledge murders that were so evidently their work. It′s always an estimate, you know? But from the commonly accepted information, we can gather the Sunset Slayers killed seven, Gacy thirty-three, Ken
neth McDuff about fifteen as far as evidence tells us, and Shawcross says he murdered fifty-three, but again the realistic figure is somewhere between fifteen and twenty-five.′

  ′And the worst?′ Irving asked.

  ′Hard to tell,′ Costello replied. ′Worst ever isn′t American. Columbian called Pedro Lopez murdered over three hundred. Next you have an American pair called Henry Lee Lucas and Ottis Toole who apparently killed over two hundred. Confessed to thirty or so after something called the Interstate Murder Spree. The de Gonzales sisters, Mexican brothel owners, ninety-one bodies found in their bordello in the early 1960s. Then you′ve got Bruno Ludke, German, maybe eighty or eighty-five. Next we have the infamous Chikatilo, Russian, a cannibal, and he killed somewhere over fifty. Onoprienko, another Russian, apparently wanted to hold the world record for serial killings but he was arrested after fifty-two murders. Then we have another American, Gerald Stano, in prison at twenty-nine years old for killing forty-one women, mostly prostitutes and teenage runaways in Florida and New Jersey. He went to the electric chair back in March of ′98. Gary Ridgway, the Green River Killer, anywhere between thirty-five and fifty victims, Seattle and Tacoma mainly. Gacy is next with thirty-three, then Dean Corll and Wayne Williams both with twenty-seven. Straight answer to your question is that our friend would have to do well in excess of fifty to get into the record books, and that′s only as far as American serial killers are concerned. If he wants the world record he′s gonna have to get very busy indeed.′

  Irving was silent for a long time. He was having a conversation about something that he found almost impossible to comprehend.

  ′And so far we have eight,′ he eventually said.

  ′That we know of,′ Costello said. ′There′s always the possibility that he could have come from another city. He could even have taken a break for a period of time, and we′re not looking back far enough to catch the earlier part of the cycle.′

  Irving felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. The earlier part of the cycle. Such a thing made it sound so utterly clinical.

  ′The truth of the matter is that there is no way to predict who he will decide to be next,′ Costello said.