by R.J. Ellory
′Unless, of course, there is some aspect of the preceding murders that give a clue, and we′ve missed it.′
′You think he′s showing you what he′s doing?′ Costello asked.
′Who knows what he′s showing us,′ Irving said. ′Who knows what he′s showing the world.′
′For what it′s worth,′ Costello said, ′I think he wants to show the world that he′s the best.′
THIRTY-ONE
A few minutes after twelve-thirty, less than an hour before he was scheduled to call Chaz Morrison, word came from downstairs. Morrison had made a call on his landline at twelve-seventeen. He had explained his requirements to someone - multiple homicides, preferably more than twenty years ago; three, four victims, unusual body positions, articles of clothing left at the scene - anything a little out of the ordinary. Morrison and his contact made a joke about pedestrian tastes. The contact said he′d get what Morrison needed, that he should call back on Monday evening. The call ended. Within fifteen minutes Irving had had the number traced to an address in Greenwich Village near the 14th Street station. He ran the address on the city employee database and got a name. Dale Haynes, twenty-five, no priors, currently employed by the police department′s Archival Restoration Unit.
Irving had the seller. They had him for theft, violation of the confidentiality clauses of his government contract, sale of stolen City property. What he was doing was not of major importance: what mattered was whether this man Haynes had provided crime-scene photographs for their Anniversary Man. When, thought Irving, did anyone ever use the term short shot? It was all long shots. That was the nature of the beast.
By one-thirty he had a search warrant and a surveillance unit on Haynes′s apartment. This took precedence over the scheduled call to Chaz Morrison, and Irving decided to let that go. Farraday had asked Irving for a blow-by-blow account of what he was doing, had approved everything he′d asked for. He seemed satisfied with Irving′s actions, told him to take a unit of six from the Fourth and deploy them as he saw fit. Haynes was not to run under any circumstances - as of this moment he was not a suspect in the killings, but he was a potential lead and had to be handled by the book. Irving had no authority to make a deal with Haynes without strict and specific authority from Farraday, and Farraday himself would liaise with the DA. The case was far too important to fuck it up with procedural errors.
At three minutes past two, afternoon of Saturday, September 16th, Detective Ray Irving stood to the side of Dale Haynes′s apartment door and knocked loudly. He identified himself clearly, made no further attempt to alert the suspect as to his presence beyond waiting thirty seconds and then knocking again.
At four and a half minutes past they went through the door with a ram.
Confusion broke out as Irving and three uniforms ran through the apartment, clearing each room in turn. One door was closed, and before Irving had a chance to kick it open a voice from within shouted, ′Hold on a minute . . . hold on a minute!′
′Dale Steven Haynes?′ Irving shouted.
′Yes . . . I′m here . . . what′s happening?′
′Step out of the room. Hands over your head. This is the police.′
′What the—′
′Step out of the room, Mr Haynes. I′m counting to three. If I don′t see the door opening we′re coming through—′
′Okay, okay . . . Jesus Christ, what the fuck is this?′
Irving nodded at the uniforms, who stepped to each side of the door and flattened themselves against the wall. The door handle turned. Irving stepped behind a chair and crouched down. He had a clean line of fire to the doorway.
The uniforms pulled Haynes out into the room and had him cuffed, down on his knees, before he knew what was happening. He was wearing nothing but his tee-shirt and shorts, his eyes wide, his face white, his expression one of sheer terror.
′Dale Steven Haynes, you are under arrest for suspicion of theft of city property, for suspicion of the illegal sale of city property. You have the right to remain silent, but anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney one will be appointed you by the court—′
By now Haynes was crying.
′Detective?′ one of the uniforms called from inside the bedroom.
′Keep an eye on him,′ Irving told the second uniform, stepping past the kneeling man and walking through the doorway.
There must have been eight or ten boxes. Bank boxes, standard size, and inside each box were manila files, and within each file dozens of pictures. Everything imaginable, some of it truly horrific, and all of it taken from case files that were being repaired and moved for the NYPD archival project. All of them were closed cases, the pictures representing New York′s criminal history. Here were its ghosts, its specters, here were the lives of endless thousands of people destroyed by killers known or unknown. Dale Haynes ran a sideline selling the darkest of New York′s memories.
For a while Haynes couldn′t speak, and when he finally gathered himself together all he could say was, ′I never meant it to get this bad . . . I′m sorry . . . I know what you want . . . I′m so sorry. Jesus, I am so fucking sorry . . .′
THIRTY-TWO
Haynes gave it up without any formal interrogation. He didn′t request an attorney, though once Irving had made the call to Farraday, Farraday understood that there was some substance to the lead and insisted that a state-appointed attorney be found and brought to the precinct house. Farraday called Chief Ellmann, Ellmann called the DA, and the DA sent one of his assistants to sit in as an independent observer. Any information that Haynes might give regarding the possible purchaser of material relating to earlier murders had to be iron-clad. No coercion, no dubious interrogation techniques, no undue pressure.
By the time the circus had gathered it was near to three. Haynes was subdued but incessantly apologetic. He looked at everyone who appeared with the same expression of abject self-pity. He wanted the world to feel sorry for him. He wanted people to know that he was basically a good guy who′d gone astray, that he was just trying to make a living and it got out of hand . . .
While he sat in one of the interrogation cells, his apartment was searched. Nine bank boxes of stolen photographs were brought out. Haynes was certainly organized. He had arranged his pictures by gender, approximate age, and manner of death. Boys, girls, teenagers male and female, women over twenty, men over twenty, and then a category for the over forty-year-old victims. He had done his best to file them under suicides, gunshot victims, strangling, suffocation, poisoning, rape and subsequent murder, drowning, blunt force trauma, decapitations and stabbings. And then a category of miscellaneous one-offs, including a man who′d been tied to a chair, had his hands removed at the wrist and was left to bleed out. There were in excess of seven thousand pictures at first estimate and Haynes - ever the administrator - had kept an accurate record of coded names, dates, numbers of photographs purchased, how much he′d been paid, and whether or not the client had collected them personally or requested they be mailed.
It was those records that Irving was most interested in, and it was from those records that he located listings for a client referred to as 1457 Post. Whoever he might have been, 1457 Post had made three purchases in May of that year. Those purchases included photographs from the murder scene of Anne Marie Steffen, Arthur Shawcross′s 1988 strangulation victim.
Present in the interrogation room at ten of four were Irving himself, two uniforms, ADA Harry Whittaker and the court-appointed attorney, a middle-aged woman called Fay Garrison. It was not a long interview, for Haynes answered Irving′s questions without hesitation.
′According to your own records,′ Irving said, ′which, I gotta say, are really helpful, you have made in excess of eleven thousand dollars from your enterprising little sideline. I think the IRS will be interested to know about this as well, don′t you think?′
Haynes hung his head for a moment. He looked
up, opened his mouth to speak, and when he once again started into how utterly, unbelievably sorry he was, Irving raised his hand and silenced him.
′You have a client,′ Irving said. ′He bought three different sets of pictures from you in May this year. One of those pictures was of a prostitute murdered in the late 1980s called Anne Marie Steffen. You refer to your client as 1457 Post. What does that mean?′
Haynes tried to wipe his nose with his sleeve. It was awkward with his hands still cuffed. ′It′s where I sent them,′ he said.
′You never met the client?′
Haynes shook his head. ′Never met him. Only spoke to him on the phone. He called, told me what he wanted. Gave me the address.′
′And how did he pay you?′
′He posted the cash. Just the cash, nothing else. Gave me a post office box to send them to.′
′PO Box 1457?′
Haynes nodded. ′That′s right. PO Box 1457, New York, that was all. I sent them there.′
Irving signalled a look to one of the uniforms. He nodded, and left the room quietly. He would immediately attend to the documentation required to request the box-holder′s identity from the post office.
′Okay.′ Irving leaned back in the chair. ′So this was quite some operation, hey, Dale? Quite some operation. We′re gonna need a statement from you on everything. Dates, times, when - and how - this thing started . . . your whole life story as far as this little adventure is concerned. And then we′re gonna charge you, set an arraignment, and you can look forward to your picture being in a file, ready for the new archive unit.′
Once again the abject expression. ′You think . . . you think that—′
′That you′ll do time? Is that what you were going to ask?′
Haynes nodded, couldn′t hold Irving′s gaze.
′Who knows?′ he replied. ′We have a lot of things to sort out before we get that far, Mr Haynes, so right now the very best you can do for yourself is write us a statement, as complete and honest as you possibly can, and make sure you don′t miss out any important details.′
′Yes,′ Haynes mumbled. ′Yes, of course.′
Irving got up. He left Dale Haynes in the care of the second uniformed officer and left the room, along with ADA Whittaker and Fay Garrison.
′He′ll not do any time,′ Whittaker said. ′He′ll get a slap on the wrist, maybe a fine, some community service. Guy like that is small fish.′
′I know,′ Irving said, ′but right now we have him quiet and co-operative and I′d like to keep it that way.′
Irving shook hands with both of them. ′Thank you for your assistance, ′ he said, ′but I have to move on this thing immediately.′
Whittaker and Garrison understood. They knew this was merely the edge of something one hell of a lot bigger.
THIRTY-THREE
Judge Schaeffer signed Irving′s warrant at four forty-eight. Irving called the central inquiries number for the New York Post Office, identified himself, gave the warrant number, Schaeffer′s name, and arranged an appointment to see the Deputy Security Controller at quarter past five. He put a light on the car and made it there by ten past.
DSC Lawrence Buchanan was as New York Irish-American as they came. No more than five-foot-five or six, maybe one-seventy, one-eighty pounds, he walked in squeaky crepe-soled shoes as if he was about to break into a run. He smiled warmly, he shook hands enthusiastically, seemed like a man who loved life with a vengeance. Irving told him that there was a very significant degree of urgency in what they were doing, that it related to a series of homicides. Irving need not have worried, for DSC Buchanan grinned from ear to ear and walked even faster.
′Then I, sir,′ he said, ′will not be the one who slows you up.′
Five thirty-four and Ray Irving walked from the front entrance of the New York Post Office Central Inquiries Department with a piece of paper in his inside jacket pocket. On it was a downtown address: Apt. 14B, 1212 Montgomery Street. The name of the man who had rented PO Box 1457 was given as A. J. Shawcross.
Irving called ahead to the Fourth, spoke directly to Farraday, explained the significance of the given name. With this as sufficient cause, Farraday called Judge Schaeffer, organized the warrant himself, and assigned a SWAT team to the apartment search. A man who had killed eight deserved no less than the best.
Irving reached the Fourth shortly after six. Farraday met him in the incident room, acknowledged the speed and efficiency with which he had worked, told him that a great deal hung on this case, and that its swift resolution would earn them both a significant commendation. Like Irving, the captain felt the rush and punch of the chase. It was a nervous time, a time for predicting the worst-case scenario while anticipating the best; for preparing contingency plans but trying not to run at it too hard or too fast. Handled well, they could have their anniversary killer. One false step, one small fuck-up, and they were back at square one. Worse than that - evidence compromised, a violation of protocol - and the guy could walk on technicalities alone.
The operation commenced at quarter of seven. Three unmarked cars, a SWAT van, a back-up communications vehicle. The traffic was as expected, they took a straight route down Sixth and didn′t turn until West Houston, and by twenty past seven they were crossing Delancey, the Williamsburg Bridge to their left, the lower east side area between Delancey, Franklin D Roosevelt Drive and the Manhattan Bridge forming a cul-de-sac of six or eight blocks. Beyond FDR Drive was Corlears Hook and Wallabout Bay; a clear day and you could see over the East River to the Brooklyn Navy Yard. The houses on Montgomery were walk-ups and tenements, fire escapes in back. Three men went in through the front of the building, three to the rear and up the wrought iron gantry. The SWAT team leader gave instructions as if his task was no more challenging than organizing entertainment at a kid′s birthday party. Do this, do that, then do this, without needing to think but merely to act. Irving watched from the street, his heart clenched like a fist, and found himself praying for the first time in many months. It was no more than an instinctive reaction, for the last time he had prayed it had been for Deborah Wiltshire, and his words had gone unheeded.
On the second floor of the Montgomery Street house the SWAT advance man came along the hallway toward apartment 14B, his back pressed to the wall; six feet from the door, anyone inside would not have seen him through the peephole as the angle was insufficiently wide.
Advance man′s name was Mike Radley, team mates nicknamed him Boo, and however many times he did this, however many times he had yet to do it, it would never feel different.
Tension like a knot of hot wire in the base of his gut. Sense of balance, yes, but delicate. He watched movies - Jarhead, Black Hawk Down - and he believed he had some understanding of what such people experienced. Go to war. That should have been their motto. Wake up, brush your teeth, get dressed, go to war. The Lower East Side wasn′t Beirut or Baghdad, it wasn′t Bosnia or Stalingrad, but regardless of the terrain, a bulletproof jacket didn′t protect your neck, your face, your shoulders. It didn′t protect the huge artery that ran down your inside leg. A handgun was a handgun, whether the person aiming it was a terrorist, a junkie, a drug dealer, a whore, a pimp, a Bellevue escapee, or a man who′d taken it upon himself to clean the New York streets of lowlifes. Bullets were bullets. Dead was dead. Today, tomorrow, next week Tuesday - it was all the same. Your time came when your time came. It was simply a matter of delaying it.
So Boo Radley stood with his back against the wall, a foot or so from the front door of 14B. He stood there for some considerable time as he listened to the unit chief doing the steady on, breathe deep, move slow, think fast routine.
He motioned the code to his colleagues. He got word that the rear team were placed and on standby.
He knocked on the door.
He listened intently, every sense attuned for words, movement, some indication that the apartment was occupied.
There was nothing.
He knocked again, announced
his presence, identified himself as police.
Radley waited, seemed like an age, and then he turned and indicated forward. His second and third came up with the ram. Radley spoke quickly and succinctly to the unit chief. They were going in - back and front simultaneous - and they would clear the apartment.
Later - once the door was through, once the shouting had started, once the rear team had accessed the apartment through the fire escape route and the kitchen window . . .
Later - when Irving was informed that there was no living person in the apartment, when he started the walk up the internal stairwell, could already smell what was waiting for him and feel the sense of loss that came with having something such as this play out in some other way than he′d intended . . .
Later - when they found the dead girl on the floor, naked and beaten, her hands tied with white clothesline and pulled taut around her neck, the stench of decomposition almost beyond human tolerance, and scrawled on the floor beside her in her own blood a series of cryptic runes that Irving recognized immediately . . .
After all these things . . . Hal Gerrard on the way, Jeff Turner following him, cherry-blue flashing sirens rushing through evening traffic . . . emotions high and dizzy with panic. Irving in the hallway outside, a handkerchief to his face, feeling something akin to horror and delirium, feeling everything and nothing and trying to make some small and desperate sense of any part of this nightmare, cold sweats and nausea - not from the smell, not from the state of the poor girl beaten to hell and left in a disused apartment on Montgomery Street, a message on the floor that suggested something so much darker than any of them could imagine - but from the inevitability of disillusionment . . .
It was never simple. Never as simple as it needed to be.
It was then - after all these things - that Ray Irving truly appreciated the depth of the abyss.
The only thing preventing him from falling was a tenuous hold on reality, a promise of something better, the belief that somehow, some way, he would navigate a path through this and see the other side . . .
