The Anniversary Man

by R.J. Ellory

′Sure we are,′ Costello said. ′Sunday is an open day. How′s the food here?′

  ′It′s good. Great actually. I really like it.′

  ′What do they have?′

  Irving shook his head. ′God, I don′t know, everything. Lots of kosher, of course. I′ll get us a menu—′

  ′You suggest,′ Costello said. ′Okay with you, Karen?′

  ′Sure, of course. But no chicken liver. I don′t like chicken liver.′

  Irving caught the waitress′s eye and waved her over. ′Can we have the pastrami, open-face on knish three times?′ He looked at Costello, at Karen. ′You guys eat cheese, right?′

  Costello nodded. ′Cheese is good.′

  ′Cheese on all three,′ he said, ′and a Central Park salad to share.′

  ′Coffee?′ the waitress asked.

  ′You have tea?′ Costello asked.

  ′Sure we have tea. What kind of tea would you like? We got Darjeeling, English breakfast, Earl Grey—′

  ′English breakfast.′

  ′Coffee for me,′ Karen said.

  The waitress disappeared, returned moments later with their drinks, and refilled Irving′s cup. ′Ten, fifteen minutes for your lunch, okay?′

  Irving thanked her.

  ′I understand you found another one,′ Costello said before Irving had a chance to speak.

  ′He did the Zodiac,′ Irving replied.

  ′Which one?′

  ′Girl called Alexandra Clery . . . the one you mentioned before.′

  ′So you found her when?′

  ′Last night.′

  ′And she′d been dead since September fourth?′

  Irving′s eyes widened. ′You remember the date? You gotta tell me how the hell you do that.′

  Costello shook his head. ′I read things. They stay with me. Not everything, of course, just things that seem to have some relevance or importance, I suppose. Don′t ask me why or how. It just is.′

  Irving believed that perhaps he didn′t want to know.

  ′So?′ Costello prompted. ′My question?′

  ′Dead since the fourth? Yes, more than likely. I don′t have the autopsy report yet.′

  ′And she was beaten to death and left naked like the Oakland girl from ′72?′

  ′Appears that way,′ Irving said, and then held himself in check. ′Hang fire here,′ he said. ′We′re ahead of ourselves already.′

  ′Ahead of ourselves? What d′you mean?′

  ′This thing . . . here . . . what we′re talking about. I haven′t even told you what I wanted to discuss with you.′

  ′I know what you want to discuss with me, Detective Irving.′

  Irving opened his mouth to speak.

  ′Karen told me. You want me to be an independent and external . . .′ Costello paused, shook his head. ′An independent and external what?′

  ′Consultant?′ Irving ventured.

  ′Sure, that′ll do. A consultant.′

  No-one spoke for a handful of seconds.

  ′Right,′ Costello said. ′That′s what you want?′

  ′Yes. Whatever you want to call it. Ordinarily I′d deal with criminal profiling, get the FBI involved, but there′s no actual evidence of kidnapping and—′

  ′And they have a spectacularly narrow view of such things.′

  ′Who the hell knows?′ Irving said. ′I have very little dealings with them.′

  ′Believe me,′ Costello said. ′They have their routines and regulations. They want to be so orderly and organized, and to a large extent I′m sure they succeed. But when it comes to thinking like a serial killer . . .′ He shook his head. ′There are no rules and regulations to what these people do aside from the rules and regulations they themselves create.′

  ′So this is something you are willing to consider?′ Irving asked.

  ′Consider? Of course, Detective. I′ve already decided to help you.′

  Irving tried to look neither surprised nor pleased. ′It will be official, of course. You will be formally employed by the NYPD as an external consultant, a researcher for want of a better word. You′ll get paid an agreed rate—′

  ′Details are unimportant,′ Costello said, interrupting quietly. ′I′m interested, that′s all. This has interested me greatly from day one, and to have access to all the crime scene information—′

  ′Within certain parameters,′ Irving interjected.

  Costello sat back in his chair and put his teacup down. ′There cannot be any parameters,′ he said. ′Not on information directly relating to the cases themselves. How the hell do you expect me to find your thread if I can′t see everything?′

  ′We′ll handle it,′ Irving said. ′You have to understand that this has come about because of me. This is not something that has been requested from above. My captain took some convincing, and God knows what the Chief of Police would have to say if he knew what was going on. Fact of the matter is that this is very unorthodox. A private citizen with no formal qualifications in criminal profiling, no real familiarity with police work—′

  ′But twenty years′ experience as a crime researcher,′ Karen said.

  ′Sure, of course, yes,′ Irving replied.

  ′And,′ Costello added, ′the very best qualification of all, don′t forget - something that no-one in the police department or the FBI can claim to have.′

  Irving looked at him.

  Costello smiled. ′I′ve been there, Detective Irving. I know what it′s like to see someone like this up close and personal.′

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  They ate without further mention of the anniversary killings. Karen Langley had concluded their discussion neatly. She would speak with the paper′s assistant editor-in-chief, Leland Winter, with Bryan Benedict if necessary, and she would help secure some sort of agreement for John Costello to consult for the PD without completely abdicating his responsibilities to the City Herald.

  ′John is my right hand,′ she said.

  Costello ignored her compliment. He ate intently, a man with a purpose, and seemed oblivious to the details they discussed.

  At quarter of two he got up from his chair, folded his napkin neatly and placed it beside his plate. He thanked Irving for lunch, bade farewell to Karen Langley and then, without another word, he turned from the table and left the restaurant.

  For a few moments Irving was speechless.

  Karen had watched Costello go, and when she turned back to Irving she laughed at the expression on his face.

  ′You look like someone smacked you,′ she said. ′That′s John. Pay no mind to it. You′ll get used to his quirks.′

  ′Will I?′ Irving asked, more a question of himself.

  ′Sure you will,′ she said. ′You don′t have a choice do you?′

  They stayed for another hour.

  ′This has now become our unofficial second date,′ she said.

  ′Not the kind of thing I had in mind,′ Irving replied.

  Karen leaned back and looked at him quizzically. ′Were you always this serious?′

  ′You don′t think I should be serious about this?′

  ′There′s a difference between being serious and being serious about something. Sure, this is serious. This is a homicide investigation. That′s something to be serious about. I′m not speaking specifically, I′m speaking generally.′

  ′You think I′m too serious?′

  ′I think everyone′s too serious, Ray. I think how seriously people take themselves is the cause of half their problems.′

  ′So what d′you want me to do? What d′you want from me?′

  ′What do I want? I don′t want anything,′ she replied. ′I think maybe you′re the one who wants something . . . something a little more than just a homicide investigation—′

  ′I′m finding it pretty difficult to think about anything else at the moment.′

  ′Evidently.′

  Irving tilted his head to one side and looked at her suspiciously. ′Meaning?′
>
  ′Meaning nothing more than you′re taking what I′m saying too literally. I′m not going to tell you to lighten up because it wouldn′t do any good, but I think you should—′

  ′Lighten up?′

  ′Hell, try it, Ray, you might like it.′

  ′I will,′ he said resignedly. He knew what she meant. He believed that she didn′t need to tell him, but being told was precisely what he did need. Why was there always an edge to what should have been the simplest thing of all? Talking to someone. Finding out about someone. Spending time with someone. There always had to be something else going on to confuse the issue.

  ′I have to ask you something,′ Irving said.

  ′Shoot.′

  ′It′s about confidentiality . . . about the fact that I have to maintain the integrity of this investigation now that—′

  ′Now that John will be involved?′ Karen shook her head. ′You think I have conflicting interests here, don′t you?′

  ′It would be hard for you not to,′ Irving replied. ′You have a headline-worthy case, a researcher who is going to be directly involved, access to information that no other newspaper could ever hope to get, and you′re going to get the usual internal demands from editors and assistant editors to deliver the goods.′

  ′If you think that, then you don′t know John, and you certainly don′t know me,′ Karen replied. ′If John says he won′t talk about something, then he won′t talk about it. If he signs a confidentiality agreement then he′ll stick to it.′

  ′I find it hard to understand how you can say that about him. That sort of thing implies a significant degree of certainty about someone′s character—′

  ′When I don′t even know where he lives?′

  Irving smiled. ′Well, come on, Karen, it seems a little unusual.′

  ′I don′t know how to tell you any better than I already have. John is the way he is . . . maybe he was always that way, maybe he became that way as a result of what happened to him. All I know is that he′s invaluable to me. In this business I couldn′t hope for anyone better but, like anyone, he has things you have to deal with in order to get along with him. Perhaps with him they′re a little more obvious, a little more pronounced, but he′s harmless—′

  ′You′re sure about that?′

  Karen looked surprised, a sudden change of expression. ′You still have some doubt about him?′

  ′I′ve only just met the guy, Karen. I don′t know a goddamned thing about him.′

  ′Hell of a way to choose the help then, don′t you think?′

  ′So tell me what else you can,′ Irving said.

  She smiled and shook her head. ′You′re gonna have to find out for yourself, Ray. You got yourself into this, you′re gonna have to get yourself out.′

  ′Oh come on, that′s not fair—′

  Karen slid sideways and gathered up her jacket. ′I′m going now,′ she said.

  ′What?′ Irving asked, surprise evident in his tone.

  Karen Langley raised her hand and silenced him before he had a chance to speak further. ′I′m going,′ she repeated. ′I′ll speak to Leland, whoever else. I′ll sort out this thing with John.′ She rose to her feet. Irving started to get up too.

  She smiled, reached out her hand and touched the side of his face. ′Don′t get up,′ she said. ′This isn′t the right time for what we′re thinking about.′

  ′But—′

  She shook her head. ′Deal with this. When you′re done dealing with it call me. We could start over perhaps.′

  ′Karen,′ Irving started. ′I didn′t mean to—′

  ′It′s okay,′ she said quietly. She leaned down and kissed Irving′s cheek. ′You have my number, and when you don′t want something from me you should call me, okay?′

  Irving just looked back at her without speaking.

  ′Just nod, Ray. Just nod so I know you heard me.′

  Irving nodded.

  Karen Langley smiled, almost as if this was what she expected, as if she had long since prepared herself for this kind of thing and knew exactly how to act, and then she turned her back on him and walked to the door.

  Ray Irving half-rose from his seat; the front of his jacket caught the handle of his coffee cup, and over it went. In the confusion of snatching napkins from the chrome dispenser he didn′t see her go, and when he looked up she was gone.

  Perhaps she′d looked back, a glance, a half-smile - something to reaffirm her position. He didn′t know, and now he would never know.

  He sat down again. The waitress came and asked if he wanted fresh coffee. He said no, and then changed his mind.

  He stayed for a while - twenty minutes, half an hour perhaps. He watched the world through the window - Seventh Avenue on a Sunday afternoon - and believed, with certainty, that this had been the worst second date of his life.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Close to three, and there was little point in returning home. Irving went to his office, made some phone calls, tried to find whatever additional information he could about John Costello. The man had no criminal record, had never been arrested let alone charged, and thus his prints were not on the system. He finally located Costello′s Social Security number, which gave him an address - an apartment in a building at West 39th and Ninth where Costello had been registered in January of 1989. If it was still valid - and Irving had no reason to consider otherwise - then Costello had lived in the same place for almost eighteen years. Irving could walk there right now. Fifteen, twenty minutes, and he′d be standing outside John Costello′s front door, could get inside, take a good look at the world that John Costello had created for himself. How these people lived was always the very best indicator of their state of mind.

  Irving stopped right there. These people? What was he thinking? What did he mean by these people? Was he now classifying Costello as somehow similar to the man he was looking for?

  Irving quietly derailed that train of thought and focused on the computer.

  The original records from the Hammer of God killings had been scanned and forwarded to him from Jersey. They′d been archived in late 2002. Irving knew of the project - a vast undertaking designed to give some sense of order and permanence to the enormous weight of files that existed in county archives; an effort to reduce storage space, to preserve the integrity of documents, to make cross-referencing by hand and eye a thing of the past. Of course, as with all such projects, either funding had finally run out or been withdrawn, or someone had taken advantage of the opportunity and overcharged the taxpayer by using expensive consultants and data-input staff. Eventually someone would exhume the project, pick it up from where it was left off, and second, third, and even fourth attempts would be made to complete it. Irving was fortunate in that New Jersey had made it to early ′86. The last of the Hammer of God attacks - that on John Costello and Nadia McGowan - had taken place in November of ′84. Irving pulled the lot and hard-copied it. Treeware, he thought, and smiled, remembering the term computer geeks used for paper documentation. In the basement of the Fourth he accessed the newspaper microfiche system, pulled the original December ′84 Jersey City Tribune articles: Wednesday, 5th - City Arrest In Hammer Killings Case; Friday, 7th - Hammer Killings Suspect Named and Charged; Wednesday, 12th - Hammer Killer Arraigned; an article from Thursday the 20th about Robert Clare′s boss attempting to take legal action against serial-murder groupies coming around to Clare′s place of work to gloat and collect mementoes. Finally, on December 27th, a report covering the bare facts of Clare′s suicide. Continuing his search for any related Hammer of God articles, Irving found one that struck all too close to home. It was perhaps the saddest thing of all. It was dated Friday, January 4th, 1985, and the header ran ′Hammer of God′ Cop Death.

  The article went on to say that Detective Frank Gorman, head of the Jersey City Homicide Task Force, had died of a heart attack in a restaurant bathroom. Gorman was a fifty-one year-old bachelor who, to compound the sense of tragedy, had been dining al
one when he died. A twenty-eight-year veteran, he warranted only a two and a half inch squib in the Tribune.

  Irving sat back in his chair, lost in reflection. He wondered how many people had attended Gorman′s funeral on Wednesday, 9th January, 1985 at the First Communion Church of God . . . how many people that weren′t cops.

  Those simple paragraphs said it all. History was repeating itself. Gorman had been no different from himself. No family, no, kids, no legacy. No flowers required. They would only fade and be thrown away.

  He closed down the microfiche and went back to the incident room. He pored over the interviews that Gorman and Hennessy had conducted, found a note scrawled along the corner of the initial McGowan/ Costello incident report. It was in Hennessy′s handwriting, that much Irving could tell, and said, simply, Copycat??

  Evidently, Frank Gorman and Warren Hennessy had considered some of the same questions as Irving. Costello had been the only one to survive. Had his own injuries been self-inflicted? Had he killed the earlier couples and then, to divert attention from himself, killed his own girlfriend and injured himself? If that was the case, then who was Robert Melvin Clare, and why would he have confessed? Compared to the current level of forensic and crime scene analysis, much of the technology had been in its infancy in 1984. Perhaps there was a simpler explanation - perhaps there were two such killers. Was there any possibility in the world that John Costello, a mere sixteen years old at the time, could have replicated a Hammer of God serial killing back then?

  Irving shuddered at the thought. He was taking huge leaps of assumption. He had met John Costello a number of times now. Was it really possible that he could be the Anniversary Man? Had John Wayne Gacy or Kenneth McDuff, Arthur Shawcross or Harvey Carignan seemed to be who they really were? Or was the most powerful deception the most fundamental in such cases? I am not who you think I am. I am not even who I believe myself to be.

  Irving searched for Detective Gorman′s colleague Warren Hennessy in the internal database. Followed him as far as July of 1994. Twelve years had passed. Would Hennessy still be alive? Where the hell would he be? Was there any real point in spending the time and the resources necessary to track him down? What, if anything, would Hennessy be able to tell him about John Costello? That he too had considered the possibility that Costello replicated the Hammer of God killer′s signature? That he had briefly suspected Costello of being the worst deceiver of all?