by R.J. Ellory
′You feel that that′s the issue here? To walk away from this without attracting attention?′ Irving asked.
′Absolutely, Detective Irving, absolutely that′s the issue,′ Langdon replied.
′Well, fuck almighty, I thought the issue was trying to stop a serial killer collecting any more victims.′
′Hey!′ Farraday snapped. ′We can do without the fucking sarcasm, Ray.′
Irving said nothing.
′Okay?′
Irving slowly nodded, his lips pressed tight together, all his willpower employed to refrain from stating his actual viewpoint about this charade.
′So go find out,′ Farraday said. ′Speak to The Times, see who took the picture. Get it nailed down, get this thing contained.′ He turned to Langdon. ′You′re coming to see the Chief with me. We go on the offensive, take it to him before he has a chance to bring it to us, okay?′
Langdon nodded reservedly.
′You′re the public relations wizard, right? You have to come help me bail Irving out the crap.′
Farraday rose from his chair, opened the door for Irving.
′Call me as soon as you have a lid on this picture,′ he said.
Irving hesitated.
′Go!′ Farraday said. ′Get the fuck outta here and sort out this mess for God′s sake.′
Irving, tempted to kick back with every frustration he felt, held his tongue.
He made his way down the hallway to the stairwell, took the risers two at a time, and slammed his office door shut.
The Times had not received the picture on syndicate, neither did it come from a staff photographer, and nor was it a still cut from the video footage taken by the numerous TV crews that had been present. The image of Detective Ray Irving and John Costello had arrived in a plain manila envelope, left by hand at the news desk at eleven-eight p.m. the night before. Irving spoke with the picture editor, a man called Earl Rhodes, and from all appearances it had been taken on a digital camera, printed hard copy on a good quality color printer, and delivered by motorcycle courier. The envelope had five words written across it - News Desk, New York Times - and no, he had not kept the envelope. Yes, there was CCTV in the foyer of the building, and within moments the courier company was identified and located. Asked why he had not kept the envelope, the picture editor said, ′This is The New York Times, Detective. You have any idea at all how many pictures we receive on a daily basis?′
′And was there anything with the picture that told you who it was?′
′Piece of paper. Message on it read something like ′′NYPD detective employs help of crime researcher′′. Something like that.′
′And this didn′t surprise you? You didn′t wonder where it had come from?′
′Like I said, you have no idea how many pictures I get on a daily basis. I have staff photographers, freelancers, photojournalists, syndicate traffic, stuff coming in from AP, Reuters . . . it′s fucking endless. I don′t know whether it′s something that comes in because it′s been ordered, whether it′s a gift from the archangel fucking Gabriel or what. You have dozens of reporters, and they have their contacts and sources. The pictures come in, I send them on their way.′
′And this one?′
′Went to the crime desk,′ Rhodes replied.
′And the slip of paper that came with it?′
′Went up with the picture.′
′To?′
′Hell, I don′t know. You′d have to go on up there and find out which staff reporter they gave it to.′
Irving thanked Rhodes, took the name of the courier company, asked for directions to the crime desk.
Fourth floor, a maze of offices, a wall of noise from telephone conversations, printers, fax machines, doors opening and closing, the hubbub of activity that was ′all the news that′s fit to print′ on a Thursday morning.
The staff reporter responsible for the piece came out from his desk to meet Irving.
He smiled as if he knew Irving was pissed with him, but he held out his hand, introduced himself as Gerry Eckhart, directed Irving to a bank of chairs against the wall to the right of the elevator.
′The piece of paper that came with the picture?′ Irving asked. Eckhart frowned for a moment, and then he shook his head. ′Hell, I just chucked it,′ he said. ′Hang on a minute though . . .′ He got up suddenly, walked away.
No more that thirty or forty seconds and Eckhart returned, in his hand a small slip of paper no bigger than a credit card. Typed neatly across it, a standard and unremarkable font, were the words NYPD detective and crime researcher working together.
′And from this you worked out that the picture was of me and John Costello?′
′Wasn′t difficult,′ Eckhart said. ′There were three guys who knew your face right away. One of them said you were from the Sixth, but the others said you were from the Fourth. You know Danny Hunter, right?′
Irving nodded. Danny Hunter had covered a lengthy murder trial in which Irving had been the arresting officer a year or so before.
′Well, Danny knew who you were, and then it was simply a matter of working out who the other guy was. So we called every paper in the city, asked them if they had a crime researcher who was working on something with the PD, and we came up trumps at the Herald. With the guy′s name we had a different story, of course.′
′Hammer of God killings,′ Irving said.
′Right,′ Eckhart replied. ′Hammer of God killings.′
′This hasn′t done me any favors,′ Irving said unnecessarily.
′Whaddya want me to say, man? We do what we do the way we do it.′
′I′m gonna keep this piece of paper,′ Irving said.
′No problem.′
Irving took out his notebook. ′Can you give me the names of all the people who might have touched the picture?′
′Just me, I think,′ Eckhart said. ′I scanned it into my computer, sent it down to the desk. The picture is in a file over there.′
′You wanna get it for me?′
′Sure.′
′Hold it by the edges and put it an envelope or something.′
Eckhart nodded, went to collect the picture.
Irving′s pager beeped. He looked it and felt the weight of responsibility. It was Karen Langley′s number. He checked the earlier page. Also Karen Langley. He knew what this was about, and he didn′t want to face her.
Eckhart returned with the original image of Irving and Costello in a clear-fronted envelope. Irving put the small note inside with it, thanked Eckhart and started toward the elevator.
′You figure your man took that?′ Eckhart asked.
′I have no idea. And can I ask you—′
′Not to write anything more on this?′ Eckhart pre-empted.
Irving nodded.
′You can ask, Detective,′ Eckhart replied. ′Don′t mean I′m gonna pay any attention.′
′Anything you′re gonna run, would you call me and let me know before it hits the newsstands so I can do whatever damage control I
need to?′
′That I can do.′
′Appreciated,′ Irving said, and hit the elevator button for ground.
The courier company he found without difficulty. He drove down there, through the diminishing gridlock to an address across from Grand Central.
The duty manager, a man called Bob Hyams, came out to speak with Irving. ′I was on last night. He brought it in by hand about ten-thirty or so.′ Hyams was in his late forties, efficient in manner, but there was a limit to how much he could help. The offices of City Express Delivery did not have CCTV, and there was no signature from the individual who delivered the envelope.
′They come in, they give us the item, they pay the fee, we give them a receipt slip. End of story. The traffic we have through here, there′s no way . . .′ He left the statement unfinished.
Irving′s pager beeped for the third time.
′So this guy comes in and just hands you the envelope?′
Irving said.
′He sure does. He hands me the envelope, pays the fee, I give him a slip, he goes home.′
′And how does he look?′
′He looks good. Like he′s lost some weight maybe, doing good on quitting smoking.′ Hyams shakes his head and rolls his eyes. ′How the fuck do I know what he looks like? He′s a regular guy. He looks like every other guy who comes in here. Dark hair, clean shaven, shirt, sport jacket. Whaddya want me to tell you? I don′t know what he looks like.′
′And it was taken directly to The Times?′
′ ′S what he paid for. Immediate delivery. Cost him eighty bucks, didn′t bat an eyelid. Paid his money, told me thanks very much, went away.′
′Paid in cash?′
′Yes . . . and before you ask for all the cash in the place, we bank first thing. We don′t keep cash on the premises for obvious reasons.′
′Do you do a bag drop at the bank or pay over the counter?′
′We pay over the counter. We don′t do that much cash work these days. Mainly account clients. Maybe five hundred dollars a day in cash.′ Hyams smiled sardonically. ′Not your day is it?′
′Not my year,′ Irving said.
′You after this guy then?′ Hyams asked.
′Very much so, yes.′
′Well, I don′t know that I can be any help to you, but if you get someone and you want me to come down and take a look at him, you know? Like if you do a line-up or something?′
′Thank you,′ Irving said. ′I just might take you up on that.′
′Okay,′ Hyams said. ′Good luck to you.′
Irving didn′t reply, merely acknowledged him and left the building.
Back at the Fourth he turned the picture and the small typed note over to a uniform, told him to get them to Jeff Turner for prints, isolation of printer-make, any idiosyncratic element that might assist in identifying the source of the photograph or the message. He gave Eckhart′s name, said that his prints would be on the system under New York Times staff so as to eliminate them. He also asked him to prompt Turner on the forensic report from the Lynette Berry murder scene. ′Tell him to page me soon as he has it,′ Irving said. He hesitated for a moment in the hallway as the uniform hurried toward the stairs, and then turned back toward his office. Once inside he sat quietly for a minute or two, steeled himself, and then lifted the receiver to call Karen Langley.
FORTY-THREE
′He′s not come in this morning.′
H Irving said nothing for a moment.
′You′ve seen this story? The one in The Times?′
′Yes,′ Irving said, ′I′ve seen it.′
′You have any fucking idea what this is going to do to him? Jesus, Ray . . . for God′s sake . . .′
′I had no idea it was going to wind up in the paper. Come on, Karen, this is a major fucking story—′
′A major fucking story that your people pulled from under me—′
′I didn′t pull that—′
′Whatever, Ray . . . truth is that we put a lot of work into that thing and we didn′t get to run it. I forgave you that, but this?′
′I didn′t mean—′
′You took him over there, Ray, a murder scene in Central Park. Didn′t you even think about the TV crews? It wasn′t back of some derelict tenement somewhere, it was Central fucking Park—′
′So where is he?′ Irving asked.
′Home, no doubt. I imagine he′s hiding in his apartment with the curtains shut and the doors locked and wondering whether serial killer number two is gonna come and hammer his fucking head in.′
Irving inhaled slowly, his eyes closed, massaging his forehead with his right hand. ′Jesus . . . fuck . . .′ he exhaled.
′There′s nothing that can be done about it now,′ Karen said. ′The damage is done.′
′And you′ve had no word from him?′
′Nothing.′
′He′s done this before?′
′John doesn′t get sick, Ray. He doesn′t miss work. He doesn′t take holidays or days off. In all the years I′ve known him—′
′I get the picture . . . and you don′t think there′s any possibility he hasn′t seen it?′
′Well hell, unless this whacko got to him first and he′s lying dead somewhere, then I can imagine John Costello was one of the very first people in the city to see this. That′s what he does, Ray, or didn′t you know that yet? He listens to police scanners, he reads newspapers, he trawls the internet for this stuff. Right now isn′t he finding the connections for you guys? You remember that, right?′
′Karen . . . seriously, I am so fucking tired, and I am so on the edge with this whole thing, the last thing in the world I can use is a whole shitload of sarcasm from you.′
′Whatever, Ray . . . I′m gonna try and reach him, and when I reach him I′ll find out what the fuck is going on, and then I will do whatever I can to help him deal with this. I might call you later.′
′If you do,′ Irving said, ′can you try and convince yourself that I′m a half way decent human being beforehand?′
′Now who′s the sarcastic asshole?′ Karen Langley said, and hung up.
By ten-fifteen Irving had identified the four TV stations that had crews on-site for the Lynette Berry murder scene. NBC, NET, ABC and CBS. He called Langdon in Public Relations, told him he needed copies of all the footage from all four stations, not only the footage they planned to air, but the unedited takes. Langdon said he′d be back to him within the hour.
Irving didn′t vacillate for long about visiting Costello. Waiting around would only make the situation worse. He thought about going over to see Karen Langley, but what would he say? He had enough to deal with without Costello′s paranoia. He believed he should feel sympathetic - after all, the man was doing what he could to help them, and for this Irving should have felt grateful - but at this stage of the game sympathy seemed an irrelevant and unaffordable emotion. No-one had the time to be anything other than efficient and effective. Damage control on Karen Langley was a thing all its own. It would resolve or it would not. He liked the woman, but hell, she wasn′t his wife. If she never spoke to him again would it be the end of the world?
The phone rang. Irving snatched the receiver and nearly brought the thing off the desk.
′Yes.′
′Ray, it′s Karen. John has seen the paper. He doesn′t want to leave the apartment. He says he′s not being paranoid, he′s being practical.′
Irving started to smile. It was a reaction, nothing more. It was the exhaustion, the stress, the utter disbelief attendant on such scenarios.
′So he says he′s going to lay low for a little while—′
′Lay low? What the fuck does that mean?′
′Hey, don′t speak to me like that, Ray. I′m not the one who created
this fucking nightmare, you are. Treat me with some respect or go fuck yourself—′
′I′m sorry, Karen—′
′Enough already. I don′t need apologies, I need you to shut the hell up and let me finish what I was saying. So, he′s laying low for a little while. He says he needs to focus. He wants to try and understand some more about what′s going on with this guy. He feels he′s got too close to it and needs some distance.′
′What is going on here, Karen? What kind of person am I actually dealing with here?′
′Kind of person? Jesus, Ray, sometimes you really are the working part of an asshole.′
Irving couldn′t help it then. He started laughing.
′God, you really have lost it, haven′t you? I really am starting to worry a little about you.′
′You know something, Karen? You wanna hear something?′
′Go for it, Ray, give it your best shot.′
About to come back at her with some acidic one-liner, Irving stopped. He looked at himself. For a moment he really believed he was seeing himself from a distance - what he was thinking, what he was feeling, what he had planned to say to this woman at
the other end of a phone line . . . a woman he barely knew, a woman he actually cared for in some strange and awkward way. And he held himself in check. He didn′t say the thing. He just said, ′I′m sorry, Karen. I′m actually really sorry that this has happened. I do understand . . . hell, fuck no, I don′t have a fucking clue what he must be going through, but tell him from me that I appreciate his situation. Tell him that I′m sorry it happened this way, and that if there was some way to turn it backwards then I would. Tell him to take whatever time he needs, that he knows where I am, and if he has any thoughts about this thing then he should give me a call . . .′
Karen Langley didn′t speak.
′And as far as you′re concerned,′ Irving went on. ′I′m sorry that we started our friendship because of a serial killer. Maybe if we′d met some other way we′d be getting along just fine right now—′
′We are getting along just fine, Ray,′ Karen interjected. ′This is the way things happen sometimes. I′ll give your message to John, he′ll appreciate it. Stay in touch, eh?′
The line went dead.
Irving was left with a profound feeling of solitude, as if he was now the only one in the world who could make this thing stop.
FORTY-FOUR
Seated in a small sound-proofed booth at the New York City crime lab, headphones clamped to his ears, sweat running down the middle of his back, Ray Irving worked with Jeff Turner from just before noon to nearly four o′clock. From the digital footage taken in Central Park they at first isolated the angle from which the image might have been taken. It was finally a choice between NBC and CBS. Then they looked closely at the faces of bystanders, TV crew members, newspaper photographers and journalists, all in an attempt to find the one face that didn′t fit, the single individual with a camera who took a picture of Irving and Costello as they visited with Lynette Berry.
