The Anniversary Man

by R.J. Ellory

  Karen didn′t challenge Irving′s certainty. She sat silently. She drank her coffee. She felt she had nothing of importance to say.

  They left at seven-ten. Langley led the way, Irving followed in his own car, and when they arrived at her apartment by the Joyce Theater in Chelsea, Irving had her wait in the front hallway while he searched the place.

  There was nothing. He′d known it, as had she, but it felt as if he was doing something that made sense. He was there to protect and serve, and that′s what he did.

  At the doorway she kissed his cheek. She held his hand for a moment and thanked him.

  ′Maybe when this thing is over . . .′ she said, and Ray Irving felt something stir briefly in his tired and broken heart.

  He left without saying another word, but he smiled from the stairwell and she raised her hand.

  He walked to the car, hurried the last few yards as it started to rain. He drove back to the Fourth, for no other reason than he did not wish to be alone.

  It was the 20th of October. Ten victims to date. Eleven days to wait for someone else to die.

  FORTY-NINE

  And those eleven days proved to be among the worst of Ray Irving′s life.

  Deborah Wiltshire had died on him. After however many years of a real relationship - a relationship that included eating out, going to movies, a concert in Central Park, a time he got sick with flu and she came to his apartment with Nyquil and Formula 44 - there was nothing. Something good had gone, and he was perhaps more aware of its absence in those eleven days than in the entire year since her death.

  Karen Langley was also a good person. Irving believed that. But neither of them lived in a world that was forgiving. Their worlds seemed to revolve in different orbits, and trying to make anything further of their friendship felt somehow inappropriate and unmanageable.

  The Anniversary Man, for that was how Irving had resolved to call him, had interrupted his existence.

  The Anniversary Man had made any possibility of a regular life impossible, and for this Irving resented him. An unknown person had collapsed Irving′s world, and he looked out from beneath the rubble and waited in anticipation for the architect of this collapse to show his face.

  The night before the 31st October Irving could not sleep.

  Four minutes after midnight the phone rang.

  ′Ray?′

  ′John?′

  ′Yeah . . . figured I′d call and see how you were doing.′

  ′Not gonna sleep,′ Irving said. ′Thanks for calling.′

  ′Sure.′ Costello paused. ′Anything useful I can do?′

  ′God knows, John . . . I don′t know what else there is to do. We just have to wait and see.′

  ′This is not a good position to be in.′

  ′Have to face facts . . . goes the way we think it′s gonna go, then someone is gonna be dead by this time tomorrow.′

  ′That′s a terrible thought.′

  ′But true.′

  Costello didn′t speak for a while, and then he cleared his throat and said, ′You have my number.′

  ′Think of anything smart I′ll call you,′ Irving said, and tried to make it sound like he was smiling, that he was positive, that he believed that something good would come of this. He couldn′t think what that might be, but it didn′t stop him hoping.

  ′Tomorrow then,′ Costello said.

  ′Tomorrow,′ Irving echoed.

  Morning of the 31st it was raining heavily. Irving called Victor Grantham at seven-thirty. They had spoken twice during the previous week, and Grantham had clearance to work with Irving throughout the day.

  ′I′m sitting here in front of this thing,′ Grantham said. ′I have a malfunctioning trap release on East 128th just before it crosses the Hudson to the I-87, but aside from that we′re clear. If anything, the rain is gonna help us.′

  ′How so?′

  ′Whole network is designed to carry stuff away, you know? If it isn′t carrying then we know about it soon enough.′

  ′So who do you have with us today?′ Irving asked.

  ′I have about ninety crews theoretically. There′s substations all over the city, different shifts, different duties, but there′s no breakdowns in the network as far as I can see. We have the whole day ahead of us.′

  ′Not a day I′ve been looking forward to,′ Irving said.

  Grantham didn′t reply.

  ′So you stay on the direct number, right?′

  ′I′ll be here throughout,′ Grantham said. ′My wife made sandwiches, I got a flask of coffee, got a couple of books to read. Gonna be right with you ′til the end, one way or the other.′

  ′Okay . . . this is very much appreciated, Victor.′

  ′Hell, man, what you gonna do eh? This is someone′s life we′re talking about, right?′

  ′It is, yes,′ Irving replied. ′So you have this number. This is a dedicated line. No-one else on this line but you and me.′

  ′You got it, Detective . . . just you and me.′

  Neither spoke for a moment, and then Victor Grantham asked the question that neither of them wanted to answer.

  ′You figure we got a prayer, Detective Irving?′

  ′You want the truth, Victor? No, I don′t think we have a prayer, but like you say, what you gonna do.′

  ′Good luck.′

  ′Same to you.′

  Irving hung up, sat back in his chair and looked at the cork boards that faced him on the opposite wall.

  ′This is it,′ he said to himself, and he wished it wasn′t.

  There were three false alarms before it got dark. Two of them were simple mechanical faults, the third was a plastic bag full of beer cans that someone had thrown from a moving car. Irving had reached the 23rd Street subway station by the time Grantham came back to him on his cellphone and gave him the news. Lights flashing, siren wailing, Irving had hit the ground running and made it away from the precinct within minutes. His heart racing, his pulse running twice its rate, he′d pulled over to the side of the road and hammered the heels of his hands on the steering wheel. He′d sworn loudly, repeatedly, and then sat for some minutes, his eyes closed, his head back against the rest, until he felt his body return to normal. All that remained as he pulled away from the curb and started back toward the Fourth was the mess of nerves in the base of his gut. Only other time he′d felt such a thing, such intensity, such impotent desperation, was before the doctor walked out to tell him that Deborah Wiltshire was dead. That had been for minutes. This had gone on all day. Emotions were uncontrollable and unrelenting. Emotions nailed you, and there was no way to escape.

  So darkness came, and by seven Irving was climbing the walls in frustration. He paced the incident room ceaselessly. Farraday came down to see him twice, told him that if any further units became available he would let him know. Irving barely heard him, standing there at the window, looking out into the kaleidoscope of streetlights, broken up and scattered through the rain on the glass. He was out there. Somewhere. Driving perhaps. Carrying some dead girl to a side-street, some predetermined drainage outlet where he would just tip her over the edge of the freeway and watch her stop in the channel. And then walk away, dust down his jacket and get in the car. Buckle up and drive carefully. Wouldn′t want to get pulled over for speeding, for failure to wear a safety belt. Drive five miles an hour over the speed limit so cops didn′t think you were trying to be inconspicuous. Make a clean getaway.

  Irving had no idea whether it was possible to feel worse than he did. Didn′t want to know. Four times he called Victor Grantham just to make sure that the line was clear, that it was still functioning, and four times Victor Grantham assured Irving that he had a cellphone, that he had Irving′s own cell number, the number of the station house, and if he had a heart attack his supervisor would call Irving to let him know that he was taking over Grantham′s position.

  ′This end we got covered,′ he said.

  Irving tried to read through some of the case f
iles. He made a note regarding the Winterbourne group, that he should really check each member directly, despite Costello′s reassurances that these people were victims not perpetrators. That had been unprofessional. That was something he would be called to account for if—

  A uniform stopped in the door, asked Irving if there was anything he could do.

  Irving shook his head. ′We′re just on wait here,′ he said.

  ′Know exactly what you mean,′ the uniform replied.

  In your dreams you do, Irving thought, but said nothing.

  He stared at the phone on the desk. He willed it to ring, but nothing happened. He tried counting like John Costello, the carpet tiles on the floor, the repetitive pattern on the wall, the number of cars that passed the corner between the green light and the red . . .

  When the telephone finally did ring, Irving damn near pulled the cord out of the wall as the phone tumbled to the floor leaving him with the receiver in his hand.

  ′Detective . . . I got one where the Queens Midtown Tunnel comes in off the river. It′s actually in the tunnel . . . right beneath FDR . . .′

  Irving dropped the receiver and started running.

  Victor Grantham carried right on talking until he realized there was no-one there.

  By the time Irving reached the scene there were four motorcycle units, a black-and-white, and three of Grantham′s engineering teams already there. Seven blocks had taken him twenty-two minutes despite the siren and the lights. He had radioed back through to the Fourth from his car. Roadblocks had been actioned on Borden Avenue at the Hunters Point end of the tunnel, at East 36th and 37th, also Second Avenue at the Tudor end. But they had been actioned too late, and there were too many cars, and there was no way in the world that such a step could ever have worked with the volume of traffic, the dark, the rain, the limited resources. The driver of the vehicle could have taken a straight right onto 55th and been lost around the back of the Long Island City station within five minutes of leaving the scene.

  They found the girl at two minutes past eight. She was naked but for a pair of orange socks and a silver ring inlaid with abalone. Nearby a pair of panties, a bundle of tissue inside them to serve as a makeshift napkin. There was no purse, no handbag, no other clothes. There were no marks on her body beside the strangulation bruises on her neck. Irving called Turner from his cellphone. Turner was en route within minutes. Irving then called the coroner, and once the coroner had been dispatched he walked up the tunnel a good thirty yards and called John Costello.

  ′You got her, didn′t you?′ Costello stated matter-of-factly before Irving had even spoken.

  ′Wha—′

  ′Your cellphone number came up,′ Costello said. ′I figured you weren′t in the office.′

  ′Orange socks. Silver ring. It′s her.′

  Costello didn′t speak.

  ′I thought you should know, John, that was all . . . I have to go. I have work to do now.′

  ′Call me if there′s anything I can do.′

  ′I will.′

  Irving closed his phone, turned around, walked back to the flashing lights and confusion of the eighth murder scene, the eleventh body.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Turner stayed after the body had been taken away. He brought three other CSAs with him, and together they cordoned off the scene, photographed, collected, rigged arc-lights, and fingertip-searched the road for twenty feet in both directions until Turner was certain that nothing had been missed.

  ′I don′t think there was anything to miss,′ he told Irving. Already eleven p.m., and Irving stood cold and detached and emotionless, hands buried in his pockets, vaguely remembering that he′d eaten nothing since late morning.

  ′This was simply the dump site. He drove up, pulled over, took her out, dropped her down the culvert, and drove away.′ He turned and looked back toward the Hunters Point end of the tunnel. ′Heading in that direction.′

  Irving said nothing. He merely turned and looked where Turner indicated, perhaps believing there might be something to see. The Queens-Midtown Tunnel, uncharacteristically devoid of traffic, looked back at him. Vacant, soundless, it was almost taunting him.

  ′I′m done here,′ Turner said. ′You want a ride somewhere?′

  ′No. I′ve got my car.′

  ′I′m at the crime lab until six,′ Turner said. ′Call me if there′s anything I can do.′

  Irving didn′t reply. He stood silently while Turner collected his staff, directed the loading of equipment back into the convoy of vehicles, watched as they disassembled the kriegs, wound up the black and yellow tapes, hefted the bollards and folded up the sawhorses. Within twenty minutes there was no-one left. Irving stepped back, close against the wall, and watched as the traffic started back through the tunnel.

  Had you not known, it would have been hard to believe that only a handful of hours earlier a dead body had been dumped no more than ten yards from where he stood. He bowed his head and started back along the service engineers′ walkway that ran the length of the tunnel. He paused at the culvert for one last futile moment. He saw nothing, because there was nothing to see.

  This was a game. Elaborate, complex, driven by something he couldn′t even begin to comprehend, yet nothing more than a game.

  And as of this moment Ray Irving knew he was losing.

  Deputy Coroner Hal Gerrard met Irving in the corridor outside Theater Two.

  ′She was scrubbed,′ he said. ′She was strangled, and then she was bathed and scrubbed with some kind of carbolic soap that′s got phenol in it - a benzene derivative - and it cleans and disinfects pretty thoroughly. I′m not completely done, but right now all I can give you is that she was strangled by a right-hander, nothing under her fingernails, nothing in the pubis. No sign of assault, either physical or sexual, nothing from the rape kit.′

  ′Was she a hooker?′

  Gerrard shrugged. ′Your guess is as good as mine. Her prints aren′t on AFIS. We haven′t checked DNA yet, haven′t done tox so I don′t know if she was a user. No tracks on her arms, nothing between her toes or behind her knees. She seems in pretty good shape, all things considered.′

  ′Time?′

  ′Late afternoon,′ Gerrard said. ′Liver temp, lividity . . . I′d say about five.′

  Irving tried to remember what he′d been doing at five. He couldn′t.

  ′So how long before you′re done?′

  ′Tox and everything, you′re gonna have to leave her with us. I′ll get the DNA checked, dental x-Rays, whatever we can do to ID her, and I′ll call you.′

  ′You have my cell, right?′

  ′I have your cell.′

  Irving walked back the way he′d come. He sat in his car in the lot. It was nearly midnight. He wanted to drive over to Karen Langley′s apartment in Chelsea. He wanted to knock on the door and tell her what had happened. He wanted her to tell him that it was okay, it was going to be fine, that he should come in, take off his shoes, relax for a little while. Have some wine, watch some TV, fall asleep beside her with the smell of her hair and her perfume all around him . . .

  That′s what he wanted, but it was not what he did.

  He started the engine, turned the car one-eighty, and headed back to the Fourth.

  Ray Irving didn′t go home on Tuesday night. While half of New York slept with the memory of trick or treat and sacks of candy, while people arrived home, and left again as they prepared for work, for a day off, for a trip to see friends in the country, he sat at his desk in the incident room and imagined what he would do if he were a smarter man.

  And there he was still, wearing the same clothes, unshaven and unslept, when a call came in from the The New York Times that another letter had arrived.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Perhaps it was the threat, perhaps the fact that the author of the letter alluded to earlier killings. To date, it seemed that nothing had created sufficient impact to unify the thoughts and minds of those directly or indirectly involved wi
th the investigation.

  Perhaps - as Irving had earlier suspected - the simple truth was that Farraday, Chief Ellmann, others who read the reports, had convinced themselves that there was such a thing as coincidence. Coincidence, they had decided to believe, had played a part in this. There was no serial killer; it just appeared that way.

  The letter that arrived at the offices of The New York Times on the morning of Wednesday, November 1st, 2006, was compelling - and it was detailed enough to vanquish any doubt anyone might have possessed about the nature of this thing.

  On a single sheet of cream-colored vellum, in the same generic typeface as the note that had arrived with the Irving-Costello Central Park photograph, the letter spoke of how Mia Grant had gone oh so very quietly into that long goodnight; of two girls in halter-tops and jeans who begged like sorry-ass bitches, telling me how they weren′t guilty of anything, that they were innocent, and I listened to what they had to say, and I made them beg a while longer, and then I shot them both dead right where they knelt and that was the end of that. He spoke of John Wayne Gacy, called him a faggot motherfucker piece-of-shit loser who couldn′t get what he wanted without sticking a gun in someone′s face. And then he spoke of hookers, how they were nothing better than animal filth, worse than animal filth, the base dregs of humanity, carrying their disease and absence of morals. Finally he quoted Isaiah, Chapter 60, Verse 24, and he wrote, ′And they shall go forth and look on the dead bodies of the men that have rebelled against me; for their worm shall not die, their fire shall not be quenched, and they shall be an abhorrence to all flesh.′

  And he closed the letter by carefully explaining what he wished, and what would happen if his desire was not satisfied.

  Print this on the front page of your New York Times, he wrote.

  Print this in capital letters for all of New York and the world to see.

  I AM THE CLEANSING LAMB OF CHRIST.

  I AM EARTH AND AIR AND FIRE AND WATER.