by R.J. Ellory
Irving thanked him, saw him to the door and closed it firmly behind him.
′I′ve got to get back to the office,′ he said. ′I′ll drop you off at the Herald.′
′Go,′ Karen said. ′We′ll get a cab.′
Irving reached out, held her hand for a moment, squeezed it reassuringly.
He nodded an acknowledgement to Costello, and then he too left the hotel room and hurried out to his car.
FIFTY-FOUR
Farraday shook his head slowly and dropped into his chair. ′Jesus,′ he exhaled. ′Jesus God almighty . . .′
′It′s the only line to follow,′ Irving said. ′Seriously, I don′t see any other way to do this—′
′You have even the slightest idea of the kind of manpower something like this would take?′
′No,′ Irving said, ′and I don′t think there′s any way of determining that until we know how many families we′re dealing with.′
′So where was this place?′
′Amityville? It was - is - on Long Island.′
′And you think this will happen somewhere within the New York City limits?′
′Every killing we know of has occurred within the city limits. He′s not sticking to the original locations, just replicating the killings themselves, and I think this won′t be any different. He′ll kill a family of six, precisely the same way, and it will be somewhere relatively close.′
′Okay,′ Farraday said, suddenly cognizant of the fact that in the absence of anything else this was at least action as opposed to inaction. ′Speak to city records, the electoral registry . . . I′ll get the Chief briefed and see if we can′t get some help from the FBI on collating some sort of database . . . go for having some kind of complete list within twenty-four hours. Agreed?′
′Agreed.′
It didn′t take twenty-four hours. It took closer to ninety-six. The better part of four days, and still Ray Irving believed that there was no way to compile a concise and definitive list of all six-member families with teenage children, or younger, within the New York city limits. People moved, people got divorced; sometimes where there were two adults and four kids, they would suddenly find that one of the kids had moved to another state. One family had lost three members in a car crash only the previous month. The records office was involved, and the staff at the New York State Electoral Registry, and Ellmann secured the services of four federal agents in a supervisory capacity. They couldn′t employ their own database because the Anniversary killings were not a federal matter. Federal could only investigate espionage, sabotage, kidnapping, bank robbery, drug-trafficking, terrorism, civil rights violations and governmental fraud. However, the agents were good men, hardworking, and they instigated a cross-checking system that reconciled one database with another, eliminated duplicate names and addresses, narrowed the thing down, narrowed it down again, and put some sense of order into the operation. Without them Irving would have been lost.
Still, by early evening of Saturday the 4th of November, despite the fact that they had managed to compile a list of five hundred and forty-two extant six-member families within the city limits, everyone engaged in the project knew that there was no way to determine whether they had covered all bases. The list was as complete as it ever would be. It spanned the entirety of New York City, and Irving and Farraday, back of them the Chief of Police and the Mayor′s office, carried the responsibility of alerting these people to the risk that now appeared to face them. Or not. They couldn′t be one hundred percent sure. But, as Irving kept repeating to himself, any course of action, no matter how poorly executed, was better than passively waiting. Ellmann held firm to his decision regarding the newspapers. Nothing would be printed.
′Eleven years ago there was something similar,′ he told Farraday. ′Before my time as chief, but something my predecessor will all too willingly talk about. Guy had lost his wife and child in some hospital fuck-up. She died in labor, the baby with her, and he was up for taking it out on the medical profession. The same kind of deal as this one, a threat that if something wasn′t printed in the newspapers he would go on some sort of revenge thing against doctors. So they printed the warning in some newspaper, and doctors started carrying handguns. In the subsequent couple of weeks there were eleven unlawful shootings by doctors. Doctors were playing vigilante, you know? And at least half a dozen innocent people got seriously hurt. That is not something I intend to have happen again.′
Farraday relayed this to Irving, and Irving - sitting at his desk in the incident room, exhausted beyond anything he′d experienced before - understood and appreciated Ellmann′s point of view, his concern also, but he was still faced with the prospect of co-ordinating the task of alerting five hundred and forty-two families to the potential risk they could face in nine days′ time.
′We do everything we possibly can,′ Farraday said. ′We have authorization to divide these families up between all relevant precincts. We′re gonna use the black-and-whites to go out and see these people on their routine circuits. Somehow, someway, we′re gonna reach every one of them, talk to the head of the household, brief them on what we have so that they′ll be alert to the fact that if something untoward occurs on the night of the thirteenth, the matter will be treated as a priority.′
′This is some operation,′ Irving said.
′It′s massive,′ Farraday said. ′Biggest single action I′ve ever seen for one case, but we′re doing everything we can. I know how hard you′ve been working on this, and—′
′And we could still have missed one family, or six, or twelve . . . seriously, Captain, I don′t know that there is any way to isolate every single family that could fall within this demographic. What if he′s got a four-member family in sight, but he knows that on the night of the thirteenth grandma and grandpa are gonna come over and stay for a few days—′
′Ray . . . enough already. Hold up there. You′ve done everything you can. This thing is gonna roll out exactly as we′ve planned. These people will be contacted. They may decide to leave the city for a while—′
′And what if we′ve got it wrong completely? What if it′s nothing whatsoever to do with the killings that occurred back in ′74?′
′Ray, I need you to do something for me.′
Irving looked up.
′I really need you to go home and get some sleep. I′m not talking about two or three hours with your head on your desk. I need you in better shape than this. I need you to go back home and actually go to bed. Lie down, you know? Actually lie down in a damned bed and get seven, eight hours sleep. I need you to do that, okay?′
′But—′ ′Go,′ Farraday said emphatically. ′I′m ordering you to go and you will go.′ He stood up. ′We′ll meet tomorrow morning.′
Farraday crossed the room to the door. ′I′m sending someone back here in fifteen minutes to make sure that you′ve left the building.′
Irving smiled. ′I′m going,′ he said. ′I′m already on my way.′
En route home Irving stopped at Carnegie′s. It seemed an age since he′d sat in his corner booth, drinking coffee and making small talk with the waitress. He ate as much of an omelette as he could, but his appetite was poor, had been slipping for days, and he knew that Farraday was right. Sleep was required. And he needed to speak with Costello, also with Karen Langley. Of all people, they perhaps better understood the situation he was in, the days that lay ahead. He didn′t want sympathy, that least of all; it was simply the need to be around those who understood what was happening. These people had become his friends. That was the truth of it. In their own way they were doing all they could to make a difference, and that was a rare and extraordinary commodity among people. Most people were oblivious, or didn′t care, or did all they could to convince themselves that the hard angles of the world would never reach them—
Irving stopped, smiled to himself.
Hardangle.
The name Costello had invented for him.
He could hear Debo
rah Wiltshire′s voice then, something she had said too many times for him to forget. You have to let people in a little bit, Ray . . . have to give them a little of yourself before you′ll get something back . . .
He wondered in that moment if he would be the same man when this thing was over.
Somehow he doubted it, and in some strange way he hoped that he would not.
FIFTY-FIVE
Throughout the next seven days, despite the bitter cold that suddenly seemed to grip New York, despite the forthcoming Thanksgiving celebrations and the approach of Christmas, Ray Irving worked eighteen and twenty hours a day. He never stopped, he didn′t slow down. He spoke to Karen, to John Costello; he held meetings with Farraday, with Chief Ellmann, with the FBI agents, with officers assigned to assist in the division of labor; he ran Detectives Hudson and Gifford ragged at the edges - checking, cross-checking, visiting people themselves. Then the inevitable occurred.
Mr David Trent, mid-forties, married, an unemployed father of four, kind of guy who believed implicitly that the world owed him a living, took it upon himself to tell the world. Despite Detective Vernon Gifford explaining the situation and stressing the necessity of keeping some sense of balance about the nature of what they were dealing with; despite impressing upon Mr Trent that confidentiality was of the utmost importance, that everything should be done to prevent any panic regarding a potential serial killer . . . regardless of whatever efforts had been made to make Mr Trent understand what was happening, Mr Trent called The New York Times, he visited with them, and he told them that there was something going on.
Later, the article in his hand as he sat before Captain Farraday and Chief Ellmann, Irving realized that such a situation would have been impossible to avoid entirely. Evidently, Trent had spoken to The Times on Thursday, November 9th, and on Friday the 10th, three days before the anniversary of the Amityville killings, a decidedly attention-grabbing headline appeared on page two of the largest circulation newspaper in the State:
IS NEW YORK IN THE GRIP OF A SERIAL KILLER?
Somewhat inconclusively, the article covered the Mia Grant killing, the deaths of Luke Bradford, Stephen Vogel and Caroline Parselle from the 6th of August, an unrelated murder from the same month, and then went on to ′alert the people of New York, as was the duty of the press′ to the fact that the police had undertaken a huge program to caution several hundred families. The article gave no specifics as to the caution, aside from the fact that these families ′could be in danger from a person, or persons, unknown.′ The report didn′t isolate solely those families with six members, and it created sufficient noise for Chief Ellmann to call a press conference in the early afternoon of Friday the 10th in an effort to allay fears and minimize panic.
′We are in possession of no conclusive evidence at this time that New York is under threat from a serial killer. In fact, it is possibly incorrect to employ this term at all.′ He spoke with authority. Had Irving been uninformed he might even have believed this. After all, Ellman was New York′s Chief of Police.
′An operation has been ongoing for some days,′ Ellmann went on, ′to contact a number of families within the New York City limits - families that could be classified as occupying a particular demographic. The purpose of this operation is to prevent harm, not to cause concern or instigate panic among New York′s inhabitants. Let me assure you that if you, or a member of your family, has not been contacted by someone from the New York police department or a federal representative, then you fall outside the relevant demographic and have no cause for concern.′
When asked by an NBC journalist what had prompted this action, Ellmann responded without hesitation.
′Through one of the many lines of investigation we have been pursuing, we have unearthed some information - at this time unsubstantiated - that an individual may make an attempt to commit further murders. As I have said, and will say again, there is no cause for alarm. Through actions currently being undertaken by the New York Police Department, very ably assisted by representatives from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, we have this situation well in hand. I can assure you that the likelihood of any untoward occurrence is very slight, and that all measures to prevent any harm coming to any citizen of New York are being taken with the greatest speed and efficiency possible. I wish to make it clear once again that there is no significant cause for concern. I would urge all New Yorkers to go on about their business as usual. We have one of the finest police departments in the country, and they are committed to making the streets and homes of this great city completely safe.′
Amidst a hubbub of questions and flashguns Chief Ellmann concluded the press conference.
Ray Irving and Bill Farraday, watching the TV in Farraday′s office, looked at one another for a moment as Ellmann walked from the podium. Farraday switched off the TV and sat down at his desk.
′Very smooth,′ Irving said.
′That′s why he′s the Chief,′ Farraday replied.
′Seems that despite everything our guy has got a little of what he′s looking for.′
′You think that′s all that this is about . . . some press coverage?′
′God almighty knows. It has to be part of it, doesn′t it? Isn′t that the cliché? Someone didn′t listen, someone didn′t pay attention, so now the whole fucking world has to see what he can do?′
′Well,′ Farraday said, nodding toward the TV, ′all I can say is with that statement now public we better not get it wrong. Family of six winds up dead on Monday and . . . well, I don′t even wanna go there.′
′Neither do I,′ Irving replied.
′So how much progress has been made?′
′Eighty, eighty-five percent,′ Irving replied. ′There′s limits of course. Families away, families with the head of the household out of state, all the things we predicted we′d run into . . . but as far as the five hundred-odd families are concerned, we′ve got in touch with about eighty-something percent of them.′
′Keep on going,′ Farraday said. ′There′s nothing else to do.′
′My sentiment exactly,′ Irving said as he backed up toward the door.
′And Ray . . .′
′What?′
′If this all goes to shit on Monday . . . I mean, if we do wind up with another six dead, the press will descend on us like vultures.′
′Way I feel right now, by the time they get here I don′t think there′ll be anything left to scavenge.′ He closed Farraday′s office door behind him, and made his way quickly down the stairs.
FIFTY-SIX
Her name was Marcie, at least this was what she wished herself to be called. Christened Margaret, she believed - even at eight years old - that Margaret was clumsy and old, an old woman′s name, and that Marcie was pretty and simple, and two syllables. Two syllables was perfect. One was too few. Three was too many. Marcie. Marcie Allen. Eight years old. One younger brother, Brandon, whom they all called ′Buddy′, and he was seven, and then there was Leanne who was nine and Frances who was thirteen. That made four, and with Mom and Dad there were six, and on the evening of Sunday the 12th of November they watched a goofy movie together, the whole family, and they had pizza and popcorn because it was the last night before school, and they always did things together on Sunday nights, because that was the kind of family they were.
Jean and Howard Allen were good people. They worked hard. They didn′t believe in luck or good fortune, except where such luck and fortune had been created by themselves. Howard was a hopeful golfer, and constantly reminded himself of the old Arnold Palmer saw: Seems the harder I practice the luckier I get. Howard figured that such a philosophy applied to pretty much everything, and thus they made their way forward in life through diligence and their commitment to certain values. Though they were not a religious family and didn′t attend church, the Allens had nevertheless raised their children on the sound principles that what you gave was what you got in return. Bullshit out, bullshit in was a phrase Howard tended to use, thoug
h Jean disapproved of such language around the children.
Bedtime was staggered in the Allen household. Buddy went up at seven-thirty, Marcie and Leanne at quarter past eight. Teenager Frances got to stay up ′til nine, though she always protested nine was too early and her friends went to bed at ten, and there was always some kind of performance on the landing until Howard did his loud whisper and stern face, and commanded her to go to bed or she′d be grounded. She was not a bad girl, not by any stretch of the imagination, but her parents considered her willful and strong-minded, and secretly believed that such qualities would stand her in good stead for the future. They didn′t, of course, tell her this, but they believed that, of all of them, Frances was going to carve her way through life and make a difference.
Howard Allen was a proud man, and he had every right to be. He ran his own business, a commercial electrical components supply facility, and the three-story townhouse they owned on East 17th near the Beth-Israel was paid off but for thirty thousand dollars. There was a college fund for at least two of the kids, and the Allens had discussed the possibility of putting a down-payment on a condo in the Kips Bay Plaza area, a place to rent to students at NYU Medical. There was a lot of future, there were things to plan, and things to take into consideration, and never once did they consider the possibility that it could all so suddenly end.
At eight-ten, evening of Sunday 12th, Ray Irving called Karen Langley at the City Herald. What it was that prompted the need to talk he could only guess, and beyond that the possibility that she might not be there didn′t enter his mind, so he called, got her voicemail, and left a simple message: Just wanted to talk, nothing important. Call me when you can.
