by R.J. Ellory
′I think they′re ionizers,′ O′Reilly said. ′My wife has one of them . . . something to do with purifying the air or something. I don′t really get it . . .′
Irving backed up to where Vogel stood in the small and pristine kitchen. The work surfaces were spotless, uncluttered with any of the usual accoutrements and utensils one would find in such a room, and when he opened one of the eye-level cabinets on the wall Irving was somehow not surprised to see every can sitting beside its neighbor, label faced forward, stacked one on top of the other by content, and then he noticed something else. Apricots, borlotti beans, cannellini beans, chicken soup, clam chowder . . . The cans were alphabetized.
A further door led through to Costello′s bedroom, and an en suite bathroom where the character of the man was further exemplified. The bathroom cabinet contained eight bars of boxed soap, all the same, stacked end to end, beside them four tubes of the same toothpaste. Behind the toothpaste, carefully arranged, were Bufferin, Chloraseptic, Dristan, Myadec Multiples, Nyquil and Sucrets, again in alphabetical order. This time there was a further detail in that each container carried a small label that had been carefully stuck to the front in such a way that all the labels were not only of the same size, but they were positioned at precisely the same height. The labels gave the expiration date of the product.
′What the hell . . .′ Vogel started, but didn′t finish. There was nothing to say.
Irving headed back to the front room, but before he started looking through the binders on the bookshelves he noticed a small alcove at the rear of the room. Here a desk had been placed in front of a window and the edge of the window frame sealed with some kind of heavy-duty white tape. The desk surface was clear, and each of the drawers was locked.
Irving turned back and lifted a journal from the shelf behind him.
Newspaper clippings. Pictures from magazines and pamphlets. Diagrams. A seemingly unrelated series of random mathematical shapes. A full page where the word simplicity had been cut from fifty or sixty different publications, different sizes, different fonts, different colors, and glued side by side from one edge of the page to the other and right to the bottom. The next page was nothing but a single word printed very carefully right in the middle, centered with unquestionable accuracy:
deadface
Irving returned the journal to its place and selected another. Here he found a similar thing - images, diagrams, symbols, apparently random shapes drawn around letters and words in the middle of newspaper cuttings, but all of it executed with the greatest precision. A third journal was full of the neatest handwriting Irving had ever seen, penmanship so accurate it could have been printed on a computer. Some passages read like diary entries, connected and rational; others were continuous variations on some subject or word:Easier said than done easier than breathing easy come easy go easy for you to say easy is as easy does easy on the eye easier than falling off a log easy like Sunday morning . . .
′What the hell is this?′ Vogel asked, looking over Irving′s shoulder.
′I think it′s someone′s mind,′ Irving replied. He closed the book and returned it to its rightful place, wondering if he hadn′t made the most serious misjudgement of his entire life.
Within fifteen minutes Irving had determined that there were in excess of three hundred and fifty journals in the room, each of them unique, each of them following its own vague sequence or subject matter. From what he could surmise they contained the thoughts and conclusions of John Costello from his late teens to the current day. The journal nearest Costello′s desk, placed within arm′s reach of his chair, was incomplete, though the last entry, dated November 11th, was very clear: There is no doubt in my mind. I think I understand the necessity to carry through with this. Six will be killed, and they will be killed in exactly the same way. It is almost unavoidable, and I do not see that Hardangle can stop it from happening. With the six, the total will come to seventeen, but it will never stop, not until it is stopped by some external force. The thing is driven. It is compulsion. It is not a matter of choice. It is not a subject for discussion or negotiation. There is simply the need to do this thing, and in doing this thing be recognized for at least something. Perhaps there are more meaningful and significant motivations, but at this stage I do not know what they are. I would be guessing, and I hate to guess.
Irving′s heart seemed to slow in his chest. He felt nauseous and disoriented.
′We got anything on where he might be?′ O′Reilly asked.
′No idea . . . he could be anywhere.′
O′Reilly indicated the rear of the apartment. ′Vogel′s going through some stuff back there, see if there′s any clue where he might have gone to. What′s the deal with this guy? Flight risk, or what?′
′I thought he might have been a victim,′ Irving replied. ′He′s been working with me on this case.′
′Working with you on the case? Jesus, the look of this place, it seems like he′s the one that should be investigated.′
′You′d think so, wouldn′t you?′ Irving replied, and he smiled tiredly, and didn′t know what to think, or how to express what he felt.
He didn′t want to consider that he′d made a mistake. He didn′t want to consider the consequences of his most recent decisions if Costello proved to be who he was now imagining he might be.
This was not the apartment of a normal person, not by any stretch of the imagination. The things he was seeing defied reason and explanation, except in some strange and fractured reality occupied by John Costello, serial-killer survivor, apparent savant, possibly unhinged and blowing in the breeze . . .
Was this man capable of these monstrous killings that had been happening? Was he that good? That smart? Had Costello broken into the Allen house with a rifle and killed six people?
What now? Where did he go from here?
Irving had no time to consider what he would do next, for someone was coming through the front door of the apartment and before he had a chance to employ standard protocol, O′Reilly was out ahead of him, gun drawn once again, and Irving reached the front hallway only to find O′Reilly had wrestled someone to the ground, was demanding a name, an explanation of their presence . . .
And Irving heard the breathless response, the awkward sound as John Costello struggled beneath O′Reilly′s weight.
′I live here,′ he gasped. ′This is my apartment . . . I live here for God′s sake . . .′
SIXTY-NINE
At three-eighteen Ray Irving was called from the interview room by Bill Farraday. Apparently Karen Langley had been in the lobby for over an hour, had told several officers to go fuck themselves when they requested her to leave. She was waiting for Irving. She would not go anywhere until Ray Irving came to speak with her. And if they ejected her forcibly she would write up such a fucking shitstorm about you assholes that you won′t know which fucking day it is, you understand me?
Whatever friendship might have been burgeoning between Ray Irving and Karen Langley seemed already to have died a swift and definitive death - more than likely within the first five minutes of her being informed of what Irving had done.
The fact that he had John Costello in an interview room, the fact that he was actually questioning Costello, with the implication - direct or not - that Costello was in some way involved in these killings, was as far from acceptable as could be imagined.
′You, Ray Irving,′ she hissed as he walked toward her, ′are an asshole of the most extra-fucking-ordinary dimensions.′ Red-faced, fists clenched, her eyes narrowed, she was all but ready to roundhouse him. Visions in her mind of Ray Irving, his face bloodied, kneeling on the floor, pleading for her to stop hitting him. ′I cannot believe . . . I just cannot fucking believe that you could be so insane, so fucking ignorant—′
Irving raised his hands, conciliatory, placatory. ′Karen. Listen to me—′
′Karen listen to me?′ she echoed. ′Who in God′s name do you think you are? You have any fucking idea what somethi
ng like this is going to do to him? God, you have done nothing but cause chaos in my fucking life ever since I met you—′
′Hey, that′s not fair . . . and could you please get the fuck out of the lobby and have a proper conversation with me?′
′A proper conversation? What the fuck are you talking about?′ she snapped. ′And did it even cross your mind for one fucking second that I might appreciate some kind of forewarning of what the hell you were going to do, eh?′
′Karen, this is a murder investigation, for God′s sake!′
Her eyes widened. ′Don′t you dare raise your voice at me, and no, I will not have a proper conversation with you. I′m giving you the same consideration that you gave me. You went and broke into his apartment . . .′ Karen Langley, her fists still clenched, stepped back a couple of yards, turned on her heels and walked toward the desk as if trying to prevent herself from physically laying Irving out. When she headed back, it was with that cool and distant look of disdain and contempt that she could so effortlessly muster when required.
′Are you going to charge him with something?′
′I′m not going to answer that question, Karen, and you know it.′
′Is he a murder suspect?′
′I′m not answering these questions.′
′You understand that I′m planning on never fucking speak to you again—′
Irving was beginning to get angry. He didn′t believe that she had the right to make him feel so small and apologetic. ′What the fuck do you think is going on here, Karen?′ He reached out, took her elbow, led her away from the middle of the lobby to the right-hand wall. ′You think I went in there guns blazing for my own health, eh? You think I wanted to do this? I went to find him because he was missing. I went to find him because I actually give a fuck about where he is and what he′s doing, you know? I actually give a damn about the guy. He helped us, did what we asked him to do, and then he vanishes. To all intents and purposes the guy has just walked off the face of the earth. So we go down there. We knock on the door and there′s no answer. Now I′m beginning to worry. Now I′m thinking that the last little paragraph in that letter, the thing about getting personal . . . I′m thinking that maybe, just maybe, it might have been directed at John, you know? That this fucking madman got it into his head that it might be a good idea to finish up where Robert Clare left off. To go over to John Costello′s apartment, and, just to prove that he′s the best of the best, he′s gonna finish up what some other sick psycho fuck left incomplete, and hammer the guy′s head to bits. You following me so far?′
Karen Langley looked right back at him, defiant and aggressive, and Irving launched right in again.
′So I don′t turn around and go home. I don′t think ′′Oh what the fuck, he′s probably out somewhere having a pizza, or maybe he′s gone dancing′′, you know? No, I don′t think that. I go for the worst-case scenario. I go the pessimistic route, and I figure that maybe I′ve let this guy get a little too close to what′s going on. Maybe I shouldn′t have let him go down to Central Park, even though he insisted, even though he pretty much made it a condition of his willingness to help us . . . maybe I shouldn′t have let this sick fuck find out that John Costello is on the case, that maybe I′ve set the poor bastard up to get killed. So I go in there. I make the decision, Karen, for John′s sake, not for my own fucking excitement. And what do I find?′
Irving turned away, faced the front door for a few moments, and when he turned back to Karen Langley there was something in his expression that unnerved her.
′I′ll tell you what we found, Karen. We found things that seem really strange to me. Even after all these years of seeing some of the weirdest shit that the world can offer, what I saw in there seemed really fucking strange. Okay, granted, there was no direct evidence and maybe I did fuck up, okay . . . Maybe I should have looked a little harder for him before I went breaking into his apartment, but I made a decision, a decision only I can be responsible for, and if he wants to level a formal complaint then there is a means and a method for him to do that. He is perfectly within his rights to file a complaint against me and drag me into court with a charge of harassment. As far as I′m concerned he can go hire Anthony fucking Grant to sue me in this and five other states. This is what this fucking job is about, Karen. This is about making a fucking decision, rightly or wrongly, and sticking by it, because most of the time there isn′t the luxury of review or consideration, and there certainly isn′t any opportunity to go back and do it right. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, but by the time you′ve got it, it′s too fucking late—′
′What did you find?′
Ray Irving stopped. He was on a roll, he had more things to say. He had more he wanted to say. For the first time since the case had started he was taking advantage of this opportunity to vent his spleen, to empty everything out. The fact that Karen Langley considered she had a right to be pissed with him didn′t matter. She was there. She had opened her mouth to complain, and that was that. She got it coming right back at her with both barrels.
′I can′t tell you what we found, Karen,′ Irving said.
′You have something that implicates him in—′
′Karen, seriously . . . you understand this as well as I do—′
′No, Ray, I don′t, and that′s the whole point here. I don′t understand. I really don′t have the faintest fucking idea what it is you are doing—′
′Karen, I have to go,′ Irving said. ′I′ve told you everything that I can right now, and to be completely frank with you, the only reason I came out here is that my captain called me to let me know that you were at the front desk telling people to go fuck themselves. You need to knock this shit off right now, and you need to let me do my job, okay?′
′So how long are you planning on keeping him?′
′Only so long as he′s willing to stay. Right now, you are the only one who seems to be upset about this thing.′
Karen sneered. ′What the fuck would you know about it? You don′t know the guy at all. You have absolutely no idea what might be going on inside his head at this moment—′
′And that′s why he′s here, Karen, because what′s going on inside John Costello′s head might actually help us understand what the fuck we are dealing with.′ Irving leaned a little closer, lowered his voice. ′I have seventeen dead. I am not playing games. This is not a time when I am particularly concerned about whether or not someone′s feelings might get hurt.′
′That′s pretty obvious, Ray—′
′And you can skip the sarcasm, Karen. You are a newspaper reporter. I am a police detective, and you′re in my precinct. We are not in your apartment, your office, or any-fucking-place else where I have to be on my best behavior.′
′Fuck you,′ Karen Langley said.
′I think you should leave now, Karen.′
′You dare hurt him, Ray, and I′m the one who′ll go hire the fucking lawyers, you understand me?′
′Do your worst, Karen . . . right now you are not helping me one bit.′
The cold and hateful expression was there in a heartbeat. It was all Karen Langley could do to restrain herself from slapping Ray Irving as hard as possible.
′You,′ she said, ′are a fucking asshole of the first order.′
′Well hell, at least I made the grade at something, eh?′
Karen Langley turned away. She walked to the door, and as she reached out to open it she glanced back at Irving.
′If you need me,′ she said, ′forget it. You can go fuck yourself as well.′
The door opened, she walked through, slammed it shut behind her.
Irving turned, saw the desk sergeant watching him.
′First date didn′t go so good then?′ he asked.
Ray Irving smiled and shook his head. ′They never do.′
SEVENTY
Vernon Gifford was outside the door of the interview room, waiting for Irving′s return. ′He says you′ve betrayed him,′ was the fir
st thing he said.
′Betrayed him?′
′That′s what he said. Says that you had no right to go into his place, and worst of all you had no right to look at his private possessions.′
′You don′t think I know this?′ Irving buried his hands in his pockets. He walked half a dozen yards down the corridor, then turned and walked back.
′You gonna keep him?′ Gifford asked.
′For what? On what basis? There′s no charge, there′s no evidence of anything—′
′Except being seriously fucking crazy. No shortage of evidence there, wouldn′t you say?′
Irving didn′t reply. He took two steps forward, opened the door, and walked in, followed by Gifford. Irving sat down, facing John Costello, Gifford took a chair against the wall.
′John—′
′Was that Karen?′
′Yes, it was.′
′She okay?′
′No,′ Irving replied. ′She told several of us to go fuck ourselves, and as far as I′m concerned she′s pretty much convinced herself that she′ll never talk to me again.′
Costello didn′t reply.
′So, John . . . we need to talk about this stuff.′
Costello looked up, eyes wide, expectant almost. ′Stuff?′ he asked, in his voice an undertone of surprised innocence.
′Your books. Your writing. The things in your apartment.′
