by John Cutter
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, grimacing. “What happened?”
“Well, when I was a young cop there were two guys—old timers, as we called them, or hairbags. That was a nickname we had for guys with time on the job who wouldn’t leave. They used to talk before roll call; and when they talked everyone would listen, you know, out of respect. You just shut up. One of them had been at Guadalcanal, and the other was at Iwo Jima, and they used to argue over which of them was tougher. It was kind of like being in a history lesson—they’d argue about their beach landings, their combat tours, everything. But they were good to each other, and both very typical of that era, with wives they’d been married to for a long time. They’d all go on vacation together down the Jersey Shore way, before Snooki and that bunch turned it into a sideshow.
“Anyhow, one day I’m talking to another young guy, and sort of complaining about how my life was going, you know, in a general way, and brought up how my wife had been acting. I was even joking about it, talking about this country song by Ronnie Milsap, There’s A Stranger In My House. So the old-timers were sitting in the back of the stationhouse, and I didn’t even realize it, but they’d stopped talking and were just listening to me. They’d never spoken to me before—I was too new for that—but all of a sudden one of them says to me, Hey, kid. I overheard your conversation—did your wife, by any chance, recently go shopping and buy a bunch of new bras and underwear? I was real surprised and I go, As a matter of fact, she did. And he asks, Like, all of it? And he was right there, too—she’d pretty much replaced everything. Go home, he says. Your wife’s cheating on you. And I was totally floored, because I knew the old fuck was right.”
“So what’d you do?”
“Well, so I start questioning her, and her answers weren’t adding up. When a person lies to someone close to them, especially if they’re cheating, their plans get very contrived. The amount of detail they give you goes way beyond a normal conversation. It’s similar to an interview with a suspect; they’re trying to give you so much detail, you won’t check it out. But the devil’s in the details, as they say. When something really happens to someone, they remember it that way forever. When they make it up, it changes every time they tell it.
“So one day she tells me she has to go to JFK to pick someone up for her boss from a Wings West commuter flight, Boston to New York. Unfortunately for her, I was a cop, and I knew the story sounded like shit. At the time, JFK didn’t have any commuter flights; those were all out of LaGuardia. So I got a little crazy.”
Claudia looked sideways at him. “What do you mean, crazy?” she asked.
He laughed. “I just mean, I went a little overboard on surveillance. I got a copy of our phone bill—back then they printed out all your calls—and I noticed that whenever I was working, which was a lot, she would spend hours on the phone with one number in particular.”
“So did you bring it up?”
“Well, not yet; I kept my mouth shut. Then one night she was going out to see a band play, and I was supposed to be working but surprised her by taking the day off. So we go to this place, and—well, when you’ve been a cop for a while, you get these instincts. This band isn’t my kind of thing, and it certainly isn’t hers, but there’s this guy in the band, and the way they look at each other, I knew right away it was him. So on the way home, we’re both drunk, and I pull over and tell her I have someone else. She tells me she does too—I’m so sorry this happened, she says. Then I tell her I really don’t have anybody, and that I never wanted anyone but her, and she knew she was caught.”
“God, that sounds awful. What’d you do?”
“What could I do? I said all the usual stuff, called her a lying fuck, et cetera. I wanted to punch her in the head, but I couldn’t. She asked if we could start over; I was so stupid, I thought she meant it. I agreed to work on things, but I couldn’t get past this guy from the band. So a few days later, thinking things are worth another try, I decide to bring her flowers at her office—she was an assistant principal—and I walk in the office and who do I see sitting outside her office typing, but the guy from the goddamn band.”
“No way.”
“Yeah. He was her assistant. It all clicked. I told him that I needed to talk to him, and she went totally crazy. She was crying all over the place, not because she felt bad, but because she was afraid I’d hurt this asshole.”
“And did you?”
“No, no. I took him for a ride and told him I should put a gun to his head. That was it.”
“That’s good. What happened with her afterward?”
“Oh, we stayed married, even renewed our vows. It was a waste of time. It wasn’t long before I caught her again. This time the rug burns on her back gave it away.”
Claudia couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m sorry, I just—she sounds terrible.”
“Oh, she was—and this time she really showed it,” he smiled. “She didn’t want to look bad in front of her parents—it was already her second marriage, so she was determined not to have it be her fault if it ended. So she tried to make me out to be some sort of nut.”
“Really? How?”
“She started moving things around, even changed where I kept my socks. I even thought I was going out of my mind, just like she wanted everyone else to think. So I was suspicious again, and got a friend of mine who was a private investigator to hook up my home phone to a recorder. I thought I’d catch her that way, but this time she was ahead of me, and I never found any conversations with the new guy. Those were bad days—I couldn’t help being suspicious of her, and I thought I was losing it. I finally caught her when our kids recognized the guy at a baseball game. She’d been calling the guy Stephanie around the kids, so they wouldn’t blow it with me that she was spending time with a guy; and one day we’re at a ballgame and the kids recognized him and start pointing him out, saying Look, Mom, it’s your friend Stephanie.”
“Oh my God,” Claudia laughed again. “I almost feel bad for her, that’s so ridiculous.”
“Oh, believe me, I was never so relieved in all my life. I missed putting the kids to bed, but it was for the best.”
“I’m sure. And what about them?”
“My kids? They turned out to be really good people, both of them. My son went to Princeton—hell of a ballplayer, too. He got a tryout with the Phillies a while back. My daughter took the breakup hard, but she came through okay, too. She actually followed in my footsteps, and is a detective up in Hartford. She’s great—I talk to her pretty much every day, just to tell her to have a safe tour and all that. I’m proud of both of them, really proud.”
“That’s great.” Claudia touched his arm. “And besides your son—the one you lost—you have a daughter with your wife now?”
“Yeah, Nadia. She’s sixteen. She’s doing well—as well as sixteen-year-olds do, anyway. She does well in school. I feel bad about being away as often as I am, with the job and all, but I think she’s used to it. And ever since Billy—I just—”
He faltered, looking uncomfortably at the bar. His son’s name had run through him like ice water. Claudia leaned in closer.
“It’s all right,” she said simply. “We don’t have to talk about it right now, if you don’t want to.”
“I just don’t want to scare you off with it,” he said abruptly. He held her hand in his, suddenly unable to look her in the eye. “I do want to talk to you about it, Claudia—about everything. And everyone has a bad side, I know that. I don’t know, I guess I just want you to know a little about that side of me now, before we—before you get in too deep.”
At a mention of his name, Morrison turned. A host was standing behind him with menus, ready to bring them to their table. He turned back around to find Claudia smiling deeply at him.
“You’re a little too late there, darling,” she said. “I’m already in the deep end of this pool.” She finished her drink and squeezed his hand. “Now come on, let’s eat.”
18
Three
days after surveillance had begun in Boston, Morrison, Rivera, and Medveded sat looking over a group of photos taken of their two prime suspects. So far the team had a number of photos of Adam Rutherford and Brian Anderson, both separately and together—running from the college to Fenway Park, working out in the campus gym—and the dynamic between the two men was clear. Rutherford came across as the obvious alpha of the two: he was taller, better looking, and possessed of a false bravado that seemed to play off of his friend’s lack of confidence. The shorter, slighter Anderson carried himself with a much more cautious air.
“Looks like we have a leader and a follower here, huh?” Morrison said. “Definitely,” Rivera agreed. “Rutherford’s taller by a few inches, better looking—smarter, too. He wasn’t bullshitting on his Facebook page about Harvard—he was offered a scholarship there, but turned it down. Anderson seems to have gotten into BC through connections.”
“Ought to be useful when we get to talk to these two,” Morrison said, looking over at Medveded. “Are we any closer to pinning them down?”
“Well, it’s still hard to get a match between these photos and our crime-scene videos,” Medveded admitted, “but we’re close. And we’re almost a hundred percent on Rutherford’s car being near that one scene.”
“How’s DNA recovery going?”
“Not great. Any potentials we’ve had so far were contaminated by others before the team could recover them.”
“We’ll keep trying. Are they hard to track?”
“Not particularly,” Medveded said. “They seem to be hanging around campus pretty exclusively—the car hasn’t moved since our team spotted it, and these guys don’t seem to be big on public transportation.”
“What about your connection through Louise Donohue, Cap?” Rivera asked. “Did you find out anything from the Boston PD?”
“I found out that they haven’t had anything close to our cases,” Morrison said. “And that goes for both homicides and sex crimes. I put McNamara in touch with them, though; we should see what he says. We ought to ask him about the DNA samples, too—we have a lot of good DNA from our crime scenes, and we ought to go for the DNA match if we can get it.”
“I’ll get him on a conference call now,” Rivera said, reaching for the phone.
McNamara picked up on the first ring. “I was actually just going to call you guys,” he said. “We have some good news here.”
“Let’s hear it,” said Morrison.
“Through campus security, we were able to get a couple of our team in to work out alongside our suspects in the gym,” he said. “A bit tough for the older guys, but we were able to keep a real close eye on our two boys.”
“That’s great,” Morrison said. “Were you able to pick up any DNA samples there?”
“Yeah, we were. We got a couple of swabs off the elliptical machines after they used them. Also, the geniuses both had water bottles with them, and they threw them out right in front of Hanrahan. Hopefully we’ll be able to take some good DNA off them, possibly prints as well.”
“Excellent. We still need more, to make sure we can rule out contamination, but that’s a good start. Do you need any extra bodies to help you out?”
“Maybe. Hanrahan’s on his way to New York with those samples for vouchering and processing, and we could always use a few spare eyes if you’ve got ’em. We’ve all been running sixteen to eighteen hours a day, with one guy staying on the car after we put these guys to bed, so I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt.”
“Okay, we’ll send you two more,” Morrison said, gesturing at Rivera to make a note of it. “How about those Boston PD guys I put you in touch with—have you spoken with them?”
“Yeah, I have; they’ve been very helpful. These guys have been going to a Mexican restaurant near their dorm every night since we started, and the Boston PD know the place—they set us up with the manager, and hopefully we’ll be able to get some additional samples off of them the next time they’re in.”
“All right, McNamara, keep it up and stay safe. We’ll send you those other guys ASAP. Don’t go talking about the Yankees or anything in the meantime.”
“Oh yeah, we found that out real quick,” McNamara laughed. “Good way to get a whole bar to turn on you in a hurry. Take it easy, fellas.”
Seconds after they hung up, the phone rang again. Rivera picked up and listened a few moments, a look of concern furrowing his brow.
“Okay, where?” he asked, giving Morrison a familiar look as he took notes. Fuck, Morrison thought. We’ve got another one.
Rivera hung up with a deep breath, and Morrison knew his fears were realized. “Looks like we’ve got one at a brownstone in Gramercy—Twenty-First and Park,” he said.
“Goddammit,” said Medveded quietly.
“What the fuck!” Morrison exploded, furious. “Our guys have been on these two in Boston for three days!”
“Well, let’s go check it out,” Rivera said. He grabbed his coat. “They backed right out, so we don’t have much detail yet.”
“All right, yeah,” Morrison said. “No sense jumping to conclusions, right? I’ll call McNamara back on the way.”
When they arrived at the scene—a nice brownstone typical of the quiet, moneyed neighborhood of Gramercy Park—Crime Scene was still arriving, so they had to wait a while before entering. But when they did, Captain Morrison immediately found his suspicions confirmed—but in a disturbingly uneven way.
The scene inside was eerily similar to that of the first three. The similarities were stark: even the same types of rope and tape were used as previously. Yet, though the victim had not been tortured as keenly this time—there were no bite marks on her body—her murder appeared to have been more violent. The other three had had their faces left untouched, but not this one: her model-beautiful face was distorted in places by livid bruises. Her nails were all broken, as though she’d had a chance to put up a real fight against her attacker before he’d gotten her tied up—another difference. Also, with her long, black hair, she didn’t quite fit the blonde or dyed-blonde profile of the previous victims.
“You think we might have a copycat killer here?” Morrison asked Rivera, after he’d instructed Crime Scene to bag the victim’s hands for DNA collection.
“Could be, Cap. Hard to say, though. Would that be better, or worse?”
“I don’t know,” Morrison said. “Either way, it’s bad—and it’s my ass on the hot seat. Check with McNamara—let’s see what he says about our Boston guys. I want to confirm they were there all night.”
“I just hung up with him. He says to give him twenty minutes.”
“Okay,” said Morrison, running his hand through his hair in frustration. “How many people do we have working right now?”
“Besides the ones in Boston, we’re only missing two—Galipoli and Koreski.”
“Okay, get everyone we can on this, now. We need to know everything about this victim, ASAP. I don’t like the way this looks, Frankie,” he added. “I don’t think this is our guys.”
“You think we got another set of psychos running around now?” Rivera asked.
“I don’t know. But I do know the press is going to have a field day with this one, and the PC’s going to have to make a statement, so we’d better have something for him. Arndt’s going to be looking for any way he can to throw us under the bus.” He grabbed Medveded to join them. “And listen,” he told them quietly, “I need you guys to say nothing about a possible copycat, understand? That thought stays with the three of us. This includes the rest of the task force. Got it?”
Medveded and Rivera nodded.
“Christ, do you think we should have picked up the guys in Boston sooner?” Medveded asked.
“No, we had no cause,” Morrison sighed. “We would have just tipped our hand before having to let them out again.”
Before they left the building to brave the media circus already gathering outside, Morrison dialed McNamara again.
“Hey, Pat,” he said
, “can you tell me if there’s any way these guys went for a ride last night?”
McNamara sounded stressed. “Well, we didn’t see the one car move, but we still haven’t found the other car—the one registered to Anderson.”
“Tell me we sat on their dorm all night,” Morrison pressed him.
“We did, but there are multiple ways in and out. Their pattern seemed to have them leaving through the same door every day, but it’s possible we could have missed them. Does it look like we have the same stuff at this new scene?”
“Sort of,” Morrison said, “but it doesn’t feel right. There are no bite marks or lips taken, and the victim’s been beaten real badly. It just has a different feel. You got the DNA from those two in, right?”
“Yeah, O’Dell called a little while ago—it’s all in.”
“Okay; let’s see what we have, then. I need those lab results yesterday. And let me know if you see either of those guys this morning—it’s important, for all of our sakes, that we didn’t lose them in Boston last night.”
“Yessir.” McNamara cleared his throat. “Cap, if there’s any trouble—I just want you to know I take full responsibility for this. I don’t think we missed them, but if we did, I know it’s me who should go down for it.”
“Well, I appreciate it,” Morrison said, “but let’s not go jumping on our swords just yet. Just give me the information on those guys’ whereabouts as soon as you have it—our asses may well depend on it.”
19
On his way back to the stationhouse, Morrison called a meeting with his task force. But before he could enter the squad room, he was met by a very flushed and visibly worked-up Chief of Detectives Arndt.
“Captain, I want you in your office, now,” he commanded, and stormed back inside.
Morrison followed him in, gritting his teeth in frustration. It was exactly what he had been hoping to avoid—at a time like this, Arndt wouldn’t be here for answers, but for the opportunity to take Morrison down a notch that he’d been awaiting for so long. And though Morrison would usually give as he got with the Chief, without the information he needed, he knew he didn’t have a leg to stand on. He took utter responsibility for his command, and if his team in Boston had let two serial killers slip past them, he had this last girl’s blood on their hands. My days as head of this task force may be numbered, he thought grimly as he closed the door.
