The Russian - SETTING

by Patterson, James

  The article noted that while the murders weren’t officially linked, the cops suspected it had been the same killer. Now they were both cold cases.

  There’s that unsolved murder rate again, I thought.

  A little while later, Hollis looked up from a search of the Southeast region and said, “There could be something in Atlanta too. Looks like about eight months ago there was a series of murders there—two in apartment buildings, one in an office, and two more in nearby suburbs. All the crime scenes were noted as being especially bloody. Then the killings stopped. Nothing since.”

  Hollis picked up his sheaf of printouts. I could tell he was working up to a big reveal.

  “I read the FBI’s report on serial murder. It says the concept of the traveling serial killer is a myth.”

  “Is that so?” I said. I never would have consulted a report from the FBI. Not that I needed to tell Hollis that.

  Hollis continued. “But there are a few notable exceptions. Such as individuals whose work involves interstate travel.” He proceeded to quote from the report. “‘The nature of their traveling lifestyle provides them with many zones of comfort in which to operate.’”

  “I’m listening,” I said.

  “Ted Bundy is the obvious American example,” Hollis said. “He started in the Pacific Northwest and ended up in Florida. In Russia, a killer called the Red Ripper—named Chiclet or something like that—evaded the Russian cops for more than a decade because he traveled for his job. Killed, like, fifty people.”

  I thought about it. Hollis raised an interesting idea. “So you’re saying we may have one of them?”

  I picked up the phone.

  Hollis said, “Who’re you calling?”

  “The FBI.”

  Chapter 17

  Daniel Ott sat in a trucking office in Queens. This was his new assignment. He could not have been in higher spirits. It was a common state after completing one of his rituals. He was confident he wasn’t on any police agency’s radar. The fact that he never got too cocky kept him grounded in reality. Taunting the police by mixing a trail of fresh blood with cold-case evidence had become an increasingly important part of his urge.

  Police officers weren’t stupid. They had resources. But Ott had nothing to fear here in New York City, where the police were shackled by a mountain of rules when dealing with citizens.

  He still reveled in the last waves of pleasure over what he’d done to Elaine, the intern. He’d never forget the look on her face when the screwdriver annihilated her nervous system. It had been as satisfying as anything he’d ever experienced. Maybe the births of his daughters had felt slightly better. But it was close.

  He chuckled when he thought about the blood he’d sprinkled across the bobbleheads at Elaine’s apartment. If the police believed there was more than one victim, but only one body present at the scene, they would be running in circles. At least for a while.

  Ott wished he was home. He was usually more clearheaded and more focused on his family after he found a release for his fantasies. For now, he’d have to focus on work.

  The new assignment looked interesting. The trucking company used radios as well as cell phones, and he would integrate them with one computer system. It was exactly the kind of issue Computelex’s software was designed to handle. So far, management was no-nonsense. He’d worked a lot of places, and this company actually did something. It shipped goods locally and throughout the Northeast. Got results. Not like the insurance companies or medical billing agencies that provided soft services. Electronic paperwork. It seemed like this would be an easy two-week assignment.

  The software finished loading, and Ott took out a sticker. Computelex required him to slap the company logo onto any computer he worked on. The two-and-a-half-inch circle showed the company name in blue beneath a smiling, anthropomorphic computer screen with two arms, one holding a telephone, the other a radio.

  Ott’s phone rang. It must be noon. When he looked at the phone, he saw the daily call from home was indeed right on time, as usual. He answered it with a cheerful, “Hello!”

  “Hello, Papa!” His little girls’ voices in unison sounded like music.

  “How are my dumplings today?”

  “Good,” his older daughter, Lilly, said. The three-year-old, Tatyana, was probably nodding. The girls told him about a game they had made up. Every time they missed a spelling word, they had to run out the front door and completely around the house. Getting exercise while learning simple words made a good game. He approved.

  Then Lilly said, “Mama is making me work on math for an extra hour today. I don’t like math. I don’t think Mama explains it very well.”

  Ott had talked to his older daughter about her homeschool classes before. In as even a tone as he could keep, Ott said, “Listen to me. Math is important in life. You’re going to learn it no matter what kind of teacher your mother is. If you can’t do your times tables and division by the time I get home, you’ll be sorry to see me. You understand?”

  Lilly said, “Yes, Papa.”

  Good. She was learning respect.

  Chapter 18

  Ott was still in a good mood after talking to his daughters when the manager of the trucking company introduced him to some of the employees, mostly large, unfriendly men and a few women.

  One of the women caught his attention when she reprimanded two younger employees about time sheets. He wasn’t looking for a victim at the moment. It was too soon after Elaine. But this woman was attractive and a little older than him, maybe thirty-eight or forty. Her reddish hair and pretty face reminded him of his first victim. He smiled at the memory.

  It was not long after he had moved to Omaha. Even then, he already had started to evolve, using a few tricks of stealth and surveillance, evading detection, even planting an electronic bug or two over the years. Although he didn’t like to admit how much he remained in their debt, he had his earliest employer to thank for those skills and the lessons they had taught him, many of which he still used.

  Sometimes he thought about the people he used to work with. They were one of the reasons he’d moved to Omaha. In the Midwest, he was less likely to run into any of them.

  All he really wanted to do was forget about that experience. He’d rather remember his first murder.

  He could recall every detail. It had been a Wednesday afternoon, and he’d been looking for an office in a large building. He had his tools and software to install. He’d inadvertently walked into the wrong office—it turned out to be some kind of staffing group that handled the admin for several companies—and a redheaded woman standing at the front desk had berated him. “You’re in the wrong office. They’re on the fifth floor. What kind of an idiot computer guy are you?”

  She clearly had more to say. But he never heard it. His hand had slipped into his tool pouch and found the handle of his box cutter. Just as the woman screwed up her face to let out another burst of insults, he’d pulled out the box cutter and swiped it across her exposed throat.

  It was a natural movement and he performed it quickly. She didn’t even seem to realize exactly what had happened, just that she suddenly couldn’t get any air. She quickly raised both of her hands to clasp her throat. Then she staggered back, bumped into her desk, and tumbled onto the carpeted floor.

  She made a few gurgling sounds and looked like a fish that had been pulled from the water. Ott stared at her throughout the whole event, still not quite realizing what he had done. That’s when he felt it. The first wave of excitement and joy. The first urge. It washed over him completely as he stared at the woman on the floor with a huge dark puddle of blood spreading across the carpet.

  He didn’t understand at the time. It had been an impulse, completely beyond his control. He went about his day and, aside from a few news reports, never heard a word about it. Another cold case that would never be linked to him.

  Fortunately, his work assignments kept him moving. He had never killed anyone in the Midwest again.
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  The only thing he knew for sure was that he would continue doing this forever.

  Chapter 19

  I met Emily Parker for lunch at a place called Empanada Mama on Ninth Avenue just south of 52nd Street. It was the kind of place Mary Catherine would like, if we could ever take the time for a night out in Hell’s Kitchen. Boldly colorful art adorned the brick walls and fans rotated along the ceiling.

  Emily sat by herself in a booth near the rear of the restaurant. She wore a bright blue skirt and matching blouse. Looking at her, I could see Emily still had a sparkle in her eyes. Working for the FBI hadn’t worn her down at all. Her purse, as always, sat on the bench next to her right hand. That way her gun was never far from her reach. It was good tactical sense, which I appreciated.

  Emily really was the total package: smart, funny, and pretty. A deadly combination. And her easy smile was infectious. I was well aware of how close we once came to being a couple. I’m not a robot. I’d had romantic feelings for her. If it wasn’t for Mary Catherine, maybe I’d still have those feelings. But this meeting was strictly business.

  As for Emily’s professionalism, she was tops at the Bureau. I always got the impression she was a shark swimming with minnows. And like every shark in the ocean, she was relentless, going all night, night after night, if that’s what it took to break the case.

  She smiled as I approached and said, “It’s funny how the NYPD has no use for the FBI, until they need us.”

  “Hey, I’m trying to include you. If you’re uncomfortable with the arrangement, I can find another way to get the information I need.”

  Emily held up her hands as I took a seat opposite her. She wore a delicate gold ring with a small emerald stone nestled in the heart-shaped center. “Wow, you’re getting sensitive in your old age,” she said.

  “And you’re getting sentimental,” I shot back. “Still wearing your childhood ring.” Then I softened, adding, “I know it means a lot to you.”

  She nodded her thanks, then leapt back into the fray. “I’m just busting your balls after the way you treated my ASAC at the meeting the other day. I should tell you he’s got someone in the mayor’s office listening to him.”

  “We didn’t treat him badly. We just shot down his idea. There’s a difference, whether Robert Lincoln can see it or not. And the truth is, no one in the mayor’s office really listens. He might be telling them things, but they won’t do anything about it unless it helps them.”

  “Cynical.”

  “Only about government bureaucracy. You have no idea what goes on with the New York mayor’s office. It doesn’t matter who’s the mayor.” I sighed, then leaned forward. “Look, we have some theories about our killer. You might be able to help us.”

  “Me personally? Or the FBI as an agency?”

  “I was hoping to deal with you personally. At least until we figure a few things out. That a problem?”

  Emily smiled, and I knew she was about to lay some kind of trap.

  She said, “Let me make sure I understand. You want the benefits of FBI resources without actually dealing with the FBI?”

  “I wouldn’t say it quite like that.”

  “How would you say it?”

  “I’d like to ask you, as my friend, to use FBI resources to help me. Because I’m your friend.” I was pleased to see that my rogue diplomacy made her laugh.

  When she regained her composure, Emily said, “So what can I do to help the great Michael Bennett? According to the newspapers over the years, you already have all the answers.”

  “If I had all the answers, I probably wouldn’t still be a cop.”

  “Yeah, yeah. So what’s your theory? I’ll help you if I can.”

  I told her how Hollis and I had found what we thought could be similar cases in San Francisco and Atlanta. Then I said, “It’d be nice to know if the FBI was involved in those cases. It’d be great to have those reports. And most importantly, what do you think of Hollis’s theory that this could be the same killer, that he travels around?”

  The FBI agent took a few moments to consider everything I’d said. “Let me run it past someone I know at Quantico. The behavioral science people are in a better position to talk about theories like that. I’ll keep it quiet. Nothing official.”

  I said, “What about the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program or the Radford Serial Killer Database?”

  “Databases are only as good as the information entered,” she warned. “ViCAP has been around since the 1980s. People relied on ViCAP for a long time until they realized its limitations. Also, whatever I run through the databases will track back to me. If anyone starts asking questions, an electronic trail might make it official.”

  “If it helps us stop this killer, I could live with that.”

  Chapter 20

  By midafternoon, Daniel Ott decided it was time to take steps toward making life more interesting. For everyone.

  He wasn’t an hourly employee, so he was free to slip out of the office early. Besides, as usual, no one noticed him leave. He headed back into Manhattan. He’d been working hard on his plan. He needed to use a computer that couldn’t be traced back to him. Which was why he ended up at the main branch of the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue.

  He even took a few extra minutes to explore the iconic building before getting down to business. The woodwork on the walls and high ceilings gave it such a solemn and scholarly feel that the idea of coming here to use a public computer seemed tacky. At the same time, however, he resented the amount of money spent on a building like this. Not just the marble walls and wood carved in dramatic shapes on the ceilings and shelving and tables but also the cost of maintaining it. The money could feed half the Midwest, he assumed. He hated the obvious opulence serving pretentious New Yorkers’ egos.

  He pushed those thoughts out of his mind for the moment. It was time to ratchet up the stress on the cops investigating his killings. This was a wrinkle he had been considering for a long while.

  He’d begun leaving messages behind, starting with the third woman he had ever killed. He liked numbers and wanted the police to know he was counting his kills. Since then, almost ten years ago, he’d found he couldn’t stop. In fact, he often fought the urge to make the markers he left more and more obvious.

  Ott didn’t know if anyone had ever figured out any of his taunts—mixing the blood of past and present victims, stabbing them in the eye. He liked the control of puncturing the eye, the splash of the aqueous and vitreous fluids as they released from the anterior and posterior chambers. He liked the definitive proof of that final stab wound—the proof that his was the last face they’d ever see. He still hadn’t noticed any mention in the media. Which was why he needed to take this extra step. Get his message heard.

  He’d already prepared everything he needed. Technically, patrons were supposed to use library cards to access the computers, but Ott had noticed that if he came there in the afternoon, he could get on to a library computer without anyone caring.

  He stepped into the dark paneled room and glanced around quickly. There was one librarian presiding over a computer table with five open machines. He slipped into the seat farthest away from the librarian and immediately created a new Gmail account in the name of Bobby Fisher. He’d used the name Boris Spassky once before and liked the symmetry of his choices.

  It took him only a moment to find the email address he needed and another thirty seconds to upload the document from a thumb drive. If the police were too dim to notice his messages, he’d alert the media. Soon everyone would be paying attention to him, the most dangerous killer ever to hit New York. And the only one with a lesson plan.

  While he was online, he couldn’t help but look up a few articles and video clips featuring pundits speculating about who was behind the recent murders in New York. Ott smiled, knowing that as soon as his message was received, there was going to be a lot more of them.

  He loved seeing the so-called experts talk about what the
killer might do next. It was like everything else in life: no one knew anything, but they still had to talk. And people were willing to listen. The story was always the same.

  Ott clicked on one article from the New York Post. It named a Michael Bennett as one of the detectives looking into the crimes. According to the Post, Bennett was “New York’s top cop,” and having him on the case was great news for the city. Ott smiled again. Top cop or not, this Michael Bennett was no threat to him.

  More people started to file into the computer room, and Ott decided it was a good time to leave. He closed out the links he had opened on the computer, cleared his search history, and, out of habit, ran an antistatic cloth he kept in his work pouch over the keyboard. In the unlikely circumstance that someone figured out he’d used this terminal to send his message, the wipe down would be enough to eliminate his fingerprints.

  As he slipped past a bookshelf, Ott found his way blocked by a pretty young woman carrying a stack of journals in her arms. She had very dark skin and long, straight black hair. She looked exotic and very un-midwestern to him.

  He nodded to her just to be polite.

  She smiled, revealing perfect dimples, and said, “Next time it would be better if you signed in to use the computer. It doesn’t only reserve the computer; it also helps show the city how many people are using the library.”

  Ott was dazzled by her smile, but his anger rose quickly. How dare she confront him over a minor break in the rules.

  He nodded as he slipped past her.

  Then he froze.

  He realized in an instant that not only had this young woman disrespected him; she also had specifically noticed him. She could remember his face. She was a loose end he would not tolerate.