Glancing momentarily up, across and through the cypress trees to his right, Eamonn saw that the road doubled back on itself via a series of one hundred and eighty degree hairpin bends. Below the first hairpin, lay a deep limestone quarry without barrier protection to the road above. Unable to close the gap, Eamonn considered it a missed opportunity.
Eamonn’s mind raced. His cold and menacing glare bore into the Annatto’s cream Harrington jacketed back. He willed the Vespa to lose power and momentum.
23
A precipitous hairpin almost brought Annatto’s Vespa to a halt.
Perhaps, he’d lost a gear? Or the ancient machine had suffered a mechanical failure? Maybe, he’d run out of fuel? Strangling the last ounce of power from the Gilera four-stroke motor, Eamonn’s mind raced over a range of possibilities.
Without warning, Annatto’s Vespa coughed, and the engine died. Silence reclaimed the mountain. The scooter ground to a halt on the apex of the hairpin above the disused quarry. The elderly Italian set his feet down. The Vespa swayed like a drunk in the early hours.
‘Vaffanculo! Vaffanculo!’ roared Annatto, striking the Vespa’s headset with a gloved right hand.
Twenty yards behind, below the stranded Italian, taking the wide outside line at the unused left side of the road, Eamonn’s scooter danced over the gravel-strewn asphalt. Blue smoke rose from the Gilera’s rear tyre. Finding adhesion on clean asphalt, the Gilera launched forward and bucked like a bronco. Eamonn clung on for dear life, dragged hard on the handlebars, regained control and pointed the Gilera’s nose at the stricken Vespa and its disgruntled rider, stationary on the apex.
Annatto, oblivious to the danger, failed to notice the incoming scooter and its crazed rider bearing down upon him until it was too late.
Eamonn twisted hard on the throttle. The Gilera’s rear tyre achieved full grip. The scooter became a deadly projectile. The Gilera rushed at the Vespa. The impact hit Annatto hard. Catapulted him into the abyss beyond.
Annatto smashed against the rocks. Eamonn dismounted the Gilera and raced to the precipice. Peered over. Saw Annatto’s broken body. Noticed a bloody grey mess spilling out from Annatto’s fractured skull. The old man’s brain was strewn macabrely over the rocks. The Italian moaned. Annatto’s smashed helmet—disengaged from its owner by the velocity of the impact—bounced away down the hillside, crashed out through the gorse and landed with a hard fibrous crunch on the hot asphalt of the road below.
Above, the Vespa lay silent, its rear wheel revolving. Eamonn reached out a gloved hand and stalled the tiny ten inch wheel. He drew a deep breath and lifted the Vespa via its twisted headset to the edge of the road. Stalled. Took another long breath. Took another. Paused. Gathered strength. Savoured the scene below. Memorised Annatto’s suffering. Recorded the moment forever. Balanced the silent Vespa on the edge. Relished the moment. Looked down. Imagined the Vespa soaring through the air on its murderous flight towards its prey—Alfonso Annatto.
He tensed and with an almighty effort, he heaved the Vespa over the precipice.
The Vespa landed on Annatto with a muffled, bony crunch. Metal impacted flesh. Annatto’s ruptured skull disintegrated under the rear bubbles containing the Vespa’s heavy engine, killing him instantly.
Eamonn cranked his head back. Roared. Turned and heard the unmistakable tortured buzz of a two-stroke engine struggling up the incline far below. He shook himself from his reverie. Lobbed a silver Celtic cross pendant towards where Annatto lay. Remembering the helmet, the hand of panic gripped him. He’d have to recover Annatto’s helmet before the ascending scooter arrived where it lay.
Eamonn spun the Gilera around, twisted hard on the throttle and set off down the mountain. A minute later, he arrived at the stationary helmet. Emulating the seventy-first-minute goal scored by Niall Quinn in the Stadio La Favorita just two nights before, his right boot connected with the helmet and sent it soaring through the air into gorse scrub.
Moments later, a battered, rust-encrusted Ape three-wheeler utility pickup appeared around a bend making slow and tortuous progress up the steep incline. The Ape’s elderly itinerant occupant, oblivious to the carnage of only moments before, smiled at Eamonn. Eamonn smiled back.
Returning to the suburbs of Palermo, past the opulent villas of the wealthy middle class, blipping the throttle like a teenager, Eamonn laughed manically.
The perfect murder, he wondered?
It had to be a contender!
Part III
Brooklyn
2005
24
A haunting melody of Irish-lilted voices rattled around his head like the whine of an unloved uncle recounting a long-gone meaningless event at a family reunion. The voices implored him to violence. Demanded justice for brothers lost. His father’s voice was amongst them. It called for action. Demanded reparation. The voices berated him without mercy.
Losing the battle; he begged for release. For salvation. If only he could sleep. Sleep would calm and cage the hereditary savages clawing at his broken soul.
Would he succeed?
Bounding along the hallway, past the faded nicotine-stained image of the weeping Virgin Mary, once more, sleep had eluded him.
The taunting voices cackled victoriously.
25
Antonio Pecarro’s thirty-five-year career in the NYPD began in August 1970. Pecarro—the son of a police captain—always imagined he’d follow in his father’s footsteps. It was the natural thing to do.
In his earliest memories, his father regaled him with tales of hoods; gun battles; car chases; bloody murders; the joy of solving a case, and the close camaraderie of the precinct. His father had been a good policeman. He’d loved his job.
Pecarro knew that much.
As a boy, Pecarro would play secretly with his father’s service issue Model 10 handgun. Pecarro had discovered the gun hidden inside a shoebox on the top of a wardrobe, in his parents’ bedroom. Holding the heavy handgun in his small hands something elemental would stir inside. Was it the coolness of the metal, its fine balance, or the subtle aroma of oil and gunpowder that attracted him? Or was it the all-consuming power of handling it? Holding the gun, he’d visualise arresting mobsters after some crazy gun battle. Wearing his father’s police belt, baton, handcuffs and holster, the young Pecarro could take on the whole of New York’s criminal underworld single-handed.
The Pecarro family thrived on an unremitting televisual diet of detective series: The Defenders, Car 54 - Where Are You? And the action-packed, Fugitive. Father and son would sit on the sofa engrossed as fictional detectives solved their latest cases. From an early age, Pecarro resolved to be like those fictional detectives. To follow in his father’s footsteps. No other job came close.
Pecarro served his apprenticeship as a uniformed officer pounding the streets of Brooklyn’s tough Puerto Rican district. Those not working in cigar factories or the needle trade, turned to crime. It seemed a cultural trait. Petty larceny, street robbery and assaults gave Pecarro a constant, often violent workload. Several major gangs were conceived during the early 1970s. Without exception they were financed by the burgeoning drug trade.
By 1975, not a single week passed without a serious gang attack or murder. Turf wars started on the streets of San Juan, concluded on the tough streets of Brooklyn. Cutting his teeth amongst this vicious mix of Latin criminality, Irish and Italian gang wars, Pecarro’s career skyrocketed.
In 2002, Pecarro was promoted to detective specialist. In 2003, following marked successes against Puerto Rican drug gangs—culminating in the arrest and incarceration of five members of the infamous ‘Brooklyn Familia’—Pecarro moved up the ladder to detective investigator. It was a badge he wore with pride.
Policing was modernising. Targets and key performance indicators became the new watchwords. City Hall promoted an increasing reliance on information technology, scientific and forensic techniques. Paperwork and case administration dominated. By the summer of 2004, Pecarro had become frustrat
ed with the job. After a series of easy to solve domestic murders, Pecarro and his trusted partner of ten years Detective Michael Casey, sought a new challenge. Something with an edge. A case that was absorbing, demanding and fulfilling. Anything in fact, to take them away from mundane and growing administrative burdens demanded by the new Chief of Police.
Why, he pondered. Couldn’t they leave him alone to do his job?
That night—in the shadows of a Brooklyn alley—that new challenge was about to be delivered.
26
The rank and cabbagy aroma of methane filled the snowy alley. The authorities had suspended refuse collection because of black ice. Garbage cans overflowed. Six feet tall piles of rubbish sat uncollected. Swarming hordes of rats attacked bin bags. Leftovers were strewn everywhere. The alley to the rear of Senior’s Fruit Store and Deli had all the nasal and visual signatures of a Brazilian favela. The rapidly multiplying rodent population feasted on leftovers. Engorged, they scurried around with angry primeval anticipation.
A drunk lay on a pile of garbage beside a dead body.
An indistinct black shape scampered over his right boot. An eyelid stuttered open. ‘Piss off, scabby bastard…’ he slurred, launched a vicious kick and belched. The man pushed up, fell back. His flickering gaze spun to the open end of the alley. Streetlights spiralled in a sickly revolution. Another rat, larger than the last, ran across his shoe. Another boot launched; more accurate than before. ‘Son of a goddamn bitch…’ he cursed. His boot caught the rat and pitched it into the darkness.
Bile rose in his throat. He convulsed. Retched. Bent double. A rain of liquid vomit spewed from his mouth, landed on stone setts sparkling with ice and splashed down a trouser leg. His pocketed blade pierced the silk lining of his Crombie overcoat and found flesh. He yelped. Straightened up. Clutched his side. Bit his lip. Tasted iron blood.
His thoughts meandered to the dead body…
He’d spent the evening at Delaney’s bar sinking countless pints of velvety Irish stout with the landlord and three others. Enjoyed the company of a motley collection of Irish-spirited brethren. Drew comfort and solace in the kinship of pale-skinned, blue-eyed Celts.
In the morning, his recollection of the severity of the attack would elude him. The crime scene would yield few clues. Insatiable vermin would see to that. All that would remain—buried in the vault of semi-consciousness—would be a hazy recollection of something happening.
* * *
The two detectives looked down upon the lifeless body.
‘What do you make of that, Michael?’ said Pecarro, studying the naked frozen torso laid face down in a half-inch of snow. A translucent sprinkling of bloody snow covered the body.
‘It’s a cross…’ said Detective Michael Casey without emotion, sinking onto his haunches, blowing away a sugar coating of snow, not touching the body. He finished his sentence, ‘if I’m not mistaken a goddamned Celtic cross.’ Casey raised a hand across his brow against the glare of the low winter sun.
‘Yes,’ Pecarro said, flatly. ‘It is.’
‘Can you believe that? A goddamn Celtic cross cut deep into the poor bastard’s back?’
27
At the autopsy, Brian Thompson, Medical Doctor— Brooklyn’s clinical pathologist—summarised his initial findings into the tape. He spoke with slow deliberation. He’d had enough criticism from his bolshie secretary, Martha. So what if she struggled to type up his transcripts? He paid her well. The detectives were oblivious to his foul mood.
‘The subject is male, aged fifty to fifty-five years and five foot nine inches in height. Subject weighs 175 to 185 pounds. And is of athletic build. Skin colour suggests the subject is of Hispanic or Mediterranean ethnicity. The subject is missing large portions of the face. In particular, the soft tissue of the cheeks, nose and lips are no longer present. The evidence suggests that the soft tissue consumption occurred post-mortem. Inflicted no doubt by Rattus Norvegicus - the common rat. Formal identification of the victim will be difficult.’
Thompson paused. Balanced black-framed spectacles along an aquiline angular nose. Turned to and directed a question at Pecarro and Casey. Expression deadpan.
‘Any fingerprint or dental matches, gentlemen?’
‘No,’ said Pecarro. ‘The victim is clean. No criminal record.’
‘We’re doing checks on missing persons reported last night and this morning. With a fair wind, we’ll come up with something soon. Maybe even this afternoon,’ said Casey.
The MD continued, ‘Cause of death is stabbing. Three wounds. All made by the same weapon. The murder weapon—the knife—I estimate has a blade measuring eight inches long by two, smooth along both long edges. It is most likely a boning knife, or similar. Two stab wounds to the latissimus dorsi are present, both six inches in depth. The trajectory of these wounds is upwards. Such a trajectory would be fatal. Both lungs are punctured. Further intrusive investigation will be necessary. The third wound is a horizontal slicing wound. That particular wound measures ten inches in length; made across the subject’s trachea. The head was almost severed. The thyroid gland is visible. Dissected horizontally across its two lobes.’ The MD wiped coagulated blood on paper towels. Disposed of the towels in the clinical waste only bin.
Thompson hesitated. Appeared to be gauging the reactions of the pale-faced detectives. Continued, ‘The subject did not suffer. Death would have been instantaneous. I note secondary scarring to the subject’s back. The rough incisions are broad in outline and made in the shape of a cross dissected along its principal horizontal and vertical intersection by a crude circle. The shape is not dissimilar to a Celtic cross. These wounds are minimal in depth. They may be symbolic. What I can say with certainty is, they were made post mortem. Also gentlemen, I have, you may be interested to know, located on the subject, the blood of another person. Our victim is blood type A-positive. This ‘other’ blood is O-positive. O-positive is the most common blood type. I believe it is the killer’s. A small sample of blood was recovered from a person unknown.’ Thompson informed the two detectives, pointing at a glass phial laid on the bench beside him. ‘Those gentlemen are my initial conclusions. You’re dealing with a very dangerous and effective killer. Someone with the ability to overpower, incapacitate and kill their chosen victim within a minute. I would surmise that it is highly probable the killer suffers from some kind of psychosis.’
Thompson removed bloodied latex gloves with a snap. Threw them into the waste bin. ‘Best of luck with your investigation gentlemen. Please endeavour to catch the killer quickly. To my mind, he’ll feel compelled to kill again. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ve an overdue appointment with the canteen. It’s been a long and demanding morning, already.’
Pecarro cleared his throat. ‘Just one thing, Doc, before you go.’
‘Go on.’
‘Given the likelihood of copycat killings, I’d ask for your complete discretion about the cutting to the victim’s back. I’m referring to the cross signature.’
Brian Thompson frowned. His lips twisted with disdain. He exited the room without acknowledging Pecarro’s words.
Pecarro turned to Casey with a wry smile.
‘It’s time we got down to business.’
The challenge they craved had arrived.
28
For a man of fifty-five Pecarro prided himself on his physical appearance. He followed a regular and intensive physical fitness program incorporating weights and jogging. Most mornings, he would jog around Brooklyn’s Prospect Park. Six-foot-one inches tall, Pecarro worked hard to achieve a body fat percentage of less than twenty. Tall, swarthy-skinned with sharp features, slicked-back hair and intense brown eyes, Pecarro exuded the confidence of a much younger man.
As lead detective, Pecarro’s small team comprised Michael Casey and three others. Staffing—re-branded as Human Resources—was becoming a pain in the butt. Budget cuts meant fewer officers, reduced man-hours and unsolved crime. The bean counters at City Hall didn’t correlate t
he two issues, yet demanded more results from fewer resources. To further add to Pecarro’s woes, the area had experienced an upsurge in violent gang activity. A spate of drive-by killings in the Mapleton area had led to the temporary reassignment of twenty experienced officers from 78th Precinct to the 66th Precinct in Borough Park. Pecarro had been furious. Said as much to his superiors. It had marked him out. His stand had gotten him nowhere. The Chief demanded department section heads rein in their respective belts.
***
‘So … team,’ said Pecarro. ‘We got a murder. Male in his mid-to-late fifties of Hispanic or Mediterranean ethnicity. We’re not sure on that point. Initial computer checks of dental and fingerprint records have come up negative. Our victim is clean, with no previous. The crime scene yielded nothing in the form of formal identification. Missing persons are running checks. I’m expecting them to come back by close of business today. I’m not holding my breath. If they do come up with potential matches, I’ll assign some of you to visit the homes of suspects and obtain possessions to enable DNA comparisons.’
Pecarro paused, drew a long breath, continued, ‘A shop worker from Senior’s Fruit and Deli Store discovered the deceased in the alley behind the store at 7:30 a.m. this morning.’
As he spoke, Pecarro pinned crime scene photographs to a cork board. The gruesome and graphic images depicted the victim and crime scene in glorious ten million-pixel resolution. They showed the victim face down in the snow. ‘I’ve given you all a copy of the MD’s initial autopsy. CSI are working the case. We’ve recovered the imprint of a shoe and a sample of the killer’s blood. Seems the killer stabbed the victim, turned him over onto his front and held him down with his foot. For the record, the shoe is a smooth-soled US size nine. I want you to take a moment to familiarise yourselves with the MD’s report. After you’ve finished reading, we’ll discuss next steps.’
The Celtic Cross Killer Page 5
