The Celtic Cross Killer

by Keiron Cosgrave

  ‘That’s tragic.’

  ‘It is. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re safe. You have my word.’

  Sophia frowned.

  ‘I want you to see Casey’s face when I present him with the evidence. If he’s concealing something, then we’ll know straight away. I’ll make a citizens arrest and we’ll take it from there. Mrs Ricci, I believe we’ve got Franco’s killer firmly in our sights.’

  94

  The tiny room inside the inconspicuous motel at the junction of 3rd Avenue and Union Street in Brooklyn’s Boerum Hill district would, for the short time Pecarro needed it, suffice. At least it was clean, cheap and quiet. It was the perfect retreat in which to complete his plans.

  Pecarro knew one fact - he desperately needed to get some sleep. A relentless iron bar brayed inside his skull. He had the hangover from hell.

  Pecarro had lied to Celine. Explained that he’d be out of town on business for a week or two. Pecarro hated lying. Yet lying to Celine no longer seemed to matter anymore; the chasm in their marriage was as wide as the San Antonio fault.

  Pecarro woke with a start. His eyelids flickered open. Half a minute passed before he recollected where he was. He yawned, stretched and collected his wristwatch and cell phone from the bedside cabinet. It was 8:30 p.m. and he had slept for fifteen hours solid.

  Pecarro first thought was to phone his golf buddy and stalwart of the NYPD records office, George Thomas. Thomas was a notorious workaholic.

  The call connected after four rings.

  ‘You’re through to the records department. George Thomas speaking. How may I help?’

  ‘George, it’s Antonio Pecarro. Don’t you ever go home?’

  ‘Sometimes… What can I do you for, Tony? You keeping busy?’ enquired Thomas, in an East Side accent.

  ‘I’m not as busy as I would have liked, but its early days. Thing is George, the case I’m working…’

  ‘You need my help?’

  ‘A perfect hole in one there, George, well done,’ said Pecarro. ‘There’ll be a good drink in it for you.’

  ‘This is music to my ears. Fire away, Pecarro. I’m at my computer now. Shoot.’

  ‘I’ve two names for you. The first one relates to a personal matter. Can you give me the address of a Sean Casey? He’s the brother of Detective Michael Casey. I need to contact him to invite him to a surprise party I’m organising for Casey’s twenty-five years service. Michael introduced me to Sean a few years ago. I’ve absolutely no idea where he lives. Celine’s got the bit between her teeth. She’s organising a get-together. She hopes to send out the invitations tomorrow. Yours is—as they say—in the post. I’d appreciate it if you could keep it under your hat.’

  ‘Your secret is safe with me,’ said Thomas, stabbing an index finger into a nostril.

  ‘The second name I have is Rodriguez Gyan. I’ve a client with an axe to grind. He wants to see him behind bars,’ said Pecarro, bending the truth, feigning interest in a known felon.

  ‘’Bout time someone brought that asshole Gyan down, either you or the NYPD, it matters little in my book,’ said Thomas, above the rattle of computer keys. The rattle ceased.

  ‘You got a pen to hand?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Okay. Sean Casey’s address is Apartment 12A, Manson Block, 594, 49th Street. And Gyan…’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Gyan lives at 1422 Borough Park East. Do you want me to repeat them?’

  ‘No.’ Pecarro decided to push his luck. ‘While you’re on…’

  Thomas sighed. ‘Here we go…’

  ‘Do you still have access to the Interpol database?’

  ‘Course I do.’

  ‘Excellent. This isn’t something I expect you’ll be able to sort out straight off the bat. An answer in the morning will be fine,’ said Pecarro.

  ‘Comedian.’

  ‘I know … sorry. The thing is George, if I text through four surnames can you perform a worldwide search of all suspicious deaths over the last twenty-five years, for persons connected with those same surnames?’

  ‘If it’s names on a database, it won’t be a problem. Go ahead, text the names through. I’ll get onto it first thing tomorrow morning. With a fair wind, you’ll have your response by lunchtime. I’ll text the results through.’

  ‘You’re a diamond, George,’ said Pecarro, delighted by Thomas’s enthusiasm. ‘I don’t need to say this, but…’

  ‘But you’re going to anyway.’

  ‘Keep this confidential. Especially, Casey’s surprise party. You can deal with Celine if he finds out prematurely,’ said Pecarro.

  ‘Received and understood. Don’t think I won’t be holding you to those drinks,’ said Thomas.

  ‘Thanks, George, I won’t forget.’

  Pecarro reached for his cell. Typed:

  Parrini, Luppi, Costa and Annatto, yours Antonio x

  95

  Pecarro settled into the driver’s seat of the metallic gold Lexus rental, set the key in the ignition and sat back. He scanned the street ahead. Considered the evidence against Michael Casey’s younger brother, Sean.

  He’d already established Sean Casey led an active lifestyle. His toned physique evidenced it. He had followed Sean’s movements for the past three days and had developed a good understanding of his daily routine.

  Most days, Sean and a female companion would leave their apartment block at 6:00 a.m. They would head over to the park opposite and perform a vigorous warm-up regime. Once warmed up, they’d take a hour-long jog. Today, the couple’s routine had changed. They’d jogged to the municipal swimming pool, swam for an hour and returned home half an hour later than usual. Sean left for work at 8:00 a.m. and returned home between 5:30 p.m. and 6:00 p.m. By 6:30 p.m., Sean and his female partner would take another hour-long jog.

  From the driver’s seat of the rental car, Pecarro’s mind wandered. He found it difficult to comprehend that here he was on a stakeout following his former partner’s brother, now a suspected killer. You're losing it! Despite his doubts, Pecarro elected to maintain a vigil outside Sean Casey’s apartment block. ‘One day Michael, I’ll share this with you. We’ll laugh about it…’ Pecarro muttered to his tired and drawn reflection in the rear-view mirror.

  Pecarro’s cell rang loud in the cabin, startling him. He stabbed the green call accept button, said, ‘Antonio Pecarro.’

  ‘Mr Pecarro, it’s Marilyn Wilson from the library.’

  ‘Hello, Marilyn. You startled me. I wasn’t expecting a call so soon. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’ve just taken a call from my niece, Caroline. She was phoning to let me know that she’s just emailed to you a copy of the genealogical report on the O’Sheas. The tour company curtailed her vacation because of an outbreak of gastroenteritis. They’ve closed the hotel as a precaution. The good news is, so far, she’s in good health.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. I’ll check my email. I appreciate her efforts. Thanks for letting me know. Appreciated,’ said Pecarro, fiddling with, and marvelling at, the precision engineering of the Lexus’s air vents. ‘Marilyn, since you’re on the phone, there’s been a development. I’d like to meet with you, perhaps next week?’ said Pecarro, configuring a possible future scenario. He continued. ‘It will be at short notice I’m afraid. I’m waiting to tie up a couple of loose ends, first.’

  ‘That’s fine with me. Look … you’ve got my number. Call me with a date and time? I’ll await your call with interest,’ said Marilyn, curiosity awakened.

  ‘Okay… Expect a call. I’ll see you soon,’ said Pecarro bringing the conversation to an end, scratching the five-o’clock shadow covering his chin. Sometimes, the pieces of the jigsaw just fell into place.

  * * *

  Pecarro stepped into the swimming pool lobby and ambled over to the reception desk. ‘I wonder if you could you help me?’

  ‘I’ll try my best. What do you want to know?’

  ‘Is there somewhere I can buy swim
shorts and a towel? I’ve got a sudden urge to take a swim.’

  ‘There’s a kiosk located on the upper gallery. It sells swim and gym wear. You’d better hurry. They close in ten minutes,’ said the receptionist, pointing towards the staircase. ‘Use the staircase.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Pecarro, striding towards the stairwell.

  Forty minutes later, revived by the rejuvenating swim, Pecarro stepped outside into the crisp air. A white plastic carrier bag hung from his right hand.

  So … Tooley … the time has come to find out how good you were, mused Pecarro, directing the svelte nose of the Lexus towards his downtown Brooklyn office.

  96

  The print run was taking much longer than Pecarro expected. The printer made a strange grinding noise. He glared at the lifeless white plastic box. Cursed.

  ‘False fucking economy. I was right. You, dearest, were wrong. You were wrong … wrong … wrong. As you always are,’ said Pecarro in a manic lilt, above the rhythmic spooling of the aged printer. Pecarro directed his angst towards the absent, all knowing, Celine, and the delinquent Epson printer. Following another jam, Pecarro begged for the floor to open up and swallow him whole. The printer emitted a double beep. The flow of paper ceased. The green status light turned to red.

  Bin. Cancel print. Check settings. Print. Leave. Purchase coffee. Enjoy coffee. Return. Collect printout. Depart for the boarding house. Pecarro begged the printer to function.

  Returning to the office fifteen minutes later, Pecarro was encouraged to see that the green status indicator light glowed a healthy green. A quarter inch stack of paper in the out tray attested to a successful print run.

  Pecarro set his hand on the top sheet. Hesitated. A huge sense of foreboding rolled through him. Would the report prove or disprove Tooley’s hunch?

  Within seconds, he knew the answer. Tooley’s hunch had been on the money. The genealogical family tree on the report’s second page indicated a clear, marital link between the O’Shea families of the 1930s, and the current day, Casey family.

  What will tomorrow bring? Thought Pecarro, shuffling the printout into a manila envelope intending to study the report further at the motel.

  97

  While he slept a text arrived in Pecarro’s cell. The following morning, perched on the end of the bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes, Pecarro noticed the flashing unread text icon. It was 6:30 a.m. The message timed at 1:30 a.m. Pecarro tabbed into the unread text messages log. One unread message displayed in bold font from George Thomas. Pecarro stabbed the screen. Text filled the screen.

  Parrini (no recorded homicides/no unnatural deaths); Luppi (Benedict Luppi–murdered London, December 1984); Costa (Ernest Costa–murdered Brooklyn, USA, 2005), and Annatto (Alfonso Annatto–fatal scooter accident, no other vehicles involved, Palermo, Sicily, July 1990) George

  Factor in Franco Ricci—AKA Parrini—and it represented a full house.

  Pecarro’s mind raced. He glowered at the tiny screen. Repeated the names. Had one man—protected by another—destroyed the lives of these men and their families?

  Selecting “G. THOMAS” from contacts, Pecarro pressed the green call button.

  ‘George, it’s Pecarro. Thanks. Your text, it, was just what I needed. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’

  ‘Cut the crap. We go way back. I know you wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,’ said George, slipping in behind the computer terminal.

  ‘George, can I push my luck and ask another favour? I’m going to square with you. This time, if it goes belly up, there could be consequences,’ said Pecarro, drawing a long breath.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘You trying to soften me up?’

  ‘You know me too well, George.’ Pecarro paused, knew it was a big ask. Thought, what the hell. ‘George, I need a phial of blood from the Celtic cross case evidence box. I know it’s an enormous ask, George, but it’s central to solving the case. All I need is the phial. I intend to commission a DNA comparison between the blood in the phial and my main suspects’. I’ll have it back to you within the day. I promise. Nobody will even notice its absence. I need it to prove beyond reasonable doubt that my suspect is the killer. Will you help me, George?’ said Pecarro, aware of the potentially catastrophic implications of removing important crime scene evidence without authorisation from the evidence store.

  Pecarro listened hard. Heard only silence. The silence seemed to last an eternity.

  ‘Hey, what the hell, I’d planned to retire early, anyway. Give me your address. I’ll send it by courier. Return it via courier marked strictly private and confidential for my personal attention. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Just you remember, if the shit does hit the fan, this phone call never happened.’

  ‘What phone call, George? What phone call?’

  98

  The humid air inside the swimming pool hall contrasted with the chill of the April wind outside. The pool was surprisingly busy. People were taking advantage of the cut-price “lane swimming for fitness” offer. Keen to secure the final damning piece of evidence, Pecarro arrived at 06:00 a.m. Would Casey come?

  Pecarro dived into the water. Started to swim lengths.

  At 6:30 a.m. the athletic figure of Sean Casey entered the pool hall, strode over to the pool, sank onto his haunches and scooped water into goggles. Sean rose, stood tall and taut, balanced on his heels.

  Pecarro, just feet from Casey, raised his head from the water, glanced left and saw a prominent sausage-like scar running diagonally across Casey’s well-defined abs. Pecarro looked away, quickened his pace.

  You’re mine! thought Pecarro.

  Seated in the changing room, with only a thin towel draped over his shoulders, Pecarro shivered. He scanned the locker room for Casey’s Yankees towel. The towel he’d seen Casey carry into the swimming pool.

  ‘There it is,’ Pecarro muttered under his breath, lifting from the bench, positioning himself directly opposite Sean’s locker, awaiting his return.

  A wet Sean Casey approached. Their eyes met. They exchanged polite nods.

  ‘Damn, it’s freezing in here,’ said Casey, collecting the Yankees towel, drying off. Casey felt Pecarro eyes boring into him. Turned. ‘You okay, buddy?’

  ‘I’m fine. Taking a minute to get my breath … that’s all. Usually … I don’t swim so early.’

  ‘Man, just do it. Like the Nike guys say … just fucking do it,’ said Casey, opening the locker door, removing shower gel and shampoo.

  Casey spun around. Manhood swinging just inches from Pecarro’s face. Smiled at the shivering, Pecarro. Strode off to the showers. Called, ‘Just Fucking Do It!’

  Pecarro checked nobody was watching, then lunged forward and delved into Casey’s locker. Rummaged through the bundled clothes. Found a pair of checked boxer shorts, pushed them into a plastic bag.

  Minutes later, Pecarro’s hired Lexus screeched out of the swimming pool car park. Long streaks of rubber marked the passage of the Lexus over the tarmac.

  99

  Pecarro’s contact—a lab technician at the Medical Institute—agreed to perform genetic matching tests from two samples within hours. The institute took advantage of the huge commercial rewards of paternity testing. It represented a new, lucrative and growing, income stream. Every year Pecarro’s contact stated that the laboratory performed near to five thousand paternity tests, to either prove or disprove parentage. Pecarro came across his contact working just such a case, a month prior. It took only a brief discussion to arrange DNA testing.

  ‘I can do it, but it’s going to cost to get it done quick,’ said his contact, voice quivering. ‘I prefer cash, too.’

  ‘Okay. No problem. Cash is fine. In exchange, I’ll need a quality assured accredited report on company letterhead,’ said Pecarro. ‘If my hunch proves right, a criminal trial will follow. I need a report I can rely in court. I’ll pay a premium so long as I can jump the queu
e. I’ll get the samples to you tomorrow. I need the results within six hours. It’s important. Can you do it in the time?’

  ‘Fine. Not a problem. I’ll do it. A colleague will help smooth the paperwork through the system. The fee will be double what you paid before: one thousand five hundred bucks. That okay?’

  ‘Just do it!’ Pecarro said, mimicking Casey’s words and ending the call.

  ***

  On the journey to meet the lab technician, Pecarro glanced to the passenger seat squab at the bulging Jiffy bag containing the money, the sample phial containing the remnants of blood from the Costa murder, and Sean Casey’s used underwear. With the exit fast approaching, Pecarro yanked hard left on the steering wheel. The manoeuvre brought an angry cacophony of horns.

  ‘Screw you!’ screamed Pecarro, giving the irate driver of a blue Ford Explorer the bird as he sped past.

  Pecarro had arranged to met his contact in the Burger King car park at midday. There, he would hand over the jiffy bag and arrange a rendezvous to collect the results. His contact said he’d be driving a red Mazda Miata sports car. The last time they’d done business his contact had been as good as his word. Pecarro prayed for a smooth transaction. Glitches, he could do without.

  Pecarro drove into a vacant space alongside the red Mazda. The Mazda driver lowered the driver’s side window. Pecarro made his way to the Mazda, sank onto his haunches, faced a thirty something, goatee-beard sporting geek, in a white tee shirt and faded jeans.

  ‘Hi,’ Pecarro said, without preamble. ‘This envelope contains samples. There’s blood in a phial and stained underwear. On pain of death, guard them with your life. I need them back ASAP. Oh, and there’s half the money in there too. You’ll get the other half when you deliver the typed report on Institute letterhead just like we agreed. Okay?’