Saints Of New York

by R.J. Ellory

  McKee looked away for a moment. He sighed audibly and then he looked back at Parrish. 'Apparently - and this is only the little girl's imagination - I am supposed to have told her ... I am supposed to have told her that I wanted her to sit on my face.'

  'That was all?'

  'That I told her I wanted her to sit on my face so I could put my tongue inside her.'

  'And you didn't say this to her?'

  'God almighty no! Jesus, what kind of sick bastard do you think I am?'

  'I don't know, Richard, I really don't know.'

  'There! You did it again! You're taking something I say and turning it round to make me look like some sick pedophile. Jesus, this is unbelievable! This is verging on harassment now. I really don't know what kind of authority you think you have to do this, but I want a lawyer here right fucking now.'

  'No authority, sir, just a simple request for assistance from a member of the public—' 'Bullshit! That's just so much bullshit!'

  Radick got up suddenly as someone outside knocked on the door. He opened it, shared a few unintelligible words, and then turned back to Parrish. He nodded. Parrish got up, excused himself, and left the room.

  Valderas was in the corridor. 'Got a call from Joel Erickson at Vice Archives. He thinks he might have found one of your girls.'

  Parrish's heart skipped a beat. 'Okay, okay,' he said, and then was caught in a moment of indecision. 'Can you call him back for me? Tell him to hold on, I'll be there as soon as I can. I need to finish this.'

  Valderas said he would call Erickson. Parrish returned to the room, and at once noticed the change in aspect in McKee. As with all interviewees and interrogation suspects, the moment that any words occurred outside of their earshot they believed those words related to them. You came back in, they wanted to ask what was going on, what was it about, but they couldn't. To show any concern for what might be going on outside was to demonstrate a reason to be concerned.

  'So, Richard, you refuted the allegation made by this girl?'

  'Of course I did. It wasn't a matter of refuting it. I didn't have anything to prove. It was her word against mine.'

  'And she was how old?'

  'I don't know - nine, maybe ten years old.'

  'Same age as your daughter at the time.'

  'Meaning?'

  'Meaning that the girl who accused you of saying these things was about the same age as Sarah was at the time.'

  McKee took a deep breath and exhaled. 'Yes, about the same age.'

  Parrish leaned forward. 'Tell me something, Richard . . . have you ever had any kind of impulse or urge towards younger girls?'

  McKee laughed awkwardly, smiled, shook his head too quickly. 'Christ no, what do you take me for?'

  'Cheerleaders, sophomores, college girls . . .'

  'Enough,' he said emphatically. 'Enough, enough, enough—'

  'Is it true that when the Family Welfare offices moved there were a number of pornographic magazines found in the locker that you used?' 'No, of course not,' McKee interjected - once again a little too quickly.

  'And that those magazines featured images of girls that couldn't have been more than sixteen or seventeen years old?'

  'No. Not at all. Who told you that? The only person I ever knew who had magazines like that was Lester.'

  'Lester Young?'

  'Yes, Lester Young.'

  'You know that he's dead?'

  'Dead?'

  'Yes, he died of a heart attack in December last year.'

  'No . . . no, I didn't know that.'

  'Well, being dead he cannot deny any allegations.'

  'Implying, once again, that I might be lying.'

  'Implying no such thing, Richard.'

  McKee shook his head. 'You don't have the right to do this, Detective Parrish. I'm going to make some kind of formal complaint against you. You bring me in here on some sort of pretext that I might be able to help you with this investigation, and you actually bully and harass me—'

  'You are free to go, Mr McKee,' Parrish said matter-of-factly. He stood up, took his jacket from the back of the chair and started to put it on.

  'What?'

  'You are free to go. We appreciate your time, we really do. You have been most co-operative, and we are sorry for any inconvenience we might have caused you. If you do honestly feel that you have a mindful cause for complaint, then please ensure that you make a statement to the sergeant at the front desk and he will find someone for you to talk to.'

  McKee was speechless. He stared wide-eyed at Parrish, then looked at Radick.

  'Jimmy . . . can you make sure Mr McKee is safely escorted back to the lobby.' Parrish paused for a moment, and then he extended his hand.

  McKee took it involuntarily.

  'Thank you again for your time. You have been most helpful.'

  Parrish left the room. He made his way upstairs to his office and waited for Radick.

  Minutes later Radick appeared; he was smiling, shaking his head. 'Jesus, the guy was a fucking mess. He didn't know what the fuck was going on.'

  'Good,' Parrish replied. 'The more unsettled he is the better.'

  'You really are starting to think it's him, aren't you?'

  'I was unsure,' Parrish replied. 'I was unsure until I asked him to repeat what he was supposed to have said to that little girl.'

  'He was embarrassed, Frank—'

  'He wasn't embarrassed, Jimmy, he was turned on.'

  FIFTY-NINE

  Erickson looked serious. He sat behind his desk with an expression that Parrish had seen all too many times before. Something had punctured the veneer and reached him. The more years in Vice, the more years in Homicide or Narco, the tougher the veneer became, but every once in a while there was something of sufficient force to get through. Evidently, whatever he had found had possessed that force.

  'Sit down,' he told Parrish and Radick. 'I found your Jennifer. A picture we've managed to isolate as originating in January or February of last year.'

  'Jennifer was dead by mid-January 2007,' Parrish said.

  'So January it is . . . and it might have been the day she died.'

  Radick's eyes widened.

  Erickson leaned forward to his desk and picked up a thin manila folder.

  'How much of this kind of stuff have you dealt with?' he asked Parrish.

  'Did three years in Vice, '96 to '99.'

  'And you?' he asked Radick.

  'Narco, Robbery-Homicide, and now this.'

  'Buf you've seen some shit, right?'

  Radick nodded. 'I've seen some shit.'

  Erickson opened the folder. He removed a single picture and slid it across the desk to Parrish.

  It was Jennifer, no question. She was gagged with a black scarf, but her hair was back from her face and she was twisted around, looking back over her shoulder at the camera. Her eyes were wide with - what? Fear, horror, pain? As was routinely the case with many such pictures the faces of the male participants were out of view. Jennifer had her hands tied behind her back, and from the look of her fingers and wrists it appeared she had been tied roughly and with far greater tension than was necessary. Her hands were significantly paler than her forearms. On her upper left thigh was a series of dark bruises, one of them carrying a thin line of blood at the edge. Her face appeared to be bruised also, and to Parrish it looked like the right cheek beneath the eye was swollen.

  'Is this what we're dealing with?' Radick asked. 'Girls kidnapped for torture, for rape, for pornography?'

  Erickson nodded, if money-lending is the first profession and prostitution the second, then pornography is the third. Ask Parrish. He did three years in Vice. He'll tell you.' He indicated the photograph in Parrish's hand. 'This is toy town stuff compared to most of what we see.'

  'I think the roofies came later,' Parrish said, almost to himself.

  'You what?'

  'Rohypnol. We found traces of rohypnol on the more recent cases. This one . . . hell, this one looks like she was beate
n into it. I think whoever's doing this got smarter, started drugging them.' He turned to Radick. 'You see her fingernails?'

  'Red,' Radick replied. 'Just like the Lange girl.'

  'You want me to keep looking for more pictures?' Erickson asked.

  'For sure, yes,' Parrish replied, and then, 'Can you tell where it came from?'

  Erickson shook his head. 'Almost impossible. A magazine definitely, but they all use the same processing facilities, the same kind of paper, the same printers. And then there's the strong possibility that it was a movie still that was then printed for a magazine. Two for the price of one, you see? The digital evolution has done us no favors. Now you don't even get negatives or film stock numbers. Now it really is the case that anyone with a hard- on and a camcorder can do this shit for no money at all.'

  'This is good,' Parrish said. 'This is progress. We can keep this?'

  'Let me give you a copy. I need the original.'

  'Give me half a dozen, would you?' Parrish said, and handed the picture back.

  *

  At the 126th, Parrish secured the assistance of one of the uniforms who had been at the Paretski search. His name was Landry. Parrish asked if he had a strong stomach.

  'Strong enough for what?'

  Parrish showed him the picture. 'Need you to go through all those magazines and DVDs we took from the woman's house and find anything that's similar to this.'

  Landry took the picture. He didn't wince, he didn't frown. He just looked at it like it was someone's holiday snapshot. 'I can do that.'

  'They're in the Evidence Room. Tell them I sent you. Any difficulty call me.'

  'And we're going where?' Radick asked as Landry walked away.

  'Back to see an old friend.'

  Larry Temple - the Swede Thorson tip-off - was not pleased to see Frank Parrish and Jimmy Radick.

  He opened the door with that crestfallen expression of philosophical resignation. Whatever he might have done in the past, however he might have overcome his own demons, the shadow of his sins would follow him for ever.

  Parrish did not believe for a moment that Temple was clean, but if Temple co-operated then he would restrain himself from turning the apartment inside out.

  'You were here a week ago,' Temple said matter-of-factly.

  'Eight days,' Parrish replied. He walked on through to the sitting room. Again Parrish was struck by the remarkable cleanliness and order that prevailed.

  'I have a photograph,' Parrish said. 'I want you to look at it very carefully. I want you to think about the girl. Look at her face. I need to know if you recognize her. I want you to look at the image as well. Tell me if you recognize the style, who might have taken the picture, or made the film that the picture came from. You understand?'

  'And what the hell makes you think I would even know about this kind of thing?'

  'What kind of picture do you think I'm going to show you, Larry?' 'Some kind of porn, more than likely. Probably something really sick, some SM shit maybe?'

  'The fact that this is the conclusion you jump to answers your own question.'

  Temple scowled. 'Oh for Christ's sake, just show me the thing already.'

  Parrish slipped one of the color copies from the folder and handed it to Temple.

  Again, just as with Landry, there wasn't the slightest hint of a reaction. Parrish wondered when everyone had become so desensitized. Was the whole world inured to this shit?

  'It's from a film,' Temple said. 'You can tell by the blurring at the edges. Someone's freeze-framed an image from a film and printed it off from their computer.'

  'The girl?'

  Temple shook his head. 'Hell, Parrish, they all look the same. You've seen a hundred, you've seen them all. College cuties, bangs, ponytails, barrettes, white socks, cheerleader shirts. It's all straightforward stuff.'

  'You call this straightforward?' Radick asked.

  Temple smiled wryly. 'You've never done Vice, right?' He shook his head. 'You should speak to some of your colleagues in Vice. This? This is lightweight compared to some of the stuff going around.'

  'So who is she, Larry?' Parrish asked.

  'Who is she? Christ almighty knows.'

  'I don't mean her name, I mean who is she? What happens to put a girl into a situation like this? What are the mechanics of it?'

  'You know the story. You've been around long enough. Cutie wants to get into the movies. Maybe she gets a habit. Something happens, she winds up in someone's sights, and it's all over. Once these people get their hooks in they'll fuck you until you die, figuratively and literally.'

  'And this? This is for real, or this is staged?'

  'Looks real enough to me. She's one of your dead ones, isn't she?'

  'She is, yes.'

  Temple sighed and shook his head. 'Poor thing.'

  'But you buy this shit, Larry,' Parrish said, and then realized that not only was he getting angry, he was also on a hide to nowhere. You can't rationalize irrationality. Some of the worst serial killers ever were some of the most sympathetic when faced with photographs of their own victims.

  'I want you to ask around, Larry. I want you to keep that. Show that picture to some people. Make some inquiries. You find anything, you let me know.'

  'And why the fuck would I want to do that?'

  Parrish hesitated. He clenched and unclenched his fists. He counted to five, and then he leaned forward until his face was mere inches from Temple's.

  'Because fundamentally you're a good person, Larry. Because secretly, in your heart of hearts, you understand that every single one of these girls have mothers and fathers, brothers, sisters, cousins, whatever. They had lives, and then - as you so poetically put it - someone fucked them to death. You're going to do it out of basic goodness, and to go some small way to earning yourself the right to still be called a human being. That's why, Larry, and Jimmy here is going to give you his card, and if you hear anything or see anything that you feel might be helpful, then you are going to call him. Are we connecting with one another, Larry?'

  Larry Temple - awkward, pained - nodded his head.

  Parrish didn't wait to be shown the door. Radick handed over his card, and followed him out into the hallway.

  It was en route back - the atmosphere in the car stilted and uncomfortable - that Parrish took a call from the precinct.

  'Landry thinks he has something,' was all he said as he ended the call.

  Radick put his foot down.

  SIXTY

  There was no question that it was an image from the same film.

  There was no question that it was Jennifer. A tiny advert in the back of one of Richard McKee's magazines shouted SM TEENS!!, and then gave a PO Box where you could send twenty-five dollars. By return, and in discreet packaging, you would receive a copy of HURTING BAD, and if you mailed your request before March 31st, 2007, then you would get a free copy of EAT ME BEAT ME.

  'It's her, no question,' Landry said. 'Third or fourth magazine I went through.' He shook his head. 'And this is some sick shit they advertise in the back of these things, let me tell you.'

  'You don't need to,' Parrish replied. He looked more closely at Jennifer's frightened face. 'Call the magazine,' he told Radick. 'Tell them we need details of this company, who booked the ad, the usual.' Parrish turned the magazine over, and Radick noted the title. Buried in the small print, he found the name of the company - Absolute Publications; some place out in East LA.

  Radick was gone no more than ten minutes. He came back shaking his head. 'Out of business. No longer exists.'

  'It'll exist,' Parrish said, it'll just be under another name and working out of another office. Try the offices of the East LA Postal Department; trace the PO Box number.' He turned back to Landry. 'Get me six color copies of the ad, blow them up a couple of times so we can see her more clearly. Drop those off in my office, and then carry on going through this. See if you can find anything else.' He walked to the door. 'You did good, Landry, real good.'


  Back in his office Parrish took stock of these developments. He felt certain that he was heading in the right direction. Eight hundred and fifty thousand teens went missing every year in the US. The percentage of those that ended up in the sex industry? He didn't know, would never know, but it would be significant. He believed that these girls had gone this route. Not only Jennifer, but also Melissa, Nicole, Karen, Rebecca and Kelly. And what better source than the soon-to-be-adopted, the unwanteds, the children that haunted the edges of society? Caught somewhere between dead junkie parents, new families and the state, what better resource than the comprehensive files of Family Welfare to scout for new blood? Parrish wanted it to be McKee. Since that moment in the interview room, the moment he'd seen the flash in the guy's eyes. I told her I wanted her to sit on my face so I could put my tongue inside her. What he would give to get into the guy's apartment, his car, his bank records, his work-space. He looked at Jennifer's picture. Hurting Bad. Jesus, the depths these people fell to. More accurately, the depths they were dragged down to by others.

  Radick received a call from Larry Temple a little after three. They were no more than a minute or two on the phone, and then Radick went to find Parrish.

  'He said that someone came back with the same film title as the one Landry found.'

  'Anything on who would have made the film, where we could get a copy?' Parrish asked.

  Radick sat down. 'Temple said to tell you it was supposed to be a ghost. He said you'd know what that meant.'

  Parrish closed his eyes and shook his head.

  'What is that? What's a ghost?'

  'It's what they call a film that is supposed to be a snuff movie. They film the whole thing - the beating, the torture, whatever they do, but they cut it off before they actually kill the girl. The cut version goes out as a regular SM flick, but the long version, the one where the girl is murdered . . . well, that is sold on in an entirely different way.'

  'Jesus . . .'

  Parrish exhaled slowly. He leaned back and looked out of the window. 'Makes sense, doesn't it? Based on what we have. They're kidnapped, abducted, whatever. They're drugged, forced into sex acts which are filmed. They are then strangled on camera. The bodies are dumped in motel rooms, trash cans, dumpsters, on stairwells, and in the case of Rebecca she is strangled and left in her brother's apartment. Danny is then shot in an alleyway.'