Saints Of New York

by R.J. Ellory

  'Needed to do?'

  'Sure. It's never a want with these characters. Always a need. They can't control it. It resolves something. Always. Beneath everything, when you get right down to the core truth of what's going on with these guys, there's always some difficulty, some problem, some deeply-inlaid issue that they're resolving by doing this. And the other thing that makes me feel that we've got something very personal going on here is the strangulation.'

  'Meaning what?'

  'Strangulation and suffocation are non-invasive. It's not a gun, it's not a knife, it's not beating someone's head in with a hammer or a brick or something. There's no blood, there no actual visible physical damage aside from a few bruises perhaps. Strangle someone, suffocate them and they look pretty much the same, at least for a little while. You can sit them up, lie them down, put them in a chair, talk to them, explain yourself, even fuck them some more. You can have them be around you without being constantly reminded of the fact that you just took their life from them.'

  'And he would do this?'

  'Absolutely he would. These guys hold on to the victims as long as they can, right until the point that it becomes unavoidably obvious that they are dead. They rigor up, they start to decompose, then they ain't the sweetheart anymore and they have to go. Oh, and the fact that he's strangled at least one of them with a scarf implies guilt, implies a desire to be as gentle as possible, and also removes him from the physical reality of killing by insuring that he does not have to have physical contact with the victims as they die.'

  Parrish nodded. He wanted more coffee but he didn't want to break the flow of what he was being told.

  'I think if you managed to get a look inside the guy's house, that's assuming that he is the guy, then I believe you would find an exceptionally well organized, immaculately clean place. This is the kind of guy that arranges his canned goods alphabetically and by expiry date.' Ron smiled drily. 'But, of course, you are not going to have a chance to look inside his place, are you, Frank?'

  Parrish shook his head. 'Way it's going right now I don't see that we're going to get a chance to look at anything. He's got us boxed out, Ron, seriously boxed out, and there's nothing probative that gives me probable cause for a search and seizure, a further interrogation—'

  'You know where he lives. Go and see him at home. Go tell him that you wanted to speak to him about how he's co-operated, that you are very grateful for his time, and that you wanted to apologize for any degree of harassment he might have felt.'

  'I have considered that, but I don't want to tip my hand any further, and I sure as hell don't want him to slow up on his plans.'

  'The proverbial rock and a hard place,' Ron said. 'Do we go after the guy and blow any possibility of securing a conviction, or do we wait until he moves again and risk losing another victim?'

  'Right.'

  'There is one thing that is puzzling me, and that's the timescale. Tell me again.'

  'First one, at least the first one that we're tying to this pattern, was back in October 2006.'

  'And that's the Baumann girl, the one you found the picture of?'

  'No, the first one was the Melissa Schaeffer girl, the one we found in the trash can. Jennifer Baumann was the second one, and that was January of 2007. Third was August, fourth was December, and then there was nine months until Rebecca Lange at the start of this month—'

  'And the last one was the girl in the box back of Brooklyn Hospital ten days ago.'

  'Yes, that's right.'

  Ron was silent for a moment, and then he leaned forward. 'I think you've missed some, Frank . . . not you specifically, but I don't think you have all the victims. The pattern doesn't make sense. Three months between the first and second, then seven months, then four months, then nine months and then a week?' He shook his head. 'I'm thinking that there are other girls outside of the Family Welfare connection. Either that, or perhaps you have a cycle that isn't based on predetermination.'

  'Meaning?'

  'Situational dynamics, Frank. Situational dynamics, and also something that the profilers are looking at now that's called the Exceptional Human Experience.'

  Parrish frowned.

  'It's not complex. Situational dynamics you understand. Simply the environmental, familial, social and educational factors that contribute to the person becoming who they are. There's a pattern to these things. Physically and sexually abusive parents or relatives, social alienation, a complete collapse of self-worth. They start off torturing animals, then they graduate to arson, then it's arson and manslaughter, then murder. Some of them have a pattern within themselves, and that can manifest itself in both who they kill, and in most cases when they kill. Lunar cycles, harvest moons, every seven Sundays, whatever. Then there's this new idea creeping in. This EHE principle. This works on the basis that every serial killer is continually trying to stop themselves from killing further. It's like the alcoholic who has to stop drinking, the kleptomaniac who has to stop stealing . . . that underlying knowledge that what you're doing is wrong, and the battle that rages inside the person. This Exceptional Human Experience thing is simply something that occurs in the individual's life that tips them over the edge of self-control. It empowers the impulse to kill to such a degree that they cannot stop it. It overwhelms their power of choice completely, and they have to go find a victim. The need has been externally generated, they seize the opportunity, and the original situational dynamics help them rationalize their actions. They don't have to deal with the guilt until after the fact, and by then it's too late. Someone else is dead. That could be the case with your guy. There is no pattern. He just holds himself back as long as he can, and then he explodes. That is a possibility. However, I do believe that in this case it's simply that there are other girls and you've missed them as part of the serial. We have well in excess of three quarters of a million child disappearances a year in the US, and we find a depressingly small percentage of them.'

  'I don't want to hear that.'

  'Hear it. Deal with it. This is the nature of the beast, my friend. I don't have to tell you that.' 'So what do I do? Where do I go from here?'

  Ron smiled. 'You tell me what you're not telling me.'

  'There isn't anything I'm not telling you,' Parrish replied. He felt the knot in his lower gut tighten a good deal more.

  Ron lifted his coffee cup and drained it. He made as if to get up.

  'What are you doing?'

  'I'm leaving, Frank, what the fuck do you think I'm doing? You ask me to meet you, I meet you. You want to tell me something, I listen. I ask you to tell me everything and you bullshit me. You and I did a good thing four years ago, and you helped me out. Okay, so maybe we didn't follow the rules precisely, but we did it and we got the guy. But we said back then that neither owed the other anything. That's what we agreed. No debts, no dues, nothing. I'm not down here for the good of my health. This is all off- the-record. It has to be, just because of the nature of what we do and who we are. The FBI owes the NYPD nothing and vice versa. When we collaborate it's because we want to, not because we have to. I've sat here and listened, and now we're done and I'm going home.'

  Parrish looked up at Ron. 'I think I might know who he's after next.'

  Ron paused for a moment, and then he sat down heavily. 'And now you're going to tell me that you're the only one who knows this, and that the way you found this information could get you suspended, perhaps even fired.'

  'I'm already on pay hold,' Parrish replied. 'I don't have a drivers' license. They're waiting for me like vultures. One more fuck-up and I'm out on my ass. It's cheaper this way. They don't have to pay me off or give me a full pension.'

  'Jesus Christ, Frank, what the fuck is it with you?'

  Parrish smiled sardonically, if I knew that I'd market it 'cause I know everyone would love to have a little.'

  'What did you do?'

  'I looked someplace I shouldn't have.'

  'And what did you find?'

  'A file on a g
irl that looks like the others.'

  'And was it one of his own cases?'

  'No.'

  'In his house?'

  'His car.'

  Ron inhaled deeply and sighed. 'Fuck,' he said, and the single syllable was said with such certainty and emphasis that it hit Parrish like a physical blow.

  Perhaps then - in that split-second - he knew that he'd pushed things so far off-kilter that there was no going back.

  'I don't know what to tell you,' Ron said. 'Whatever it is that you might have found out. . . well, you know as well as I do that you can't use this information, not only because it was gained illegally, but because it wouldn't do you any good. Any arrest or interrogation secured on the basis of illegally obtained evidence is useless, Frank. You know this.'

  'Of course I know it, but it was something I had to find out. I had to reassure myself that I wasn't chasing this guy for nothing.'

  'And what has it proved? Nothing, right? He's supposed to have Family Welfare case files. He's meant to have that stuff. It's his job, isn't it?'

  Parrish shook his head. 'I don't think this girl was his day job, Ron, I think it was part of his extra-curricular plans.'

  'All of this based on nothing but coincidence, circumstantial evidence, and the incontrovertible certainty of gut reaction.'

  Parrish hesitated. He didn't want to sound foolish, but he did. There was no escaping it.

  Ron looked at his watch. 'Persistence, Frank. Persistence, hard work, stubbornness, and an unrelenting willingness to stay late, work harder still, persist even more. Those are the primary reasons cases get resolved. You know that. I don't even know why I'm here. I cannot sanction anything. I cannot give you any information you don't already have. I can give you suppositions, theories, perhaps confirm one or two suspicions you might have regarding rationale and motivation, but aside from that I am useless.'

  'But you're a G-Man,' Parrish said. 'You're one of Hoover's superheroes.'

  'Hoover was a closet transvestite, paranoid control freak, but we don't put that in the brochures.' Ron paused for a moment, and then he leaned forward. 'I'll tell you one thing more, and that's all I'll say. They keep mementos. Always, invariably, they keep mementos. I could tell you to not cross the lines, Frank, but you already did that. It didn't get you anyplace, but you did it anyway. Seriously, you're in so fucking deep already you're pretty much all done and finished. And if you make a decision to push this further? Well, what can I tell you that I already haven't? There will be mementos, and they will be close to him, and however much he knows he should get rid of them, he won't. Whatever you want to do with that piece of information is entirely up to you.' He moved out along the seat and stood for a moment looking down at Parrish. 'As is always the case, this conversation never happened. Your secret is safe with me because you never told me, okay? Whatever you do now is your call, not mine.'

  Parrish didn't respond.

  Ron reached out and gripped Parrish's shoulder. 'You take care now. Find the truth for sure, but don't kill yourself in the process.'

  He left. Parrish watched him go. He asked the waitress for a refill and a danish, and then he called the Precinct and got Carole Paretski's number.

  She picked up on the second ring.

  'Ms Paretski? Frank Parrish. I just need to know something. Your daughter . . . Sarah, right? What does she look like?'

  He paused, listened.

  'No, of course not. No danger whatsoever. I just need to know for a physical profile analysis thing we're doing.'

  Parrish nodded, and his expression changed subtly.

  'A little taller than average, slim, blonde hair, blue eyes . . . your regular cheerleader, right?'

  Parrish closed his eyes and nodded.

  'Yes of course I will. Yes, absolutely. You take care now, Carole.'

  He set his phone on the table, and he lifted his coffee cup. He held it in mid-air as he considered what to do next. There wasn't really any consideration at all, it was simply a moment of reflection. As Ron had so eloquently put it, he was useless for anything else. The case they had worked on together four years before had resulted in a man's life being saved, perhaps two men. The simple fact was that those potential victims had never even been aware of what was happening around them. They had been targeted, and then the threat against them was removed silently, swiftly, expertly. They were none the wiser. Parrish knew that Amanda

  Leycross was McKee's next intended victim. He needed to remove the threat without Amanda Leycross ever realizing what had happened, what might have happened, the fact that she was spending her days being watched, considered, targeted. To live one's life knowing that a killer had almost taken that life away from you . . . well, such a thing would not rest easy in anyone's mind. Was there something about you that made you a victim? If you had been chosen once, then would you be chosen again?

  No, Amanda Leycross needed to walk right through this unscathed and unaware.

  Parrish got up. He left behind half a cup of coffee and a danish barely touched.

  Perhaps it was true that some things were so well-hidden they would never be known, that some cases would never be solved. Perhaps all victims were not created equal. Maybe there were people all over the city who wouldn't make it to Christmas. The Leycross girl would not be one of them.

  There were mementos. Always. Invariably. They would be close to McKee. Parrish had to find them. And if that meant the end of his career then so be it.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 2008

  'I slept fine, better than I have done for a while.'

  'And how much did you drink?'

  'Last night? Last night I didn't drink anything.'

  'This is good, Frank. This is progress.'

  'I believe so, yes. And I have to tell you that I feel more settled in myself.'

  'How so?'

  'Like I've resolved some things. It's hard to explain. Perhaps it's nothing more complicated than spending all this time talking about stuff. It's all baggage, right?'

  'A lot of it, yes.'

  'And you carry it around and around and around, and when you actually get a chance to put the suitcases down and look inside them you find that you've been carrying a lot of worthless crap.'

  'Some of it has value, surely?'

  'Perhaps some of it, yes, but mostly it's your own unfounded fears about what other people might think, and what other people really meant when they said something, and the rest of it is indecision.'

  'I must say that you sound a good deal more positive today than almost at any time since you've been coming here.'

  'Well, like I said, I feel like I've resolved something important.'

  'Do you want to tell me what that is?'

  'Not really, no. Well, I'll say that I have an idea about where I should go from here, what I should do with myself—'

  'Career-wise you mean?'

  'No, nothing as dramatic as that. More like my attitude towards what I'm dealing with, where to go with the current case.'

  'You feel it's going to break?'

  'Yes I do.'

  'What has happened? Have you made some good progress with your case - this man you suspect?'

  'I have, yes.'

  'That's good. Really good. I'm very pleased to hear it. It highlights the pattern we spoke of before, the point where you start to think about things other than the internal. I believe that you're now at the stage where we can - we should - start really talking about tomorrow as opposed to today, about your plans, the direction you're going in. This relates to your life, how you'll deal with your kids as they make their own lives - their careers and marriages or whatever. I also think we need to start looking at whether or not you are going to spend the rest of your life alone, or if you need to start considering the possibility of a new relationship.'

  'Is this a roundabout way of asking me out on a date, Doctor? Because, you know, if you want to go on a date you only have to say so.'

  'Frank .
. .'

  'I know, I know, I'm only kidding. I get what you say. It makes sense, but it's Friday now. I think you should give me the weekend to get this thing all wrapped up, and then we'll start talking about all that stuff you were just saying.'

  'Did you listen to what I was saying?'

  'Of course I did. Jesus, Marie, what do you think I am? Ignorant?'

  'No, Frank, I don't think you're ignorant. I just think we need to start tackling these issues, and seeing as we've made some progress I don't want to backslide.'

  'I'm not going to backslide. I'm not planning on drinking myself into a coma this weekend, if that's what you're worried about. This thing is going to end, and once it has you're going to get a hell of a lot more of my attention.'

  'So the weekend?'

  'Sure, the weekend. Skip our session tomorrow, Sunday is as it is, and then we'll get together again on Monday morning.'

  'Right. If that's what you want to do, then Monday it is. And have a think about what I've mentioned. You know - the future, where you go from here, new relationships . . . okay?' 'Okay.'

  'Excellent. Have a good weekend, Frank.' 'I plan to.'

  SEVENTY-TWO

  'You okay, Frank?'

  Parrish looked up. He'd been staring out of the window, unaware of anyone else in the room. Radick was looking at him quizzically.

  'Okay? Sure I'm okay. Why d'you ask?'

  Radick shrugged. 'You seem elsewhere.'

  'I was thinking about my father.'

  'What about your father?'

  Parrish smiled drily. 'Nothing. Nothing about my father, Jimmy.'

  What could he have told Radick? My father was a crook. He was the best of the best - apparently - but really he was a fucking crook. A good one sure, but as corrupt as they came.

  Parrish had left Marie Griffin's office an hour before. Since that time he'd thought of nothing but his father. The Mighty John Parrish. He remembered when he was killed, what they reported as having happened, what had really happened, and he remembered also how he'd felt in that moment. There was no other way to spell it. Frank Parrish had been relieved.