by Ty Patterson
He had left the Sixteenth Infantry eight years back, he was of the right height but it was the few lines on his service history that had made Chang call Zeb.
Suffered severe burns on his arms, has a permanent limp on his left leg.
Zeb made some calls and got a better picture of Isaac Kutzo.
Loner, didn’t have many friends, okay soldier, had gotten into altercations with female soldiers a couple of times.
Doesn’t respect women, was a note in his record.
The task force swung into action and put together Kutzo’s life. On leaving the army, he had worked as a security officer - a glorified bouncer - at a night club. He had then moved up and headed security at a mid-town hotel. The hotel sacked him when he had come onto several female guests. There were claims of harassment that the hotel had covered up.
Kutzo now worked in a similar capacity at a bowling alley. The task force got to speak to one of the hotel’s guests, one of the women who had claimed harassment.
She laughed cynically. ‘More like attempted rape and assault,’ she said.
The task force sent patrol cars, but everything appeared normal from the outside. A beat cop knocked on his door but there wasn’t a reply. The cops discussed going in hard, Zeb dissuaded them, reminded them of Howell. Bringing him for questioning was an option – if they found him.
‘I’ll check the house out,’ Zeb told them when Pizaka fidgeted indecisively.
Chang followed Zeb out, warned him. ‘Zeb, please do nothing that will compromise the investigation.’
Zeb nodded, went to their basement garage and rolled out in the courier van.
The house was shielded by a large tree on the sidewalk whose branches extended over the garden and made it appear more private than the neighboring homes. A three-foot chain link fence ran along the small front garden. It had a small gate that led to a walkway that went up to the front door.
Street parking for cars, neighboring homes were fifty feet away.
Zeb got out of the van, grabbed a package from his seat and approached the home. He rang the bell, heard it chime inside, but there wasn’t a reply.
He knocked on a curtained window, got no response.
He walked down the side of the house, to the back, rattled the rear door.
No response.
He thought about entering the house, but it gave off no vibes. He shrugged, turned back to head to his van.
He had taken no more than five steps when he heard scrabbling. Faint, but he could hear it.
Not from the house, but from beneath it.
He frowned and looked down.
Nothing.
Ground met side of house.
He laid his ear against the wall. A minute of silence, then the sound again.
It felt like paws on a floor or against a wall.
Fingernails?
He glanced at his watch, set a target of five minutes.
A delivery guy won’t spend more than five minutes at an empty house, figuring out where to leave a package.
He pulled a mask over his face, looked at the lock on the rear door.
Cheap.
It took him less than a minute to crack it. The door swung noiselessly, and the stench hit him.
Sweat, urine, stale clothes.
The house was untidy. Dirty dishes stacked in the kitchen sink, clothes strewn on the floor and whatever that could be used as a hook.
Clothes.
Some of them are small. Smaller than a five-foot-eight man would wear.
Cold spread through Zeb and the beast yapped inside when he recognized the clothes. A pair of shorts.
A child’s.
Kutzo has no children.
He ghosted through the house, found more empty clothes, some of which stank. He went upstairs, gun ready, carefully treading on the steps. They were carpeted which deadened any slight sound he made.
The three bedrooms were empty. The master bed was untidy, large stains on it.
One stain was rust brown in color.
Zeb took it all in without touching any surface. More small clothes littered the bedrooms. A boy’s T-shirt hung over a couch.
The sound came again, fainter.
Zeb cocked his head carefully and listened.
Basement?
He went down, searched the ground floor for any entrance to the basement and didn’t find any in the lounge, the dining room.
He moved aside piles of boxes containing porn magazines, books and DVDs.
No door underneath them.
There was a utility room adjoining the kitchen which held a washer-dryer, a dishwasher, and other odds and ends. A circular wooden table was upended, four chairs stacked on it.
Why upended?
He moved the chairs stealthily, shifted the table.
There.
A squarish door embedded in the floor, with a rope threaded through it acting as its handle.
Zeb pulled it open and peered through the darkness. The rustling and scrabbling became louder.
Something or someone. More than one something or someone.
He withdrew a flashlight from his pocket, turned it on and stepped gingerly on a shaky wooden ladder.
Ten steps later he was on a concrete floor, smelling cool air, sweat, and urine.
The sounds were much louder, bodies shifted.
The beast roared in rage inside him. It recognized the sounds and smells.
He searched the wall for a light switch and turned it on.
Zeb had seen the worst horrors humans could inflict on others. He thought he had seen the depths men could sink to.
Obviously not.
Four hours later Isaac Kutzo was arrested after an anonymous tip off, for his involvement in a pedophile and child sex-slavery ring.
Four boys, their ages ranging from six to ten years, were rescued from their basement prison by the NYPD and Children’s Services.
Kutzo initial denial turned to a voluntary confession when he was confronted with the evidence.
Zeb shrugged off the congratulatory backslap offered by Pizaka, walked away and stared at the man seated alone in the interrogation room.
You could have killed him.
You could have hunted him at night, finished him, and made it look natural. You have done that several times before.
The children would be free; another insect would have stopped polluting them.
He consciously loosened his arms, straightened his fists, and sucked in a deep breath. Cool air rushed in, bathed the beast, and calmed it. He took in those around him.
The twins talking to Chang and Pizaka, their horrified faces reflected in a window.
Cages. Their mouths taped. Their hands and feet bound. Six months in captivity. Emaciated. Raped.
He left a presence next to him. Solid, warm, reassuring, calm.
He turned to face the commissioner and this time he didn’t shrug away the hand on his shoulder. Rolando didn’t say a word, silently led him away and gestured at the twins to follow.
He knew Zeb’s history. Words were meaningless.
The Flayer took his dinner downstairs, spent fifteen minutes acquainting himself with his trophies, settled back in his chair with a sigh and took a large bite of his burrito. He grimaced as a drop of mustard fell on his shirt.
It had been a long day, three appointments, each one over two hours in the company of perfumed, manicured, well-groomed women. The upside was that each one could go on his list. He finished chewing and let the sights of his museum relax him.
Lena Diaz’s body floating in the tank reminded him.
Haven’t followed the news today.
He waved at her and turned on the small TV and settled back again. Politicians taking shots at one another, ball game scores, storm warnings, the usual stuff. He paid attention to the HOF’s coverage, scenes of masked men standing beside a stack of bodies.
They wanted a video call with him to verify he was who he was.
He snorted.
> Do they think I am dumb enough to show myself?
I will show them the museum though. That should convince them.
Looks like I got a bite or else they wouldn’t be so interested.
He was surprised it had been so easy to contact the HOF and that they had responded promptly.
Why should it be a surprise? Social media is what they use for propaganda and how they recruit.
He switched to a local news channel, barely paid attention to the usual stories of shoplifting, lost pets, till another presenter came onscreen and the view cut away to patrol cars and flashing lights in front of a house.
Queens. Pedophile ring. Child trafficking.
He lifted the remote to flip channels, froze, the burrito forgotten in his hand, when the presenter’s words seeped into him. Kutzo was in the army and has seen action in Iraq. He suffered burns to his hands during his service and has a permanent limp.
Burns. Limp.
He turned the volume up to hear more details and when the presenter had finished, pulled his laptop out and searched the internet feverishly for photographs of Kutzo. His blood chilled when he saw the pale hands on the man.
Height similar to mine. Scars.
More digging and a video came up on a news website, of Kutzo walking past a bank of security cameras next to an ATM machine.
Left leg drags the way mine does.
The Flayer sat back and willed himself to calm down.
Was it really an anonymous tip? Are they tracking down such people?
He thought back to all his years of killing, made an impatient click with his tongue, and reached out for his notebooks. He spent the next couple of hours going through his jottings and recordings.
Nope. My hands were never exposed. No one saw me grab.
He read his journal twice, but that didn’t dispel his uneasiness and when he finally reached out to make the call, the voice at the other end growled.
‘What?’
‘He’s still alive.’
‘Not for long.’
Chapter 16
December 3rd – 9th
It was dull and grey the next day, the overcast sky promised snow, weathermen spelled out warnings and stay-safe messages.
Zeb had put the previous day behind him as he swung out behind the twins to One PP.
Cleary was practically vibrating with excitement when they reached, and he hustled them immediately to his laboratory. Once they had donned the protective clothing, he opened a set of glass doors, gestured dramatically at the array of apparatus.
Beth rewarded him with a mock-swoon and he bowed and went to his desk top.
He held the note that had been stapled to Peggy Krantz’s body. ‘My colleagues dusted this, and did a few perfunctory tests and found nothing.’
‘Don’t hold back, Jase. Rub it in their faces,’ Meghan commented drily.
He grinned and turned on his laptop, hooked it to a projector and brought an image of the note on the screen.
‘You’ve seen those TV shows and movies when our intrepid hero,’ he glanced at Zeb slyly, ‘rubs a soft lead pencil on a piece of paper and like magic, indented writing appears. That practice is deader than the T-Rex now.’
‘A practice that is still followed is to shine oblique lights on the paper to reveal indents. My colleagues used this technique. This technique works when the paper is just one or two layers down.’
‘Enter the ESDA.’ He pointed to a machine in a corner. ‘That piece of technology coats the paper with a plastic film, which is then subjected to static charges.’
He hurried when he saw Beth roll her eyes. ‘I won’t bore you with the details.’
He clicked his laptop and the image changed. The same note, except for the line in the lower right hand corner.
age 945
When they had stared at it long enough, he continued. ‘I believe the killer wrote on one of those Post-It pads you get in stores. It must have been on top of this note. There were a few I could spot in the video, in a corner.’
‘Nothing else on the note?’ Zeb asked Cleary as he rapidly went through permutations and combinations for the letters.
‘Nope.’
Meghan scrunched her face, tapped a finger to her lips. ‘Those numbers could be a reference to time. But then there are zillions of words that end with age.’
Zeb walked to the image, let his mind go blank, but no light bulb moment came.
He shrugged inwardly.
Cleary did well, but it isn’t very helpful.
Or...
He turned to the sisters. ‘What time did Diaz leave her home for work? What time did she get to her office?’
Beth referred to her pad and shook her head in disappointment. ‘She was an early bird. Reached her office by seven forty-five in the morning. She left around six in the evening and reached home in an hour’s time.’
‘What about the others?’
Pages flicked and the headshake again. ‘Nothing there. If that’s a reference to their schedules, it doesn’t match.’
Two hours later they were at a landmark department store, in the head of security’s office.
Walter Brunner had been with the NYPD for fifteen years, had made Detective First-Grade before quitting and finding more lucrative work in the private sector.
He had the same build as Zeb’s, but his eyes were warmer.
‘Better pay and hours.’ He laughed when Beth asked him why he had left the NYPD.
He waved them to chairs in opposite him, typed a few commands on his computer and swiveled the screen to face them.
After hours of calls and Werner’s help, the sisters had traced the bracelet to a designer in upstate New York.
She designed and manufactured them in a small workshop adjacent to her home. A limited number of her designs were retailed through the largest department stores in the city. That particular design had been made by her six years back and was sold only in ten stores. They couldn’t be ordered online.
Zeb had looked at them in astonishment when they had relayed him their findings.
‘How does a one-person designer get to sell her stuff in those high end stores?’
‘Piece of cake if you go to RIZ-dee and your very first design features in Vogue.’
Astonishment turned to an all too familiar blank expression on Zeb’s face, which prompted Meghan to mumble something under her breath.
It suspiciously sounded like Neanderthal.
‘Sophie Hilders, the designer, went to Rhode Island School of Design. That, for an ignorant person like you, is one heck of a design school.’
‘Got it.’ Zeb said. He didn’t, but he wasn’t interested in Hilders’ career.
‘How many pieces of that bracelet did she make?
‘Five hundred. Sold through Macys, Bloomingdales, and a few other big ones.’
That gave Zeb the idea that some store might have captured the killer on video, which led them led them to their first stop, Brunner’s office. Brunner’s store had been the first to respond with a list of transactions, fifty of them, of which about thirty were to male customers.
The store offered the option to engrave the bracelet on the spot, but all thirty were sold without any writing.
‘I have five hours of tape which is a week of sales for that particular item. You got lucky here. We normally don’t keep video for that long, but ever since we moved to digital, we’ve got stuff going back a long way. Helps us with our insurance premiums.’
He showed Meghan how to operate the controls and left them alone.
Two frustrating hours later, after watching sales staff service customer after customer, they gave up. No one resembling the Flayer was on camera.
Meghan hammered the SUV’s door in frustration. ‘No prints from any of those storage sites. No other videos anywhere. No other leads from all those addresses. Nothing from the service records. Who the hell is this guy?’
Zeb didn’t reply. He followed them to the next department store.
>
Nine more to go.
By the end of the day it turned all nine stores did keep transactions, but only four of them had video. Not one of them had captured the Flayer. Meghan took all the transactions, collated them in a single file and fed them to Werner.
Werner would match the receipts to addresses, to card owners and would flag those transactions that were a possible match.
Shayna Rogers lifted their spirits later in the week.
A text message flashed on five phones.
Someone’s at his box.
Stall him, Zeb replied and burned rubber through the city.
Chang and Pizaka followed in anonymous vehicles and radioed for the Bronx street to be flooded, stealthily.
Fifteen minutes later, Zeb raced up the Avenue nosed into an empty space, and was out before the engine had turned off.
The twins emerged from another parking space. He wordlessly pointed to the other side of the Avenue, they nodded and split. Behind him, far behind him, he saw Chang and Pizaka reflected in a store’s window.
He slowed and with just a slouch in his posture, he transformed from violent force to casual shopper.
He pulled out his phone, fired a text to Shayna.
No more stalling.
Life was looking better for Dwayne ‘Dubs’ Porter. His girl was making out with him again after their last fight, he still seemed to have a job at that warehouse – well, he hadn’t been fired yet – and then this dude had turned up.
Shades like those worn by those Secret Service guys, a scarf kinda thing covering his lower face; he’d strolled up to Dubs after he’d kissed his girl long and hard, patted her butt and sent her off to work.
‘Nice ass,’ the man commented as they watched her sway away.
‘Yeah, man,’ Dubs said without thinking and then his voice rose. ‘Watch it, dude, that’s my girl.’
‘You can keep her, and you can keep this too.’ He shoved a pile of bills in Dubs’ hand.
Dubs’ eyes widened as he counted them.
Two hundred bucks. Enough to buy a spliff or two and treat his girl to a nice meal, which would soften her to more making out.
His eyes narrowed as the man continued. ‘All you gotta do is go inside that place, get my mail for me.’
