88 Killer

by Oliver Stark

  North Shore Marine Transfer Facility, Queens

  March 8, 2.23 a.m.

  Harper arrived at the huge blue warehouse at the North Shore Transfer Facility. Eddie Kasper, the team and two CSU trucks were sitting there waiting. Harper thanked the driver and jumped off. The air was cold next to the river, and in the distance he could hear the industrial hum of hundreds of loaders, dump trucks and garbage trucks transporting New York’s waste to someplace else.

  ‘Quick work, Eddie, what have you got?’

  ‘Dogs are on their way. We’ve got David Capske’s jacket coming across from the OCME to give them something to work on, but the handlers aren’t sure how they’ll cope. Depends on how rancid the trash is.’

  ‘That’s great, Eddie. What about the location of our load?’

  ‘We’ve dragged the Logistics Supervisor out of bed, the Operations Manager and the roll-on team. We’ve got tonight’s team on hold. Nothing leaves until we find our trash.’

  Harper looked at the tired faces of the people in front of him. Two men who looked like they just got out of bed stood shivering in the wind. Behind them, three more of the team from the Transfer Facility. Their faces were cynical and bored.

  Harper walked across. ‘This is a homicide investigation, gentlemen. I apologize for the disturbance, but we need your help. You’ll go back to bed when this is over, but our victim never will. So no wise-ass bullshit. We’re serious about finding that kill kit and we’ll keep the whole plant closed down until we do. Understand?’

  The men nodded one by one. ‘That’s good. Now let’s locate the dock and the barge.’

  He turned as the CSU trucks started to unload. Several men and women all wearing white suits tramped across the concrete.

  ‘First up, what happens when the trash gets here?’

  The Operations Manager took Harper through the routine. Eddie Kasper took the Logistics Supervisor back inside with the truck number.

  Within fifteen minutes, they came back together. Harper gathered the team.

  ‘We’re in luck,’ he said. ‘Our garbage is sitting on a barge in Dock Four. It’s due to leave later tonight, so we just made it. The garbage truck unloads in one of bays sixteen to twenty-two, which means the trash will be on the right section of the barge. We’ve been through the options. There’s no way we can jump on board and start sifting. We’re going to crane the rubbish back on shore, and sift it load by load. Any questions?’ There was silence. ‘Well, let’s get going.’

  Harper searched with the team throughout the night, staring out over the vast mountains of trash as far as the eye could see. It seemed like an impossible task. At six, he lay down on a bench in the warehouse and closed his eyes. An hour later, he felt someone pushing his shoulder. He looked up.

  ‘Eddie, what’ve you got?’

  ‘We got something,’ said Eddie. Just then, Rick Swanson burst in. His blue suit was stained at the knees with dark wet patches, his hands were black with dirt, his jacket was covered in unpleasant-looking detritus. Behind him, Mary Greco was a five-foot-two picture of perfect cleanliness in a plain white tank top and jeans. She was wearing gloves and holding a plastic bag high in the air.

  ‘Five fucking hours in Harlem’s shit for forty-two-thousand dollars a year, Harper! No sleep, no nothing. It smells worse than a body in that dump,’ said Swanson.

  Harper clapped. ‘But you found it! You’re a hero.’

  ‘Six fucking hours.’

  ‘You said five,’ said Eddie. ‘Either I’m not hearing things right or that’s one quick hour.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ said Swanson. ‘Six or seven hours, what’s the difference?’

  ‘How comes he’s all dirty and you’re clean, Greco?’

  ‘They offered us white suits, but Mr Macho found the onesies a little effeminate.’

  ‘I’m not wearing a fucking Babygro.’

  ‘No, you’re wearing cabbage and diapers by the smell of you.’

  ‘You got it, though, am I right?’ said Harper.

  ‘Yeah, we got it, all right,’ said Swanson.

  ‘What’s in there?’

  Swanson took off his jacket and threw it straight into the bin. ‘I can’t wear this no more. It’s going to remind me of stamping through a container of putrid Harlem crap.’

  ‘What’s in the bags, Swanson? Focus.’

  ‘He’s not as smart as he thinks,’ said Swanson. ‘He’s bagged the lot together. We weren’t getting anywhere until the canine unit brought in the sniffer dogs.’

  ‘We would’ve been another twelve hours,’ said Mary. ‘And this macho pig moans like a girl with a broken nail. Every five seconds. I couldn’t stand it any more.’

  ‘We got a rag of Capske’s blood from Forensics and they found it. You know what? I hate being second to a dog.’

  ‘In every way, Swanson,’ said Mary Greco. ‘In every way.’

  Rick Swanson muttered something. He pulled off his shoes and put them in the trash too. ‘The fucking canine unit . . . if they’d come first, I wouldn’t have ruined my suit and shoes.’

  ‘The department will clean your suit,’ said Harper. ‘For the last time, what’s in the bag?’

  ‘The whole shebang. Gloves, remnants of wire on a wooden spool, knife and overalls.’

  ‘Weapon?’

  ‘No gun.’

  ‘Let’s get it straight to the lab.’ Harper looked at his team. ‘That’s good work, guys. Real good work. Let’s hope they find something for us to go on.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  North Manhattan Homicide

  March 8, 11.30 a.m.

  Denise Levene was wearing a smart black suit, a white blouse and glasses. She breathed slowly, trying to control the nerves that were making her hands tremble. It was impossible to know if what she was doing was right for her, but it no longer mattered. She needed progress.

  She walked right back into the North Manhattan Homicide investigation room and stood there. She felt her world begin to click back into place. No one looked up. No one noticed her. She looked down at the old blue carpet, at the tar spots, at the discarded gum that had turned gray.

  She held back tears, but they were not tears of fear, they were tears of pride. She had made it through the door. She had thought about it a hundred times, and every time she’d backed out, unable to even make it to the door. Now she was there.

  Mark Garcia turned. He was wearing a pink shirt and even from a distance, Denise could smell his cologne. It took a moment for him to identify the woman in front of him, to place the pale face that he hadn’t seen for three months. Then recognition dawned on him. ‘Hey, fellas, look who’s come back home!’

  The other detectives turned. Apart from Gerry Ratten, they’d all worked the American Devil case. Harper felt the hairs on his neck stiffen as he turned and saw Denise standing there in the doorway, in the same black suit that she’d worn the day he met her, when she was safely ensconced in One Police Plaza as a psychotherapist who looked at the aftermath of trauma and kept her distance from the streets.

  Rick Swanson had pulled on his gym kit, a Yankees sweat top and a pair of black sweatpants. He was a mean and cynical son of a bitch, but even he felt the atmosphere and smiled.

  Garcia took a glance around the room. The detectives of Blue Team were a tight group and Denise had worked with them and suffered for it. A team didn’t forget that. Garcia started to clap. The others joined in. And Denise Levene stood, her cheeks flushed red, not knowing where to look. Harper stared at her, brimming with pride and a strange fear. Whatever she’d been through, they had to make sure it wasn’t repeated.

  The clapping died down. ‘How the hell are you?’ said Swanson. ‘Took your time. I thought as a psychologist you could’ve healed yourself.’

  ‘I’m wondering how you’ve all got time for applauding some amateur profiler when you’ve got a case to work. I hear it’s a bad one.’

  She walked directly to the coffee pot and poured herself a cup. Harper sidl
ed up. ‘Denise,’ he said. ‘I—’

  ‘Don’t say a goddamn thing or I’m going to break here.’

  Harper closed his mouth, took a step back, let her regain composure. ‘Welcome home, Denise,’ he said.

  Denise leaned her back against the wall and took a look around the room. ‘Feels odd to be back in here. Nice cubicles. You’ve been busy building.’

  ‘You haven’t seen the Captain since he spent some time in the Bronx.’

  ‘Always captures the big ideas, doesn’t he?’

  Harper nodded. ‘You get anywhere with Abby?’

  ‘Yes, thanks to you. I met some real morons. The worst was Leo Lukanov. Leo gave a false alibi for the evening when Abby disappeared, and it transpires that Dr Goldenberg saw him the day before in a car outside the house. So we’ve got extra time on the case.’

  ‘That’s good. You were brave to go over there.’

  ‘Well, I’m feeling better. I’m here to return the favor.’

  ‘Profile?’

  ‘I can try.’ Denise spotted a wiry fair-haired man in one of the new cubicles, who had eyed her a few times. She nodded towards him. ‘Is he the competition?’

  ‘The kid in the corner with the snarl? He’s the FBI’s boy. New profiler from the New York Field Office. He’s squaring up for a battle. He’s heard about you. You’re all we talk about.’

  ‘Only to piss him off, I hope.’

  ‘Yeah, only to piss him off. Second-rate, unfortunately, even though he’s trying.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope that’s good enough.’

  Harper laughed. ‘You’re going to kill him. It’s not a fair fight. Not fair at all.’

  ‘Where are you on the case?’ asked Denise. ‘We’re waiting for something to break,’ Harper told her. ‘We found the killer’s kill kit last night. We’re just checking out leads.’

  ‘Good, that’s progress.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got the case-files set up for you. Take your time, just as long as you’ve got something by this afternoon.’

  Denise looked up. ‘No honeymoon period? This really is like old times. Where are you headed?’

  Harper picked up his coat. ‘I’m going to check out some barbed-wire manufacturers.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ said Denise.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  North Manhattan Homicide

  March 8, 12.30 p.m.

  Harper arrived back at the precinct. He had news about the barbed wire to give Lafayette. What he had was good but he needed something more. He approached Eddie. ‘I got your message. Where are they?’

  ‘In the interview room.’

  ‘How sure are you?’

  ‘It’s good, Harps.’

  They headed straight for a small interview room that had been set up with three phones. Three Chinese cops were on the phones, speaking in Mandarin.

  ‘They traced the number, like I asked?’ said Harper.

  ‘Just like you asked.’

  ‘And they got something?’

  ‘They did. Harps, you were right.’

  ‘I don’t care about right, I care about catching this guy. Let’s see what they got.’

  ‘The purple serial number you found on the spool was our only lead,’ said Eddie. ‘We’ve been chasing that number all morning. We reckon the barbed wire is a Chinese import, and the serial number had an import number next to it. We traced the import number through shipping number via customs. We’re tracking down manufacturers.’

  Harper looked around him. ‘In China?’

  ‘There aren’t too many barbed-wire manufacturers importing to the US, so we’re down to the last one. But I don’t know that the number will give us anything. Even if we find where it came from, we might not see where it went to.’

  Harper put his hand on the shoulder of one of the guys. ‘Anything?’

  Detective William Hong nodded. ‘We think we’ve got the manufacturer. They’re tracing that batch number, might be able to tell us where it was sent.’

  ‘Call me the second you know,’ said Harper.

  He walked back into the investigation room and sat down by Denise, on an old plastic chair. ‘How’s it been?’ he asked.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘No progress?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m just absorbing all the details. It’s not nice.’

  ‘No,’ said Harper.

  ‘There’s nothing on the bullet. You anywhere with that?’

  ‘They can’t ID the bullet. It’s so mangled. It’s just a lump of metal. I’m going to get it looked at. There’s something more to it. Why, what are you thinking?’

  ‘I need to know what kind of gun he used. It might tell us something.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Confidence with a gun, military background, who knows.’

  ‘They say it was a 9mm bullet.’

  Denise nodded. ‘I went through the sequence of events, the witness statements, the confession letters, the forensic details, the autopsy protocol. Then I went through it all again.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s not a political animal. He’s a sociopath. I agree with you – I think there’s something else, too. Something . . .’

  William Hong emerged from the interview room and called across. ‘Harper, we’ve got it. This consignment was headed for Washington. Then headed for a commercial supplier.’

  Harper turned. ‘And where did they send it?’

  ‘It’s been a ride. The commercial supplier sent it to a local state wholesaler. They found the order. We know the shop this spool was bought from.’

  Eddie Kasper took the faxed copy of the import order. Chinese letters across the top of the paper. ‘If he’s a right-wing pro-America freak, Harper, do you think he knew he was buying Chinese barbed wire?’

  Harper felt the release in the tension with the breakthrough. ‘We got to get up there, have a look at the layout. See if they have CCTV. But first, I’ve got to tell Lafayette that we have a lead. It’ll buy us a few more hours.’

  In the background, Denise looked through Harper’s murder book. A sketch of a wind-ruffled falcon graced one page. She turned over and saw the strange sketch of dots and scratches that they’d seen at the morgue.

  ‘Sorry, Denise, you were about to say something?’

  ‘No, nothing really. Hey, you thought any more about this?’ she asked.

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘Another strange sense I get. I think I half recognize these marks, but I don’t know why or how.’

  ‘Well, give it time – it’ll come.’

  Levene drifted into thought. An image from her childhood emerged deep from within her memory, but it was so vague she couldn’t capture it. Perhaps it was some picturebook her father had showed her. If so, it was before he went to prison, when she was nine years old. She didn’t remember the book. She remembered black and white photographs, her father not speaking, just turning the pages in silence, then when she turned, seeing her father’s tears. His large leathery hand stroked her hair. She could taste his pipe smoke in her throat and hear the accent that never left him.

  Her hand reached out and moved across the scratches. Something appeared, a pattern of some sort, but she couldn’t read it. Not yet.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Lock-Up, Bedford-Stuyvesant

  March 8, 1.05 p.m.

  He parked his old sedan three streets away, put on an overcoat and baseball cap, then walked the rest of the way, past derelict housing blocks and shuttered shops scrawled with graffiti.

  He reached the razor-wire fence and pushed through a small gap at the side into a grassy alley between two buildings. He walked through to a wide patch of scrubland that was once the backyard of a clothing business that had long ago closed down.

  Several stray dogs appeared from each corner of the square, eager-eyed and barking. The man took out his bag of meat, which consisted of cheap scraps that he collected from the meat market. The dogs ran towards him, yapping and jumping, saliva dripping an
d swinging from their jowls. There were about sixteen strays of all types. He took out handfuls of fatty meat and tossed them around the yard.

  The dogs were his homemade security force. He’d started to feed them a few months back, after he’d found the abandoned garage on one of his tours of duty. He knew that a lock-up without additional security would not last in that part of Brooklyn, so he’d spent the time trying to get the dogs to see the garage as their place and defend it. No one would try to get past a pack of wild dogs. Not even gangbangers.

  He got to the door of the garage and unlocked each of the three padlocks. The dogs surrounded him, yelping and circling tight around his legs.

  He pushed open the door and flicked on the light. The dogs ran in all around him and their barking filled the room and echoed against the tin roof. He threw more meat down and filled three bowls with water.

  He sat in a battered armchair and started feeding some of them by hand. They fed furiously, angrily, gulping down the lumps of fat and gristle with excited glee. They were a pack, a team, but underneath that organization, they were out for themselves. If one of them got injured, they’d tear the animal to shreds.

  The man stood up and went back to the door. He threw the remaining lumps of meat into the yard and watched them tear out of the room. He slammed the door shut and breathed excitedly. Around the room, there were several scaffolding poles that leaned against the walls, and bags of sand and cement piled in corners. Outside the garage door stood a large pallet of bricks. He’d brought about four dozen bricks into the room and had started to mark out two internal walls along the floor, coming out from the back wall. He’d been planning on a building project for a while now, but was waiting for the right kind of girl. It was going to be a room within a room, a very special room. One he’d dreamed of his whole life.

  The large brick garage had been empty for years. A piece of derelict real estate in a part of town no one wanted to live in. He had a new door fixed, new bolts and padlocks. He’d bricked up the one small window. Across the garage was a second door which once upon a time housed a bathroom. The cistern and sink had been smashed. He’d cleared the room out and sealed it up as best he could.