88 Killer

by Oliver Stark

‘Yeah.’

  ‘They get a good look at that perp?’

  ‘No. He had a hoodie on.’

  ‘Fuck,’ said Harper.

  ‘What? It was a cop.’

  ‘Maybe it was a cop, maybe it was Leo and one of his crew.’

  ‘No, they were sure it was a cop.’

  ‘You don’t know that. Let me ask you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How many cops do you see making arrests from the projects on their own?’ The two detectives shook their heads. ‘Is that never? Or do you want more time?’

  ‘Hardly ever,’ said Greco.

  Harper sighed. ‘Come on, he’s gone. Somehow, he’s fucking gone.’

  Harper and Eddie ran up to the house, Swanson and Greco behind them. They entered the building, raced up the stairs to the third floor.

  Harper stared at the door. ‘Who’s done this? Who kicked this in?’

  ‘You did,’ said Swanson.

  ‘I barged the door. The Crime Scene team bolted the door. It’s been kicked open. Careful, there might be prints.’

  Harper pushed open the door. He called out, ‘Police.’

  Not a sound came back. They stopped still. Were hit by the smell of urine.

  They opened the door fully. ‘Looks like he’s gone,’ said Eddie.

  ‘How fucked up do we want to be? We lost our one lead,’ shouted Harper. He moved through to the bedroom, pushed open this door in turn. ‘Shit,’ said Harper. ‘I don’t think he’s gone.’

  ‘What? He’s sleeping?’

  Eddie joined Harper. There was Lukanov, lying naked on the bed. Gunshot wound to the head. Feathers everywhere, a pillow marked black with residue. His torso was ripped across with the number 88 in large bloody tracks. A small black and white cat was licking at the wounds. It paused and stared at them.

  Harper turned and pushed past the two detectives. ‘They killed him,’ he said. ‘He didn’t come or go, you fucking imbeciles, but someone fucking did.’

  ‘Who? We were supposed to tail the guy, not fucking nurse him. We weren’t looking for someone going in, were we?’

  ‘I guess not. Another fucking dead end.’

  The body was pale, the blood dried black. Covered with Nazi tattoos from neck to ankle. The red calling card ripped across it.

  ‘A foot soldier,’ said Harper. ‘Dispensable. Someone they knew had betrayed them.’ He turned to Eddie. ‘We’re getting close.’

  ‘How do you figure?’

  ‘Serial killers who attack random victims according to type are difficult to trace because there’s no connection between the motive and the victim. There’s only the unlucky fact that the victim was the type.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘But this is no random victim – this man was killed because he knew, because he was a threat.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘We’re in his lair, Eddie, we’re right in the heart, in the control center, with links and evidence.’

  ‘That’s good, right?’

  ‘Sure, that’s good.’

  ‘You don’t have the face of a man who thinks it’s good.’

  ‘No. He’s playing a different game now. Either he’s going to pack up, go quiet, move town and hope we never catch up with him, or . . .’

  ‘Or?’

  ‘Or he’s going to feel our breath on his neck and start enjoying it, like it’s some game, and then things are going to escalate fast. So fast, I’m scared.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, Eddie, these people think they’re right, and if he feels he’s pushed into a corner, if he feels that there’s no way out, he’s going to start thinking about doing some permanent damage, maybe on a different scale.’

  ‘A kill spree.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s what I’m worried about. Three kills in three days. He’s not just a pattern killer, he’s a deluded soldier who thinks the war’s fucking started. And he’s in New York.’

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Lock-Up, Bedford-Stuyvesant

  March 10, 5.05 p.m.

  The door was yanked open and he stood in a rectangle of moonlight. The darkness of the garage made him pause for a moment. The smell of mold on clay bricks, the human smell somewhere in the background. His hand moved out and flicked an old plastic switch. Lights flickered dimly in the gloom below.

  The killer stepped into the garage. He moved sideways past piles of bricks and scaffolding poles. At the side of the room stood an old desk facing a mirror. An old-fashioned reel-to-reel tape recorder sat on the desk with a small square-headed microphone attached.

  The killer put his notebook beside the tape recorder and stared into the mirror. His hair was slicked flat to his skull, and he was wearing a uniform, a full uniform, with the blue eagle on the arm. The uniform made him feel stronger.

  He stood in front of the mirror and tried not to look at his face. His uniform couldn’t disguise his features. He was no Aryan, but in the low light he could believe it more than usual. There had never been, to his knowledge, a connection between the expression on his face and the feelings and thoughts beneath.

  His whole life he had played a calm game, smiling and getting by, but everything was conditional, nothing was absolute. Perhaps it was just like that with some people. Even as a child he experimented with faces, hiding the feelings below with a mask. With the uniform and the formality of the army, it was different. You were what you appeared to be.

  He appeared to be an SS officer because he was an SS officer. He could kill when he liked. When Jews were in the ghetto, when they were out of the ghetto, during the day, during the night. If they broke the rules by being out after curfew or by wearing fur coats or gold rings. All of this was illegal. He could dismiss a Jew with a ragged bullet-hole in an instant. Feeling was action. The manifold between the two worlds had never been complete until now.

  He loved this new life he had created. His reanimated life. The life of the past, of past certainties, of past glories, of power, hunger and the Third Reich.

  He sat, awake and alive from watching himself in the mirror. He had a small and simple Anglepoise lamp on his desk. This too was an authentic 1940s build. He opened his notebook and looked ahead.

  One night, many, many nights ago, he had run away from a persecution of sorts. A beating by some other boys who were supposed to be his friends, who thought beating a Jew was all the more fun for its sudden and unexpected nature. But he wasn’t a Jew, they were mistaken. He had taken on the suffering of a race of which he was no part. He had felt the blows, he had heard the insults. ‘I am not a Jew!’ he shouted.

  He ran from them that night. By the time he turned for home, he found he was lost. What happened that night in the dark, alone and terrified? Did the anger and frustration pass into his bloodstream then, at the height of fear? Did the man who now made him feel warm and safe find him in the dark wood? A boy, alone at night, shivering and terrified by every insect and breath of wind. The Jew who shouted out aloud that he was not a Jew.

  Out of his pocket he took a scrunched-up piece of white cotton and placed it on the oak table-top. Then he produced a small square of paper. There was a paragraph of writing on it. He pressed the cotton to his nose as he read it. There were 88 words on the piece of paper. He read them as if he needed their power.

  He reached down to the right-hand drawer; it pulled easily on its old worn runners. The desk was made in 1933, the year Hitler became Chancellor. He fumbled around inside for a bottle. He lifted it out and looked at it under the light. He peered through the bottle, three quarters empty. He put it on his desk and stared ahead. His fingers were grubby and oily. He continued to stare as he unscrewed the top of the bottle. He removed the cotton from his nose, swigged and then stroked the cotton. He then pushed it from his desk on to the bare ground.

  Somewhere behind him, there was a moaning sound. He listened, then walked across the ground and switched on another light. A brick cupboard with a wooden door was suddenly illuminated from th
e inside. The light shone out through gaps around the door. Inside was a girl. He leaned against the wall and felt the stirring of desire. She was the most beautiful of all. He had to destroy her, day by day, to watch her body turn to gray sacking, to watch her teeth fall out. He wanted only to find her disgusting.

  His hand pressed flat on the wooden door. He picked up a chart from the wall. Looked at it. ‘144002. No food at all. You are still alive. You are strong.’

  He opened the door and looked down. The body was lying on its side, barely moving.

  ‘You will not last more than another week or so. You are the lucky one.’

  She groaned. Over the past few days, he had conducted several experiments on her. He had noted down all the results.

  He knelt down and put his hand on her skin. He still felt the desire. ‘I shouldn’t feel like this, you know?’ he said. ‘It burns inside me. I must fight it.’ He stroked her arm and then pulled back. He felt the disgust at himself rise and merge with a strong sense of guilt and failure. ‘The flesh of a Jewess. It is base. It is vile to want you but, Jewess, my whole body yearns for it.’ He grabbed her head and pressed his lips hard against her mouth. Then he pulled back and spat at her. ‘Your sickening seduction must end.’

  He moved back across to his desk, took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘You’re a filthy whore, Abby, you understand? A filthy whore!’

  Desire was hard to control. Desire needed to be destroyed. He sat down in his seat and looked over his shoulder towards the dark corner of the room where he could hear the faintest shuffle. Then he turned back, opened another drawer and took out an apple. He peeled it and ate it slowly. He clicked the tape recorder, moved the old tape round and clicked it again.

  The spool ran, caught up with itself and slowed. He rewound, then pressed another lever and spooled by hand to a small chalk mark. He stopped. He breathed, and then clicked the recorder. He watched the whole mechanism move and the tape start to run on the rollers through the pick-up.

  He raised his head again and cleared his throat.

  ‘Josef Sturbe reporting for duty. I have conducted the third day of the survey. I have much to report. Marisa Cohen is dead. She was found out after curfew. I conducted a rudimentary experiment on her, which is all in my written report. The woman Rebecca Glass is next on my list.’

  He turned the page of his notebook; continued with his list of details from the tours. He coughed then turned another page. He leaned to one side and picked up the cotton underwear from the floor. He flattened it on his desk, smoothing it back into shape. It was stained all over with the dirt from his boots. They all cleaned his boots with their own underwear. Destroy desire. Belittle it. But it excited him. He shot them because he must not desire the thing he hated. He knew that things must happen more quickly now. The desire was destroying him, but he had to win and he could only win by destroying desire once and for all. He turned back to his report.

  ‘New York City, I saw four complaining Jews this week. One target is still outstanding. She will be punished, but today the opportunity did not arise.’ He paused. ‘The powers are rising in opposition. They are all here. It is as I have read and all on our streets. The filthy disease-carrying parasites, the greedy, lazy perverts worshipping their God and money with trickery and deceit. Deviants, rats – spreading their Jewish secrets. The Jew is the parasite of humanity. A demon in flesh. We must start to consider a more devastating solution. A bigger solution.’ His face strained. The light clicked off. He felt her underwear again. He was embarrassed. He desired her and despised himself for it. He turned to the door in the corner. He knew the pamphlet word for word. He pressed his face to the wooden door and whispered through the cracks: ‘“Jewry undermines every people and every state that it infiltrates. It feeds as a parasite and a culture-killing worm in those lost people. It grows and grows like weeds in the state, the community and the family, and infects the blood of humanity everywhere.

  ‘“It is the pestilential nature of Jewry against which every people, every state, every nation must and should want to defend itself if it does not want to be a victim of their bloody plague.” Do you hear me, Abby?’

  PART THREE

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Auto-parts Yard, Brooklyn

  March 10, 6.05 p.m.

  Karl Leer’s autoyard was used by Section 88 as a safe house. Karl wasn’t an activist himself; it wasn’t in his nature to do that. He liked his workshop and didn’t want to risk his livelihood. Karl was more of an observer. He kept himself to himself and, more importantly, he provided Section 88 with old vehicles when they needed them – vans so old they couldn’t be traced.

  Heming looked around the yard. The dogs behind in the scrublands barked incessantly. If he was being watched, they were keeping themselves well hidden. Karl had given him the all clear. He was sure there was no one around. Heming had got sick of being cooped up and, anyway, he needed to be out. He had a lot to do. He had a lot on his mind.

  He looked towards the veranda where the office door stood wide open and then at the small table set up by a heap of old engine blocks. Karl Leer appeared from the office. His eyes opened in surprise.

  ‘Thought you was hiding?’

  ‘I need a beer,’ said Heming.

  A train passed by not far from the workshop. The tools rattled. ‘Could’ve been worse,’ Karl shouted over the roar.

  ‘Just how so?’ said Martin Heming.

  ‘You could’ve gone out with them, been arrested yourself. The way it is, they’ll be back on the street soon enough.’

  ‘I can’t work with them any more,’ said Heming. ‘They make mistakes. Everyone’s a fucking incompetent. Lukanov was a fool – no good. I thought he was better. I was wrong.’

  ‘He wanted to do good for you.’

  ‘Yeah, well, he failed. He was a liability.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘Sturbe killed him.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Heming looked up. ‘How do I know? I was right there. I saw him do it. He enjoyed it.’

  The passenger train rumbled into the distance. Heming’s voice lowered. ‘Detective Tom Harper took out my whole team.’

  ‘He must be something to do that.’

  ‘He must be a sonofabitch.’

  ‘You should go sort this cop out,’ said Karl.

  ‘I should, you’re right.’

  ‘Everyone else turned up at the meeting house, you know.’

  ‘Last night?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I told people the meeting was off,’ said Heming.

  ‘Six or seven turned up. Didn’t get your message. Cops were waiting right there. They took their names and addresses.’

  ‘Anyone mention me?’

  ‘Don’t think so. But you’re not exactly low key. Got your own website. They only need to look you up.’

  ‘They’re probably at my apartment. I can’t go back.’

  ‘You should do something about it,’ said Karl.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Heming. ‘I ought to.’

  A silence fell between them. They reflected on what they had left unsaid for a moment. Heming looked into the office. ‘Karl,’ he said. ‘Get me a beer, would you?’

  Karl shuffled across to the fridge and took out a key which hung on a chain around his neck. He knelt down and unlocked the padlock. He pulled a cold beer from the icebox.

  ‘I should just lay low, keep out of trouble,’ Heming said. ‘It’s too difficult to keep going while all this Capske shit is brewing.’

  Karl nodded and placed the beer on the table.

  Heming shook his head to some internal argument. He drank from the bottle, before wiping his forehead. ‘We can’t sit on our own and grumble. It ain’t us who are cranking this up. It’s them that are infiltrating every fucking place. Judges, lawyers, bankers, politicians, businessmen. They own the system now, Karl, that’s what we’re up against. These people are everywhere. Immigrants and Jews fucking running the pl
ace.’ He rose up. ‘I hate them, man, you know? I just hate them so fucking much I can’t focus on anything else.’ Heming’s cheeks were bright red and his forehead was glistening. He looked into the middle distance as if possessed by a terrible vision.

  ‘Why so much, Heming?’ said Karl Leer.

  ‘Why so much? Are you kidding? I’ll tell you straight up: I love my country and they are destroying it. It’s an act of self-defense. Would you protect your own children? Don’t answer me, that’s all I’m doing. Protecting my children. My children’s children.’

  ‘You don’t have children,’ said Karl.

  ‘Fuck you,’ said Heming.

  Martin Heming stood still for a moment as though something had just been clarified in his mind. He drank until his beer was gone, then went and opened the door of the icebox. Let the cool air drift across his face a second.

  ‘Some guy has done some research and you know what he found? He found that the Jews and the Arabs and the Blacks are all part-Neanderthal. They did some genetic experiment and found this out. They carry the genes of the Neanderthal. Doesn’t that blow your mind? They’re infected with the genes of a dumb animal. Neanderthals. You can see it in their faces.’

  Karl let out a laugh. ‘Sure they are, Heming.’

  ‘What are you saying? You saying that I’m lying?’

  ‘You’re not lying; you’re just being selective. We’re all of us part-descended from Neanderthals. All of us have that gene. I read about it too.’

  ‘Not all of us, Karl. You, maybe, but not me.’

  ‘It’s not something you choose.’

  ‘It is something you choose,’ said Heming. ‘I choose not to be a dumb fucking animal, I choose to rise above. I choose to further our race and not let it be diluted by theirs. You go eat with the animals, Karl, but not me. I’m no fucking violent Neanderthal ape.’

  Karl stifled his rising laughter. If Heming was trying to be comic, he wasn’t showing it.

  ‘You take a look around you,’ continued Heming. ‘See who’s doing what and who’s suffering. This is everyone’s problem. You think you’re immune to it? You can just walk about, go about your business? Look at your fucking shop! Do you get everyone coming here? No. Where do they go? They got a monopoly, go to their own shops. It’s one rule for us and another for them. They’re squeezing guys like you out. Good guys like you. They’re the Neanderthals, they’re trying to destroy America from within, trying to fuck up our gene pool. Infected, they are, infected with this ape-gene. I love this country, man. I love it. But it’s got a disease right here under the skin and it’s carried by all those fucking types.’