88 Killer

by Oliver Stark

  Heming took another beer and pressed the cool bottle to his cheek. His pale blue shirt was stained with sweat under both arms. He carried three days of stubble and his eyes glowed red from staring into the dark, night after night, alone with his mind-rotting theories.

  Karl reached out towards a chipped wooden bench and felt for a wrench. He found it and moved across to the open hood of an old car. He leaned into the engine. Heming watched for a moment. ‘These people have tentacles. They control Wall Street – and if they control finance, they control government – right? They’ve got us wrapped around their fingers. And what else? Out there, in the world, we were once a proud nation. Now we’re drowning in shit with our reputation dying because they got us into a war with the whole rest of the fucking world. Playing second fiddle, maybe even third fiddle.’

  Martin remained by the open fridge letting the cool air dance around his heated face. He drank in quick gulps. Then he turned to the car that was absorbing Karl Leer more than he was managing to do.

  ‘You see, Karl, you got to go to the top of the mountain to see the lay of the land. The spread, the forces at work. You’ve got your head stuck down in the valley. Heh, listen to me, don’t be getting distracted by the fucking car.’

  ‘I’m working, Heming, I got rent to pay. You don’t work, you’ve got it easy, you got time to get all worked up. You should do something positive.’

  ‘Don’t tell me what I’ve got. They’ve taken the lot. My wife, my money, my freedom. Don’t tell me what to think, Karl, they took it all and they’ll take it from you too, if you sit back and let them. This government is destroying us. Our own government is infected with their thinking. We need to do something.’

  Martin wandered back to his seat with another cool one. He twisted open the bottle and put it to his lips. The cold beer passed across his tongue and down his throat. He wiped his mouth. ‘I should do something positive, you’re right. You’re right, Karl, I got to do something real positive. Not wait around for the fucking world to change. Do something. You hear that? We got to do something. You got that fucking right.’

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  North Manhattan Homicide

  March 10, 6.23 p.m.

  Harper walked out of the investigation room, leaving Denise to work on the profile. He took two more codeine pills, knowing that in fifteen minutes he’d feel the subtle change of mood, a feeling of peace – happiness even. It was low enough, background enough to carry on working.

  He felt in his pocket for the small piece of card. What did he do now? He pulled out the card. Erin Nash’s name in red lettering. She knew something and was interested in what was happening out there. She would sense what was going on. Erin Nash would maybe write an article that could help them to steer things.

  There was plenty to write about, Carney had been clear about it. There was hate crime all over. Maybe Erin could upset the ship a little, warn the public about this freak. Maybe get Heming’s picture out there.

  He dialed her number. Erin answered immediately. ‘Who’s calling?’

  ‘Detective Harper, NYPD.’

  ‘So formal. Tom, good to hear from you. I’ll book us a nice cosy table in Greenwich Village.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You want to talk to me about this serial killer, I’m guessing, so why not talk somewhere comfortable?’

  ‘How did you know what I want?’

  ‘I’ve got many friends. They all like to talk to me. Some like more than that.’

  ‘What are they telling you?’

  ‘That Harper thinks there’s a hate killer out there. A pattern killer. Maybe a killer with a racial motivation.’

  ‘You work this out?’

  ‘I heard about the new body on Lower East Side. I also heard you were looking into the Esther Haeber murder. That’s three dead Jews, Harper. I can count, you know. That makes a series.’

  ‘How do you get all this information?’

  ‘I don’t know – I think it’s something to do with my nature. People just like to open up to me.’

  ‘I know your nature and you’ll do whatever you have to in order to get information, including debasing yourself.’

  ‘Nothing debased in sleeping with a cop, Detective. You should have more self-esteem.’

  ‘Well, I don’t.’

  ‘Come on, Harper, lighten up. I like you, let’s get together. See what happens.’

  ‘To talk about the case.’

  ‘And that too,’ said Erin.

  ‘Two Jewish women and one Jewish man got shot. But there’s no real connection. I might be way off-track.’

  ‘That’s not your style, you’re usually spot on. Of course, you might not have been calling about the case at all. Let’s consider that for a moment. I look forward to seeing you, Tom. Be nice working together – unless, of course, it’s something else you’re after.’

  ‘What’s the restaurant?’

  ‘Little deli. Nice place. Mosha’s.’ She gave him the address. ‘See you in one hour.’

  Harper ended the call. Erin Nash was used to using people, but in this case, Harper had an idea, a way of getting a great big spotlight turned on these murders. He needed Nash, because he needed the public to start giving him information.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Mosha’s Diner, The Village

  March 10, 7.28 p.m.

  Mosha’s was a simple table-screwed-to-the-floor Jewish deli that had once had a reputation for the best something or other, but had long since stopped giving a damn for quality just so long as things were served quickly and people were happy.

  Jake Mosh, the owner, still worked the front desk. Harper arrived before Erin Nash and waved towards a seat. ‘I’m waiting for someone,’ he called across to Jake.

  ‘No way you wait for someone. You order something. This is not a bus stop.’

  ‘Get me a coffee.’

  ‘Coffee is not good for you, a man needs to eat. I get you a waiting plate.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘One waiting plate for the cop.’

  Harper looked around.

  ‘What? You think you look like you write novels in Greenwich Village? You got that cop look, always checking out all the things. Cops have the wandering eye.’

  ‘You always like this?’

  ‘Like what? Like noticing things?’

  Harper sidled into a tight space in a corner. A cop seat. No one behind him, a good view of the whole deli. He was only just in his seat when a teenager with dark hair put a coffee cup in front of him.

  ‘Taste it. Best coffee in the world.’

  Harper nodded. She was obviously trained by Mosha himself. He took out his cell and checked the bird news. There were reports of Snow Geese upstate, flying high and honking through the night. It was enough to take him away for a moment.

  The door opened and in walked a small woman dressed up with several bangles on each arm. She jangled to the counter.

  ‘Erin, my beautiful bride. We get married soon – you promise?’ said Jake.

  ‘Oh, yeah, Mosh, very soon. Just after I’ve tried every other man in New York.’

  ‘I will wait. My wife understands. She was only ever a stand-in.’

  Erin was wearing a party dress. Black and silver. Hair done up high on her head. Not the weasel in jeans that Harper had got to know standing outside the precinct. She was looking pretty and elegant.

  Erin turned and looked. ‘See my friend took the seat.’

  ‘I knew he would.’

  ‘The test always works.’

  ‘I didn’t know he was yours.’

  ‘He’s not mine yet. He’s a cop.’

  ‘I know he’s a cop. Who else wears cologne like that these days?’

  Erin Nash walked across and sat opposite Harper. ‘Mosh tells me you’re wearing cologne.’

  ‘I shaved.’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘To avoid being picked up for vagrancy.’

  ‘Nice and smooth.’
/>   ‘This guy, Mosh, he’s a talker.’

  ‘Yeah, he talks. He’ll shoot you too if you don’t buy something.’

  ‘I got a waiting plate.’

  ‘Then you’re in trouble.’

  ‘You eating?’

  ‘Mosh will bring me something I like.’

  Harper looked at her arms. Thin. Four small tattoos on the under-side of each arm. Possibly Celtic, possibly Chinese. He couldn’t quite see, but that was the gist – origins. Usually someone else’s.

  ‘You look different.’

  ‘Are you flattered that I put on a dress?’

  ‘It doesn’t take much.’

  ‘Don’t be, I’ve got a launch party. Friend wrote a terrible book and we’ve all got to turn up and smile about it.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask. You know why? He’s a liberal with too much free time.’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Let’s cut to the chase, Erin. I don’t want to ruin your evening.’

  ‘You won’t. I might take you with me. You don’t look so bad.’

  A moment later, two waitresses appeared from the side. One carried a small bowl of soup and placed it before Erin. The next moved beside Harper and placed an enormous platter in front of him. It contained everything. Herring, chopped liver, gherkins, a salt-beef sandwich.

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Not in here, Tom. It’s David and Abraham all the way.’

  Harper smiled. He needed someone to bounce ideas off. Someone outside of the NYPD. Erin was not Denise Levene, but she was smart and cynical and she could get his story the angle he needed.

  ‘Tell me about your family,’ said Erin. ‘I guess you came from a stable little well-meaning unit out in Brooklyn.’

  ‘You been reading up on me?’

  ‘Couldn’t get much.’

  ‘Not much to get. Parents separated. Mother’s English, she took off back to the UK some years back. Father’s a drunk, he took off to Chicago. My sister still lives in the city. She’s a lawyer. Two kids. Great kids. Me and my sister have never been close, though. Hardly speak now. I’ve lost touch.’

  ‘She’s older, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Always bossing you around?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s the one in command.’

  ‘Smart too?’

  ‘She was always smarter than me. Went to college. Got a degree. Law firm. Worked hard. She’s bringing up the two kids well. I wish I could get to see them more.’

  ‘Such a tender story. Why you both in law?’

  ‘Do I need to tell you?’

  ‘Why? You think I should be able to work it out?’

  ‘No. I know you will have already found out. Erin Nash wouldn’t come unprepared now, would she?’

  ‘Okay, I did a little research. I was interested.’

  ‘I’m flattered. What about you, Erin, what’s your background?’

  ‘God, we’re like some soap opera. My story is simple. I was born like this. I was spoiled by my old man and hated by Mom. I learned to enjoy annoying her. It became an art. I now use the same tactics to get under other people’s skin.’

  ‘What tactics are those?’

  ‘All people like flattery, right? You work your way in, be real nice, make them feel that you’re in need of them until they let down their guard. Then when they’ve revealed an itsy-bitsy bit of weakness, you snap their hand off.’

  ‘I guess, in telling me this, you’re not trying to impress me.’

  ‘I like you. I’m not playing games with you. You know the score. You do the same with interrogations, I bet. Soft soap followed by sudden attack. So, I’m just being honest.’

  ‘For a change.’

  Tom pushed a gherkin around his plate. He thought of Denise, then looked up at Erin. He didn’t know what he was feeling at the moment. Hurt, mainly. The boxing match plus a couple of hits from Lukanov had left him with a few wounds. But beneath that, he was pleased to be working again, working with Denise.

  ‘Okay,’ said Nash. ‘Now let’s get down to business. Tell me about the case.’

  ‘Look, Erin, this isn’t official, but we’ve got unconnected Jewish deaths. Capske, you know about. I’ve got Esther Haeber from a few months back – and she’s Jewish. And South Manhattan found the body of a Jewish woman yesterday, apparently killed for no reason. Her name is Marisa Cohen. What’s more, about ten days ago, a Jewish high-school student was abducted.’

  ‘You’ve got links, haven’t you?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘These three Jewish murders are all linked by an “88” written at the scene and by the use of iron bullets.’

  ‘What’s the significance?’

  ‘Being blunt, he’s using Nazi symbols and Nazi bullets and he’s attacking the Jewish community.’

  ‘You’ve just written tomorrow’s headline story. What do you want from me?’

  ‘We need help. We’re searching for a man called Martin Heming. If we could get some public help on this, we might be able to stop him.’

  ‘You need pressure put on him.’

  ‘I need information. He’s speeding up. The time between kills is falling rapidly.’

  Erin Nash listened for another twenty minutes as Tom spoke and worked his way through his waiting plate. She nodded appropriately.

  At the end she said, ‘Hell of a story, that, Harper. I can write this, you know.’

  ‘I know, but you can’t say anything definite yet.’

  ‘I wouldn’t need to, Harper, that’s the beauty of journalism. You have to prove your case while I just have to throw my case to the public. We’re talking about the police linking the murders of Jewish people across the city.’

  ‘Don’t name me as the source.’

  Nash looked into Harper’s eyes. ‘Don’t worry, Tom. I understand. And thanks, this is another big break for me. Means I won’t have to do the story on Detective Harper’s addiction problems.’ She drank up and smiled.

  ‘You leaving?’ said Harper.

  ‘Yeah. I’ve got a party to go to.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time,’ she said. ‘I like to travel light. Company gets in the way of a good story.’

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  North Manhattan Homicide

  March 10, 11.11 p.m.

  Denise met Harper outside her building. ‘I need sleep,’ she said, and looked at Harper. ‘You more than me, maybe.’

  ‘We can sleep when this is over. What did you get?’

  ‘I’ve been working all evening. First thing is that Aaron called. He found a link between the words. You know, the words Loyalty and Valiance that were printed on the card.’

  ‘Yeah, so what do they mean?’

  ‘The motto of the SS. Loyalty, Valiance, Obedience.’

  ‘The SS, as in the Nazi Party SS?’

  ‘Yeah. We think he’s playing a part. Trying to make it as authentic as possible.’

  ‘Anything to help find him or nail him?’

  ‘Not yet, but I spent some time thinking and then it came to me – where I’d seen those marks on David’s chest. My father used to show me images from the Holocaust. I think I might have another link between David and Abby.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The tattoo on David Capske’s chest. I think it was a number.’

  ‘Marisa Cohen had something written on her chest too, but the water washed it away. They found some residual signs of ink. And he’d removed her blouse.’

  ‘He writes numbers on their bodies,’ said Denise.

  Harper noticed the heavy tone in her voice. He pulled out his notebook and flicked through. Stared down at the marks. ‘Could be,’ he said. ‘You got a theory for me? The guys at Forensics were trying to match letters.’

  ‘They look like prisoner numbers, Tom. After Aaron found the SS link, I just went with the
idea. The SS ran the concentration camps. They numbered prisoners’ chests. They’re not letters,’ she said, her fingers running across the scratches in ink. ‘They’re prisoner numbers. He thinks he’s running some prison camp.’

  Harper felt his breath catch. It was so obvious, but they’d missed it. He’d missed it. She leaned over his shoulder. He felt her closeness.

  ‘What’s the number?’ he said.

  Denise stared hard at the scratches, trying to discern a pattern.

  Then she smiled. ‘Well, although numbers are infinite, in fact, in our limited numerical system, there are only nine numbers and one zero.’

  She took a pen and scratched a number four through the second set of dots. ‘Looks like a four.’

  ‘Could be a one or seven to start with,’ said Harper. He watched the numbers emerge on the paper below. ‘There’s a cross on the third. Got to be another four,’ he said quickly. They continued to stare at the marks on the page.

  ‘744 . . .’ said Harper. He turned and looked at Denise.

  ‘Or 144,’ she said. ‘144003.’

  ‘That was quick. You know that number?’ Harper asked.

  ‘Abby Goldenberg’s kidnapper sent a letter to her father. It gave her weight and blood pressure. And it gave her a number. It was 144002.’

  ‘David’s the next in the sequence,’ said Harper.

  ‘So Esther was presumably the first kill,’ said Denise. ‘144001.’ Harper wrote down the four consecutive numbers: 144001, 144002, 144003, 144004. Would the sequence continue? Who would be number 144005?

  ‘What do the numbers mean?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll see what I can find.’