by Oliver Stark
‘Did they get anything I don’t know about?’ called Harper.
‘They were thorough,’ said Eddie. ‘Every part of these apartments was tagged, boxed and removed. But it’ll take weeks to go through all the computer files. We’ve cracked a big organization, Harper.’
‘But left the lead psycho roaming the streets.’ Harper looked up. He could see that the hate model that Denise had out - lined would work with a man like Heming – personal slight, perceived slight, a build-up of violence and highs from the kills – but was this guy the same man who tortured Capske, killed Becky, Marisa and Esther, who was holding Abby?
Lafayette came down and patted Harper on the shoulder. ‘Good work, Harper.’
‘It’s not over.’
‘Not yet. But we got to hope, right?’
‘Right.’
‘Listen up,’ said Lafayette. ‘We just got a request from the Jewish community. They feel it’s important to respond to last night’s attack.’
‘It sure is.’
‘They want to show solidarity with the victims and give New Yorkers the chance to come together to show positive support for the Jewish community.’
‘What do they say at Headquarters?’
‘The Mayor is behind it, so we’re behind it.’
‘Could be a security risk. What are they planning?’ asked Harper.
‘There’s going to be a major vigil for the murder victims and a celebration of the Jewish community. They want to use Union Park. Thousands will show up.’
‘That’s not good news – it could just be another target for him.’
‘If you can’t stop the killer then you sure as hell can’t stop them mourning and joining together, Harper.’
‘It’s dangerous, that’s all I’m saying.’
‘That’s why I’m here. Leave will be canceled. You need to put together your team. It’ll be policed so heavily nothing could happen, but I want your eyes and ears down on the ground.’
Chapter Seventy-Three
Lock-Up, Bedford-Stuyvesant
March 13, 9.58 a.m.
He knew everything, past and present. He knew pain and the absence of pain. He knew success and he knew failure. He had failed. They were so fucking close. He had to think. He had to do something. Something that changed the game for good. He faced the wall in full uniform. He felt the pain again. Failure.
He took Abby Goldenberg, Prisoner 144002, out of the tiny closet that had been her cell for the past few weeks, and felt the rush of pain. He pulled her into the center of the room.
‘Reject your Jewry or you die now.’ The gun rose, pressed hard against her temple. She trembled but did not speak. He had failed. Again. His superiors would be unhappy with him. Again.
‘It is a new game I have to play now, 144002. I have to hurt them. They have children who could identify me. I need to do something that will be remembered for all time. And you are going to pay too, unless you choose differently. What have you got to say?’
‘I need food,’ said Abby.
The killer snarled. ‘No more food.’
‘Please,’ she begged.
‘My boots are dirty.’ The killer twisted the barrel of the gun tighter to her temple. ‘Every day, my father made me clean his boots. And if they were not clean, he threw them into the cellar. I had to go down into the dark to fetch them. There were no lights in the cellar. It was damp and cold and so dark. I can’t tell you how dark it was. When I was in the cellar, he would shut the door and lock it. I was in the cellar for hours. When he let me out, he would inspect his boots again. But in the dark, I could not clean them well. He would throw them down those stone steps again. Again and again, until his boots shone.’
‘Your father was unkind,’ said Abby.
‘Cruel and unkind. Yes. Now open your shirt,’ he ordered. Abby remained still. ‘It is an order.’
Abby trembled and fumbled with her buttons. He dragged her shirt open and pushed it over her shoulder. ‘You are scared to die, Abby?’ He pulled a knife from his belt and held it to her chest. She shook and swayed but refused to cry out.
‘144002,’ he said. ‘Now you must choose.’
‘No,’ she said.
‘You repent now, 144002. Reject your religion. I am here to save you. You will be one of the saved. One of the 144,000. I have to help them. It is the final time, the moment, and we must be ready. Your time has come.’
She was crying. He rested the barrel on the top of her head. ‘Can you feel how close death is?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you reject your Jewry, Abby? Will you be one of our number? Reject it, as I have done. Abby? Will you?’
She looked up. She shook her head. ‘No, I will not.’
He pushed her hard and in anger. She flew across the ground. ‘You think you are better than me? I make them all reject their Jewry. You will too, when the pain is too great. I promise you, you will scream to give up your Jewry.’
Chapter Seventy-Four
North Manhattan Homicide
March 13, 11.05 a.m.
Erin Nash was standing at the entrance of the station house. She’d given up the subtle approach and was trying to stalk Harper into submission. He had studiously ignored her calls since the operation.
The NYPD had failed to capture Martin Heming. In fact, they’d let him slip through their fingers. Nash wanted the scoop. She knew from sources within the NYPD that Harper and Carney had nearly come face to face with the killer, and that Harper could give her an exclusive.
Erin had started digging into Heming’s background. He was your standard little guy with a big chip on his shoulder and some dangerous ideology to help hone and focus all his negative energy.
From reading his websites, she guessed that Heming was acting out of personal anger and perceived slight, and out of the ideological bigotry he’d absorbed through ten years of neo-Nazi meetings and ultra-right-wing conferences.
Nash also found something more interesting. He seemed to be acting out of a long-lasting resentment of his own wife and hatred for her new Jewish husband. Was it that simple? He was just some failed, cowardly impotent, looking for a target to hit out at. There was nothing extraordinary about this man who had killed all those innocent people. Nothing extraordinary at all. In fact, he was banal.
Erin spotted Detective Harper and Levene walking across the street to the station house. Harper looked bad. She jumped out and blocked his path.
‘How’s my hero?’
‘I’m not a hero.’
‘They say if you try hard enough, everyone gives in.’
‘It’s probably true, but how many years have you got?’
‘Come on, Harper, I just want an interview. Your story. The cop who came face to face with the 88 Killer. You got to be heard, for the sake of those people who lost their lives.’
‘I didn’t see him.’
‘They said you did.’
‘Not me,’ said Harper. ‘Wish I had, but I was second to this one.’
‘Who got there first?’
‘Detective Jack Carney of Hate Crime Unit.’
‘I don’t know him. Should I be speaking to him?’
‘He didn’t see him either.’
‘Sad, isn’t it. You’re having to play Buzz Aldrin to his Neil Armstrong.’
‘This isn’t moon walking, Erin. This is serious.’
‘I know that, Harper.’ She turned to Denise. ‘Denise Levene. You’re back at work? I didn’t know you were on the case. The A Team is back in business, is that right?’
‘No,’ said Tom. ‘Denise is not officially on this case.’
‘Never mind,’ said Erin. ‘You’re obviously quite special, Dr Levene. Tom Harper doesn’t share his thoughts with many people.’
‘Cut it out,’ said Tom.
‘Come on, something happened last night, didn’t it, Detective? You had the killer in your sights, so how the hell did he get away?’
‘He just did. We were a few minutes too lat
e.’
‘How did he get the location of the kids?’
‘You heard the press conference, we are looking into it.’
‘You fired shots in the alley. I hear your gun’s been taken, right?’
‘Standard procedure. We tried to take the killer down but the killer evaded us. He shot at me. I shot back.’
Harper made his way up the steps and pulled open the big brown door.
‘I’m going to keep at it, Detective. I’m going to stick to this story until I get an angle. I always do, you know.’
Harper waved without turning and closed the door. He didn’t doubt her.
Chapter Seventy-Five
Borough Park, Brooklyn
March 13, 11.17 a.m.
The killer straightened the front of his coat, flicked a thread from one of the shining black buttons, pressed his hair against his head and replaced the low cap that covered his face. His facial muscles creased and flexed as if he were trying to straighten out his expression. He had been standing across from the synagogue for two hours now and the soles of his feet ached. He felt that the world was spiraling away from him. He needed to concentrate all that pain on to one object. One detested type of person. He looked up at the sky. It was an uneven color. A line of dark gray growing across the horizon to a heavy ominous stormcloud just out in the Atlantic.
He checked his watch, moved his head from side to side to stretch his neck muscles, then shifted his weight from foot to foot. He had read most of the newspapers that morning and got a thrill out of the thrashing anger of the media. He liked it in the way an animal enjoys the resistance of its prey when it struggles in its jaws. They were angry, the Jews were outraged and the police were full of confident rhetoric. They were all pleased with themselves. But he was unconcerned. It was not him they should be hunting down, but the Jews conspiring against America.
He knew now what he had to do, though. He had to continue like he had been doing, keep the pressure on himself and keep watching. There were two security guards outside the synagogue, there to protect the Jews. He smiled at the thought and walked across. The synagogue was situated twenty feet back from the street, with a raised plaza in front with four benches.
The first security guard moved over to stop him. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ he said in a thick foreign accent.
‘Terrible thing, last night, wasn’t it?’
‘Very bad thing,’ said the guard.
‘I want to help. Is there something planned?’
‘You’ll hear later today,’ said the guard. ‘They want to plan a vigil in Union Square.’
The killer nodded. ‘A good idea. It will attract all their supporters. A very positive step.’
‘It will be big,’ said the guard. ‘You can be sure of that.’
The man knew that the doors would soon open, the Jews would come out and he needed to disappear. ‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘Hope it goes well. Hope nobody does anything stupid and ruins it.’
The guard looked on. ‘Thank you.’
The door to the synagogue opened, and the men and women started to appear. They had been planning the event. A big event right in the heart of Manhattan. The killer lowered his head and walked away.
Chapter Seventy-Six
North Manhattan Homicide
March 13, 11.54 a.m.
The late morning light streamed into the small room off the investigation room that Denise was using as an office. The Sturbe profile had been going backwards and forwards between her and Aaron Goldenberg. They were starting to piece together a picture of Josef Sturbe.
Harper walked along the corridor, the next phase of the investigation clicking through his mind. He pushed open the door. Denise looked up.
‘I’ve been going through the profile again,’ she told him.
‘You need more time?’
‘You left me less than an hour ago.’
‘So did you get anything in that hour?’
Denise smiled and sniffed the air. ‘You could do with a new set of clothes, big guy. You smell like a night in a cell.’
He couldn’t say the same of her. Not at all. ‘Less of the advice, just talk me through this Sturbe profile.’
‘Initially, we thought Sturbe was chosen because he was a vicious Nazi who took the law into his own hands and murdered in his own way, in his own time. We thought this gave our killer validation as a model and an identity so that he didn’t have to think of himself as doing these things. But now we don’t think that’s what the killer is seeing. We think that Sturbe means something personal to him.’
Harper crossed to the window. ‘Is this going to be difficult?’ he said. ‘I haven’t eaten or slept, and my brain’s getting all dysfunctional on me.’
‘Be quiet and listen,’ said Denise. ‘You can sleep later. The killer is a neo-Nazi who executes people with a point-blank gunshot to the head. He has this neo-Nazi agenda, this Sturbe identity, but he is psychologically and emotionally motivated, not ideologically motivated.’
‘I understand, Denise, I’m not an idiot.’
‘Sometimes it’s difficult to tell.’
Harper gave her a look. Denise ignored it and continued. ‘We’ve been hunting for the political elements of the killing and missing some key details.’
‘Which are?’
‘The Sturbe link isn’t just political, Tom. This killer is acting out some ritual and the level of overkill is frightening. Sturbe isn’t one of your well-known Nazis. He’s been chosen for a reason. I don’t believe things are chosen randomly, and if it’s not random then the killer has some personal reason for taking Sturbe as his model. We’re trying to find where the profile of the killer and Sturbe meet. In simple terms, Sturbe is hard to research – so where did our killer come into contact with him?’
‘I understand,’ said Harper. ‘Well, soon as you’ve got something, let me know.’
Denise stopped. ‘You heard anything from the team with the children?’ she asked.
‘I talked to the head psych.’ Harper grimaced. ‘He was less than impressed.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Would it help catch the guy? I said no. He asked me in what universe was it a good fucking idea to show these children a photograph of Martin Heming, their mother’s killer?’
‘And what did you answer?’
‘The NYPD. It’s that kind of universe.’
‘He didn’t laugh?’
Harper shook his head.
Lafayette appeared just as Harper was about to leave. ‘How are you, Harper?’ He paused but Harper remained silent. ‘Okay, an easier question. What did Forensics find at the safe house?’
Harper rubbed his face. The whole team had been on the go all night trying to track the killer, but every lead had turned cold. ‘Look, crazy as it sounds, they’ve not been able to find a single piece of material evidence.’
‘What about the car?’
‘Nothing there either.’
‘This guy’s invisible. You sure they got nothing?’
‘They got all kinds of stuff, but it all belongs to the safe-house team, cops or the children. He must’ve tried real hard to keep things that clean.’
‘What about the leak? Someone gave the killer the location of the safe house.’
Harper looked out across at his team. They were a hive of activity even though nothing was opening up. He turned to Lafayette. ‘I’ve had all night to think about it. There’s not many cops who knew the whereabouts of those kids, but one of them, for some reason, let that information leak. I’m not saying it was deliberate.’
‘You got any ideas about this accident?’
Harper nodded. ‘The killer didn’t just know where the kids were, he knew that the second officer wasn’t there.’
‘You think it’s the second officer?’
‘I talked to him. He made a mistake. He knew he wasn’t going to make it on time so he radioed Candy Simons. He gave the street name and said he wouldn’t get there until midnight. All t
he killer would need was a scanner.’
Captain Lafayette shook his head. ‘Shit. I can’t believe that. You got a name? I’ve got to report this.’
‘I already told him to own up. Better it comes from him.’
‘Another fucking casualty of this thing,’ said Lafayette, and walked off down the corridor with heavy steps.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Apartment, New York
March 13, 12.14 p.m.
The killer lay on his bed holding a small fob with two keys in his hand and twisting them in the light. He smoked a cigarette and watched the smoke twirl above him. He was thinking about his next steps. His eyes flicked to the right. There was a map of New York City on the wall. He had marked each kill with a dot. Around his tour of duty was a thick black line. He knew what had to be done, but it wasn’t enough. He put the two keys into his top pocket.
This was what it felt like, at the end of things. He knew the end was coming, but it needed to be on his terms, not theirs. He sat up and poured himself another drink. He took a sip, swilled it around his gums, then swallowed. Things had changed now, people were getting close. The children were still alive. That was a mistake. He didn’t like leaving traces and the children could identify him. It cut deep, making mistakes like that. It was unacceptable.
The problem was Harper. Since he’d taken over the investigations, things had blown up all over town. The news was full of the shootings. The cops were all over his area and the Jews were walking in twos and avoiding going out alone at night. Harper was good. Harper had pieced together the attack on the children. Somehow, he had known about it. How was that?
Harper made links and connections that other cops didn’t. Other cops were dumb and mindless. Harper had clarity, he looked sideways, he knew how to think. Harper was dangerous. The killer dragged hard on his cigarette and blew the smoke out fast. A haze of blue in front of his eyes. He needed a paradigm shift. He needed to change the nature of the attacks. Patterns were what cops looked for.
