88 Killer

by Oliver Stark

  ‘I don’t know, ten minutes?’

  Harper looked around. He spoke quietly: ‘The killer knows we’re here now, but he’s still going to want those prints.’

  ‘How the hell did he know we were on a stake-out?’

  ‘He’s not just a cop, is he? He’s a fucking smart cop.’

  A second later, the lights flickered and then died. Harper pulled Eddie to one side. ‘He’s going to try to take them – get out of the line of fire.’

  In the darkness, they heard a key in the door to the room. ‘He’s locking us in,’ shouted Harper. ‘Do you have a key?’

  ‘Sure,’ said the security guard, but there wasn’t any time. Something smashed the window of the door and a lighted bottle flew in the room. It shattered over the floor and the contents exploded into flame. Harper and Eddie jumped.

  ‘What the fuck do we do?’

  ‘Is there a sprinkler system?’ said Harper.

  ‘Sure, in the corridor, but not in the photography lab.’

  Harper ran towards the door as the flames spread and caught the wood of the benches and the books and files.

  The security guard moved to the door and tried his key. ‘Shit, he’s broken his key in the lock.’

  Harper’s flashlight picked out the jagged edges of the door windows. It was too small to get through. Eddie moved across, holding his mouth as the thick black smoke started to rise and fill the room. He stumbled against the broken glass, his hand sliced across. ‘I’m cut, Harper.’

  ‘We got to get out of here,’ said Harper. ‘Get you some help.’

  The smoke was filling the room. Harper took his Glock and pumped three bullets into the lock mechanism, then kicked the door open. He rolled into the corridor, his gun in one hand, his flashlight in the other. ‘All clear,’ he shouted.

  The security guard led them as quickly as they could through the dark corridors. He pressed the alarm on the wall and the sprinkler system kicked in. Somewhere down the corridors, they could hear a door slamming. The killer was ahead, but not far.

  ‘Is there a quicker way out of here?’ asked Harper.

  ‘Not unless you just burst out through the windows.’

  ‘Which windows?’ said Harper.

  The security guard moved across to a door and opened it. The room was illuminated by the faint moonlight from outside. ‘Gotcha,’ said Harper. ‘Get an ambulance, Eddie.’

  ‘I got to come with you,’ said Eddie.

  ‘You’ll slow me down,’ said Harper, then he ran at the window, shot once and watched the plate-glass shatter and fall. He leaped on to the bench and out of the window.

  A figure was moving quickly across the ground, towards a car. Harper sighted him and shot twice. The shots missed and Harper sprinted towards the car. The figure jumped in and the car’s engine rumbled to life. Harper shot again and hit a side window. The car didn’t make a U-turn as expected, it turned to the right and Harper heard the sound of its undercarriage screech and scrape on the concrete edge of the lawn. The headlights rose across the ground and Harper was suddenly illuminated in a wide patch of grass with no hiding place.

  The car started to gain speed, the bumps in the ground making it lift and lurch left to right. It was a hundred yards away and gaining fast. Harper had no time to run; he stood firm and put his gun hand out, steadying it with the other. Shooting someone dead through the windshield of a car that was traveling at speed was hard enough; with the tension and the darkness it was ten times more difficult.

  He waited as the car approached. He had one chance and had to leave it as late as possible. Harper counted down. At two seconds he would shoot to the right side of the driver and jump to his left.

  His finger pressed. Three seconds. He was blinded now by the headlights, by the roar of the engine. Two seconds. He shot twice and threw himself to the left. The car veered right and clipped Harper’s feet as he was moving through the air.

  Harper turned, his gun pointing as the car drove on a few more seconds, then stopped. Harper exhaled. He’d hit him. The killer was down.

  Harper scrambled to his feet and moved cautiously towards the car. He peered into the darkness, but through the shattered windshield he couldn’t see a thing. He moved round to the driver’s side. There was a body leaning against the door. He could just make out the trickle of blood from a wound on the side of the head. Harper pulled open the door. Then a gunshot rang out from inside the car. Harper was thrown backwards and the dead driver was pushed out on top of him.

  A masked face glanced across. The killer moved across to the driver’s seat and drove the car away.

  ‘Two of them,’ said Harper. ‘There were two of them.’ He shoved the dead weight off him, stood up and turned over the body at his feet.

  Martin Heming’s grimace and wide eyes stared back at him.

  Chapter One Hundred and Three

  Photography Labs, Manhattan

  March 15, 4.53 a.m.

  Harper ran across the open ground and reached Denise in the car. He was breathing deeply. ‘We got to follow that car.’

  ‘Yes – are you all right?’

  ‘I’m okay. What the hell happened?’ said Tom.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Denise. ‘They must have dropped one guy off earlier. One guy came out, then the second guy came out a couple of minutes later – the one you shot at.’

  ‘Let’s follow,’ said Harper. ‘We’ve got to get this killer.’

  ‘Where’s Eddie?’

  ‘He got hurt.’

  ‘Bad?’

  ‘I hope not. He’s okay, I think.’

  Denise drove off.

  ‘Did you get the plates?’ Harper asked.

  ‘Sure, here.’ Denise tossed him a notebook. They could see the tail lights up ahead. Harper called base and put out an APB on the license-plate.

  ‘It was Martin Heming,’ said Harper.

  ‘Heming?’

  ‘The guy on the grass. He’s dead. I don’t fully understand his involvement yet. We got a lot of working out to do. He wasn’t involved in the killings. There was only one guy at the Capske scene and the Glass scene. Heming might have been helping him. Or maybe the killer was blackmailing him, who knows?’

  They drove in silence, Harper trying to keep focused on the tail lights ahead. ‘He’s heading into Brooklyn,’ he said.

  ‘Abby and Lucy are in danger,’ said Denise. ‘If he’s panicking, he could do anything. We can’t lose him.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Harper. ‘So put your foot down.’

  They drove over the bridge and into Brooklyn. The car they were following headed into the area called Bedford-Stuyvesant. Harper watched the car slow ahead. Then it turned.

  ‘I think we’ve found his lair,’ said Harper.

  ‘You think we should call for backup?’

  ‘Yes, but we can’t wait for it. We’ve got to get Lucy and Abby out of there now.’

  They turned the final corner and saw a long alley. The car had vanished. They drove on, then turned and circled, but the car was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘What now?’ said Denise.

  ‘Now,’ said Harper, ‘we try to find him again. We’ve lost him. I’ll call Patrol, get this area saturated.’ Harper shook his head. ‘Shit. How the hell did he slip away? We almost had the bastard.’

  Chapter One Hundred and Four

  Lock-Up, Bedford-Stuyvesant

  March 15, 5.35 a.m.

  The killer entered the lock-up and slammed the door. He was sweating; it had been a very close call. Too close. They had nearly caught him. Time was short now. There was nothing else to do. His final plan had to be actioned. Ahead of him, Lucy stared out of her Plexiglass and brick prison. His shirt was covered with pieces of glass and his face was bright red.

  He stood for a moment, shaking, unable to move; his rage was burning him up inside. He moved across to his desk and violently swept everything aside. The typewriter and papers and Nazi medals cascaded to the floor. Then he turned.
He stared at Lucy. She was the origin. He picked up the typewriter and threw it across the room. It hit the Plexiglass and rebounded on to the floor.

  He turned away, running his fingers through his hair. Across the room, he had written the eighty-eight words that once upon a time had meant so much.

  There was nothing else left now. There was no need to wait, no need to hide, no need to keep Lucy or Abby alive. They were closing in on him. He felt the noose tightening. He had to destroy them, pack up, and then make his final point.

  Heming was dead but it didn’t matter. The man was expendable. He had come across Heming when he needed help, when he had needed Section 88 to help hurt and destroy.

  He had big plans now and he’d have to carry them out alone. Karl Leer had got him another old truck. It was an orange Dodge and it was waiting outside.

  It would be just like it was in the book about Sturbe. The book that he had devoured, that had incited him and made him feel that he also had the power to turn all that feeling of being bullied and broken into revenge – not against his attackers, but against those that they attacked too.

  Sturbe had come alive in his mind. He was like a father to him. A guiding light. When the Jews tried to resist, in the Warsaw Ghetto, German troops destroyed the synagogue. A final symbolic gesture. He would do the same.

  He turned to Lucy. The time had come. They all had to die. He had to die too. No question, no question at all. It was only a matter of when.

  He opened the door to Abby’s closet, pulled her out forcibly and dragged her to her feet.

  She was weak but she screamed her lungs out in a hoarse voice. The killer held her neck and squeezed, watching the pain cross her face. Lucy banged frantically on the Plexiglass. She howled at him to stop.

  He stared at Abby with grim satisfaction before pulling open the door of his gas chamber and throwing her inside as Lucy raced at him, trying to reach the door before he slammed it shut and bolted it.

  He stood staring at them, breathing deeply. He wasn’t sure any more if it was real or a game. He felt the emotion welling up in his chest. He had to be strong to the end.

  He moved across to the canister of Zyklon B and saw the reaction in the gas chamber, as blind panic spread over the faces of Abby and Lucy and they began screaming and hitting the Plexiglass. He would not kill them yet, he decided. They would be last. First, he had to make sure of something. Everything was a battle and this one he wanted to win.

  Chapter One Hundred and Five

  The Brooklyn Library

  March 15, 7.05 a.m.

  ‘Lafayette, it’s Harper. We lost the killer. We chased him to Bed-Stuy and he disappeared. Eddie’s in the hospital – he’ll tell you everything.’

  Lafayette was pacing his room. ‘Shootings at the Forensic Unit, Harper? An operation I knew nothing about? Is this right what I’m hearing? I’m telling you, get back here now.’

  ‘I can’t. He’s going to do something. He’s taking big risks. He’s feeling the pressure. You’ve got to let me do what I can to try to find him.’

  ‘The Chief of Detectives has called me in, Harper. You know what he’s saying? I’ve fucked up. I can’t lead my men. And you, Harper, you’ve let this case run away with you.’

  ‘I’d like to listen to the lecture, Captain, but I’m running out of time.’

  ‘Don’t you dare hang up. I’ll have you on a charge, Harper.’

  ‘Then I can’t come in until this is finished, you understand.’ Harper hung up and turned to Denise. ‘This has to work. We’ve got to find out who this killer is.’

  ‘No one knows if it will or won’t help, but Aaron has been working through the library stacks. He thinks it’s the only link.’

  ‘What’s he got?’

  ‘Just like we said – the book on Sturbe was in very few libraries.

  He know our killer is local, so we can presume his local library was in Brooklyn. Only one Brooklyn library held his book.’

  ‘And this is it?’ said Harper, looking up at the dark Gothic façade.

  ‘Dr Goldenberg’s already inside. We had to get the librarian to come in and open specially for us.’

  ‘I’ll leave you here,’ said Harper. ‘I’m going to see Eddie and then I’m going to see if those patrol cops got any leads in Bed-Stuy. If there’s nothing, I’ll be talking to the agents selling Nazi memorabilia, see if they got me anything. Call me.’

  Aaron Goldenberg brushed a thick layer of dust off an old volume. His face was growing more drawn each day. Denise put her hand out and touched his arm. ‘She’ll be okay.’

  ‘She’s been missing so long. Be honest with me, Denise, what are her chances?’

  ‘We got to keep trying, got to keep believing that she’s still alive.’

  ‘I will try,’ he said. He looked around the room. ‘I spend a lot of time here.’

  ‘Studying?’

  ‘Now, yes, but as a kid I didn’t study much. Like Abby. She’s lazy too.’

  ‘Didn’t think of you as the rebel type.’

  He took out his reading glasses and put them on, then he walked along the stacks, saying, ‘Come on, let’s be quick. Abby’s out there, right? The answer’s in here, yes?’

  Denise saw a long line of old filing cabinets. ‘Yes, Aaron. In here. We just got to find it. You go that way, I’ll see if they’ve got a catalog.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, ‘but it won’t necessarily lead you to the book.’

  ‘It doesn’t need to, does it?’

  ‘Guess not.’ Aaron Goldenberg moved slowly down each aisle, moving his eyes up and down the rows. He knew the numbering system. ‘They never moved to Dewey. They never liked Dewey.’

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘Stupid system.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No. Dewey set up a club. It excluded Jews. Hard to swallow.’

  ‘The truth often is,’ said Denise. She located the catalog. ‘These aren’t in title or author order. What do I look for?’

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On the judgment of the librarian. Sturbe’s story could come under a number of headings. Biography, Military History, Holocaust, Infamous Jews, Criminal Minds.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘You just have to use your instinct. If it was here, it’ll be in the catalog. I never knew the book. Not my thing as a boy.’

  ‘What was your thing? Rabbinical texts? Kabbalah?’

  ‘You have me down as an academic, Dr Levene.’

  ‘You are, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am now. Back then, no. Back then I liked Harold Robbins.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  Aaron nodded. ‘I hid his books in Rabbinical texts.’ His face creased. Every few minutes she could see the horrible thoughts crossing his mind. He was trying to keep himself together, but it wasn’t easy. He was tortured by the imaginings that he couldn’t keep from appearing

  Denise felt his pain. She knelt by the side of the first filing cabinet and pulled out the old metal drawers. The whiff of mold and mildew mixed with the puff of fungus dust. She leaned back. ‘I’ll start with Biography.’

  ‘Please do,’ said Aaron.

  Silence fell in the room. Aaron’s slow footsteps continued to move along each shelf, and Denise’s search was punctuated by the squeal of old runners. She flicked through the old cards, her eyes looking for the single word. Sturbe. He wasn’t in Biography, or under Criminal Minds, or under Holocaust. Denise shut the drawer. ‘There’s only a dozen entries under Holocaust.’

  Aaron stopped and looked up. ‘Holocaust. Yes. Specifically titles addressing the generic topic. Anything else will be under a more specific title.’

  Denise looked down the letters on the front of the cabinets.

  She thought about Tom Harper and looked at her watch. He’d be wanting a call by now.

  Her eyes stopped on the ‘W’. She opened the drawer and flicked the files forward. She stopped at Warsaw.

  ‘
Aaron,’ she called out. ‘She filed it under the Warsaw Ghetto.’

  Aaron moved quickly towards her, with his face full of expectation. ‘You found it! Come on, Denise. We’ve got to be quick.’

  Denise held up the card. Sturbe: The Story of a Jew by Malachai Jiresh. The writing was on a pink card that had faded all along the top edge. The typing was old and in two colors, half blue, half red with some letters light on the page. She handed it to Aaron.

  ‘I didn’t think we’d find it,’ he said. Tears would’ve come, but he shook his head. He let the feelings turn hard and tried to focus his mind. He looked at the number.

  ‘H.831.33.2,’ he repeated.

  Denise and Aaron ran back up the stairs. ‘You don’t want to find the book?’ she asked.

  ‘I want the bastard’s name, not the book,’ he panted.

  ‘I understand,’ said Denise.

  They rose up the wooden stairs and into the light.

  Denise approached the desk. The library wasn’t open but she saw the bright-eyed woman who’d helped get them access to the archives. ‘We found the reference.’

  ‘Well, then,’ said the woman, ‘if you’ve got the book number, I’ll see what I can get you.’

  The woman disappeared. Thirty minutes later she came back. ‘It’s not good, I’m afraid. I’m sorry.’

  ‘What? It’s not there?’ said Aaron.

  ‘No, please, come this way.’

  Denise and Aaron followed her down a long corridor. ‘I had hoped that the records would have been put in some order.’ She opened the door marked Archive to reveal shelves of old ledgers.

  ‘Even for her day, the librarian was an old-fashioned woman, but fastidious. Once you have the reader, you can look through the reader cards and find the whole of his or her reader history. But without a name . . .’

  ‘Can we set ourselves up in here?’ Denise asked.

  ‘Sure, please do. I’m sorry it’s not any easier.’

  The door closed. Denise and Aaron stared at the rows of books. Aaron pulled one out. He opened it. ‘All handwritten. There’s a lot of borrowing. We’re never going to be able to find him.’