by Blake Banner
“Come on. Give me a break. You’re basing a theory that the arms belong to the victim of a serial killer on what? The fact that they were found in a lockup?”
The waiter arrived with two frothing beers, and I asked him for two sirloin steaks with plenty of french fries, easy on the salad. I glanced at Dehan. “That okay with you?”
“I thought we were having pizza.”
“In this weather? You’ve got to be kidding.” I nodded at him. He bowed and went away. “Okay, Dehan, go wild here, really go out on a limb, push the boundaries of credibility and find me one single theory that is more credible than mine.”
She was silent a long while, staring at the coals. Eventually, she sighed. “You always wind up with the same problem—why didn’t he do the same to the arms as he did to the rest of the body?”
I sipped my beer. “And the related question, which to me is more important, having successfully disposed of the whole body, what benefit does he get from leaving the arms somewhere where he knows for sure they will be found?”
“What benefit does he get…?” she muttered.
“The benefit is right there, in the question…”
“That they will be found.”
“Precisely. Which leads us to the next question. In what way is that a benefit to him?”
She sighed again. “And we’re back to square one. He is either throwing a scare into somebody, or…”
“Or the benefit is subjective. It gives him a kick, a thrill, an ego boost. And that leaves us very firmly in one place. Serial killer territory. Somebody who kills for pleasure.”
“If you’re right, Stone, the problem becomes much more complicated. This woman could be from anywhere in the United States, and the rest of her could be scattered from here to California.”
“Yup.” I nodded. “And the lack of motive means we have no idea what kind of man we’re looking for.”
“Serial killers are always men, right?”
“Male. There was one case of a woman serial killer, but she was emotionally and intellectually male. The overwhelming majority are men. Within that, there is no profile for a serial killer. They tend to have average to below-average intelligence, though a few are highly intelligent. They tend to be underachievers and feel inadequate, though some have risen very high in their professions as doctors or soldiers. They tend to be victims of violent, unhappy families, though again, one or two have come from perfectly normal, middle-class families. The only thing they really have in common is that they invert the normal progression for killing.”
The waiter, wearing an air of triumph, delivered our steaks, gave a little bow, and withdrew.
I cut into mine and watched the blood ooze onto the plate. It was perfect. Dehan said, “What does that mean?”
I chewed, enjoying the rich flavor, watching the luminous beads of rain slide down the black glass on the window.
“Normally, in a murder, there is a very clear progression. The killer and the victim meet and form a relationship. Often it’s a loving relationship, sometimes a business relationship. Always it’s a close relationship. The relationship provides the motive for killing—jealousy, vengeance, financial gain… Those are the big three. And from the motive springs the desire to kill. So relationship leads to motive leads to desire. The serial killer inverts that process.”
She sat back and sipped. “So the serial killer first forms the desire to kill. He doesn’t care who. He just wants to kill. From the desire he develops the motive—the desire is his motive. And then he develops a relationship with his chosen victim.”
I nodded. “Exactly. The relationship may be short, a few minutes or hours, or it may be longer. But usually he will start by stalking, then sometimes he will progress to kidnapping…”
She waved her knife at me. “I have read that they fall into roughly two categories, organized and disorganized…”
I shook my head and spoke with my mouth full.
“Three. Organized, disorganized, and mixed. If I’m right, and it is still a big if, we are most likely to be dealing with an organized serial killer.”
“Why?”
I gazed down into the flames in the fire. “Organized serial killers plan their killings methodically. The placing of the arms in the lockup, the absence of any forensic evidence, the absence of any witnesses—it all suggests methodical planning.” She nodded and continued eating. I carried on talking, thinking aloud. “Often they will abduct their victims, kill them in one place, and then dispose of the body somewhere else. As you said, if I am right, she could have been killed anywhere in the U.S.A.
“They often target prostitutes. Not only are hookers likely to go voluntarily with a stranger, they are also less likely to be reported missing. He will have control over the crime scene and have a good knowledge of forensic science. He will also follow reports on the news relating to his crime, because he will feel a kind of narcissistic pride in what he’s done, as though it were some kind of achievement.
“Organized killers often seem normal. They have friends, romantic relationships, and even get married and have kids. They tend to think they are a lot smarter than they are. Their IQs tend to be around 90 to 99.”
I could tell by her face that she’d been thinking while I was talking. Without looking at me, she asked, “They often keep trophies, right?”
“Yup.”
“Could the arms have been a trophy?”
“I know where you’re going. It’s possible, but they’re a bit big. But then you face the same question. If the killer intended to keep them as a trophy, why put them in Peter’s lockup? If Peter was the killer, which is what I think you are driving at, why report them?”
She had finished her steak, and she sat back, narrowing her eyes at me. My steak was getting cold, so I started eating while she watched me.
“I have no grounds for this at all, Stone. But I am just imagining Jenny going to get the decorations from the locker without telling Peter. I can see her falling down, then running home hysterical, and Peter taking charge, like the pompous little prick he is… ‘Just let me handle everything, little lady…’”
She was right. It was a compelling image. I spoke through a mouthful of french fries. “He had the job for it.”
“So we need to be looking at other states for dismembered bodies.”
I drained my beer. “Yes, we do. We must also avoid fixating on Peter. I am also interested in Hank the Hell’s Angel and his girlfriend, Lynda. And we should explore the other tenants, the export company, the whole-food shop and the chemist.”
She tipped her empty glass around a bit while I ate. The warmth from the fire was soporific. After a moment, she waved her glass at the waiter and winked at me.
“You can’t have one. I can.” When he had delivered it and gone away, she said, “I thought that too. The arms could be Lynda’s. She didn’t have a record, so when they ran the prints and the DNA, they wouldn’t have got a hit.”
“Tomorrow morning, bright and early, I’ll find out where Hank is living these days while you check for dismembered female bodies in late 2005, early 2006. Talk to Bernie at the bureau. Also, on the off chance, talk to the sheriffs and PDs in Michigan, Ohio, and Indiana.”
“What about girls who went missing at that time?”
“We will probably have to go down that route eventually, but without fingerprints or DNA, and nothing to compare dental records with…”
We talked a little longer, and when she’d finished her beer, I looked at my watch. She raised her hand like she was hailing a cab and said, “This one’s on me, Sensei.”
I smiled. “I know better than to argue. Next one’s on me.”
“You bet.”
Outside, the road was deserted. The puddles looked black and oily, and rippled with small gusts of cold wind and drizzle. The light from the streetlamps and the shop fronts lay orange and listless across the water, like it had lost all hope of ever being bright and merry. We climbed in the Jag and slammed
the doors. I fired her up, and Dehan gave an almighty yawn.
“Let’s go home, pardner.”
Four
It was another dull, drizzling morning with occasional rolls of thunder, like some giant moving big furniture across the clouds. Dehan spent the morning digging up what she could about the IT company, the chemist, and the bar, and I tracked down Hank. He had spent some time in California and Arizona, but now he was back in New York with his own workshop, Hank’s Bikes, fixing and customizing hogs in Brooklyn, on Surf Avenue, right by the Brooklyn Cyclones.
We grabbed a couple of sandwiches and ate them in the car as we drove down through Queens, just ahead of the lunch-hour traffic. Brighton Beach in November is not the most depressing place on Earth, but that’s about the best that can be said for it. It’s gaudy and brassy and desolate, and seems to be populated by people who have swapped hope for various forms of psychosis.
Hank’s Bikes was a big prefab situated on a huge parking lot just off Surf Avenue. I parked outside, and a tall, blond, bearded guy in his mid-thirties came out wiping his hands on a cloth. He wasn’t looking at me or Dehan; his eyes were fixed on the Jag.
“Sweet ride, mister. Real thing, huh. Right-hand drive—what is she, ’65?”
“1964, 210 brake horsepower.”
“You got the original plates?”
“Framed at home.”
“You lookin’ to sell her?”
I laughed. “No way, not no how.”
He smiled. “Shame. She’s worth a bit, especially with the original plates. Spoke wheels. Man. She is sweet.”
Out over the Atlantic, thunder boomed and then rolled. I said, “Are you Hank Junkers?”
He nodded. “You’re askin’ like that, you gotta be cops.”
I showed him my badge, as did Carmen.
“Detectives Stone and Dehan. We’re just following up an old case, and we’d like to ask you some questions.”
He jerked his head toward the workshop and led the way in. As he walked he said, “I ain’t seen Zak for over ten years. And I ain’t been in trouble since I came back from Tucson. That’s gotta be five or six years ago.”
The light inside was dull, but he had a couple of arc lamps set up where he was working on a Harley. I had a look. It was good, precision work. He was fastidious and detailed. A perfectionist.
“What’s this about?”
“You used to have a lockup in the Bronx, at the back of Revere Avenue.”
He shrugged. “So?”
“What can you tell me about the people who had the next unit?”
He looked at me like I was crazy. “That was ten, twelve years ago! I don’t remember.” He thought a moment. “What side?”
“On the right of yours.”
He stared out at the wet, gray lot. It had started to rain again, and cold air was fingering its way in. “Yeah. That was Pete.” He laughed. “He was a young guy, ’bout my age, but man, was he stuck-up. He didn’t approve of me. Used to lecture me on how I would never make anything of my life if I didn’t plan for the future. He had a cute wife. Jane…?”
Dehan smiled. It was a troubling, conspiratorial smile. “You and Jenny ever get it together?”
He snapped his finger and leaned his ass on his workbench. “Jenny! Nah, I tried once, but she didn’t want to know. I’m talking like we were old buddies, but he was always away and she was always in the house. I only saw them a few times in a couple of years.” He screwed up his face. “Why you askin’ me about Pete?”
I ignored his question. “What about Lynda?”
His face went hard. “What about Lynda?”
“You ever see her these days?”
He shook his head. “You wanna know about Lynda, you better ask Zak. I ain’t spoken to Lynda in twelve years. Since I was in the Bronx…” He paused, putting two and two together. “What’s this about? Do I need a lawyer?”
I shook my head. “Nope.”
Dehan said, “Who’s Zak?”
“Zak was the son of a bitch who took Lynda from me. We was in the same chapter.”
“Of the Angels?” she asked.
He nodded. “We were like brothers. More than brothers. And he knew that I was crazy about Lynda. But…” He paused, thinking. “2005 Christmas rally, we all gathered at Camp Kaufmann, outside Holmes, near Poughkeepsie. Man, he would not stop comin’ on to her. Givin’ me all this shit about how we were bros, and bros should share everything…”
Dehan asked him, “How did she take it? Did it make her mad?”
He made a face that looked genuinely sad. “Nah, she was laughing, going along with it. Telling me not to be so uptight.”
“What happened?” I said.
“We got into a fight. I told her to choose. It was either me or him. She chose him.”
Dehan said, “Fight? What kind of fight?”
He sighed. “Look, back in the bad old days, I hit a few women. I regret that more than I can say and more than you’d probably believe anyway. But I done my time for it, and I am reformed. But right then she was with Zak and two hundred other brothers, so if I’d tried to lay a hand on her they would have gut me and thrown me in the pond. I was mad enough to give her a hiding, the way she treated me that night. But I didn’t.” Suddenly he looked mad. “You gonna tell me what the fuck this is about or not? I ain’t answering no more questions till you do.”
I sighed. “What date was that rally, Hank?”
“I just told you I ain’t answering no more of your questions till you tell me what this is about.”
“Twelve years ago, two arms were found in Peter Smith’s lockup. We are trying to find out who they belong to, and who put them there.”
He gaped at me. Then he gaped at Dehan for a bit and then gaped at me again. “Two arms? Like arms and legs? Two arms? And, what? You think I put them there? You think they’re Lynda’s arms and I put them there? Why the fuck would I do something as dumb as that?”
“I don’t know, and I am not saying you did.” I asked again, “What date was that rally, Hank?”
He blew out, making an exaggerated noise, and spread his hands. “How the fuck should I know? It was the first weekend of December, Friday through Monday.”
Dehan checked her phone. “Second to the fifth. What day was your fight with Zak and Lynda?”
“The last day. Man, I can’t believe you are trying to pin this on me. I fuckin’ walked away. You can ask Zak. Ask any of the fuckin’ bros. I walked away.”
“Where can I find Zak?”
He was silent for a while. “He’s got a club up in Maine, ’bout thirty miles west of Portland, on Sebago Lake. It’s called the Hellfire Club.” He looked at us fixedly, first Dehan and then me. “If you tell him I said where to find him, he will kill me. You’ll have my blood on your hands.”
“Don’t worry, Hank. We’re not out to get anybody hurt.” I pointed at the bike. “It’s nice work. Keep it up.”
He didn’t answer. He just watched us hunch through the rain to the Jag and climb in. As I fired up the engine, I glanced across Dehan. Hank was standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, looking like a Viking in blue overalls.
The wipers set up their squeak/thud rhythm, and we eased our way out onto Surf Avenue again. Dehan looked around at the long, straight rows of dreariness and shook her head. “When I die, if I’ve been really, really bad, I’ll be sent somewhere like this.” I laughed and she glanced at me. “At least in hellfire, you can scream and shout because you’re in pain. You’re feeling something, right? But this! To eternally feel nothing but boredom…”
I grunted. “To feel nothing is more painful than to feel pain. You’re deep, Dehan.”
“So what did you think of him?”
“I thought he was a nice guy. I liked him.”
She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “You’re something, Stone. One of a kind.”
“What? You didn’t like him?”
“Like him? I’d like to whip his ass all th
e way back to Poughkeepsie.”
“You think the arms are the arms of his lover?”
“It’s at least possible.”
“Let’s see what Zak says tomorrow.”
Five
Dehan made contact with somebody at the Global Computer Shipping Company, so she went to talk to them and I drove out to Maine to see if I could find Zak and the Hellfire Club.
I took the I-95 all the way to Portland, following the coast, then Brighton Road and the Roosevelt Trail out to Raymond, on the lake. It took me a little over five hours, and it rained all the way. For my money, New England is probably the most beautiful place on Earth. In spring and fall, there is no probably about it. But in winter, there’s something sinister about the heavy, lowering clouds and the trees, like cold, naked hands reaching up with crooked fingers into an unforgiving sky.
It was two in the afternoon as I left Portland behind me and started west through dense woodlands of tall, dark pines that seemed to go on forever. At twenty past, I was skirting the lake outside Raymond, looking for Cape Road. The water was flat and gray, like a mirror reflecting the heavy clouds overhead. I finally found it just outside South Casco and turned left, winding through five or six miles of thick forest. After about fifteen minutes, I finally came to a fork in the road. The left fork was narrow and overgrown, and plunged down, like a track through dense jungle. A wooden sign with an arrow on it read This Way to the Hellfire Club.
The track led to a driveway, which in turn snaked through pines and came out at a broad grass clearing with an old, gabled house in the middle. It was big, three stories with a basement. At a glance, I figured there must be seven to ten bedrooms, if they had converted the loft.
I followed the drive to the front of the house. There were half a dozen choppers, an old Land Rover, and an early model ’90s Jeep sitting there. I parked where it would be awkward for them to leave, just in case, climbed out, and slammed the door. As I headed toward the porch, a man stepped out the front door and stood looking down at me. He was tall, six two or three, lean, and rangy, but you could tell he was hard and tough too. He was wearing jeans and cowboy boots and a black T-shirt, and he had a forked beard that reached down to his belt buckle, which was shaped like a skull. He was anything but original, but he was the real thing.
