by Blake Banner
“Oh, my God! Since we were kids. We grew up on the same street in Chihuahua. Even our fathers were friends. You know what I’m saying? We came to U.S.A. together, we did everything together. We go back a long way. I criticize him? I call him names? But we are real tight, and there for each other, come what may.”
I watched him closely a moment and realized he was older than I had thought. I smiled. “Like brothers, huh? Stick by each other through thick and thin. That’s nice. More people should be like that.”
He seemed uncertain, but pleased, and said, “I know, right?”
I stood. “Mr. Martinez, thank you very much for your help and cooperation. I am sorry to have taken up your time. I hope you have a very pleasant evening with your date.”
“Thank you, Detective.” He stood too, and so did Dehan. “I wish all NYPD officers were as courteous as you two. You have a lovely evening too, y’hear!”
He let us out and as Dehan followed me down the stairs, I heard the door close behind us. We stepped out into the dark, freezing street and walked to the car. That was when Dehan said, “You want to tell me what that was all about, partner?”
I nodded. “Sorry. I didn’t want to go there yet. He clearly doesn’t know a witness saw him with Sue at her door. Let’s keep it that way for now. I need a few hours to get a handle on this. There is something very, very wrong here.”
She looked at me curiously. “What do you mean?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know yet. Moussaka, Dehan. Moussaka and wine. And let me think.”
I threw her the keys and climbed in the passenger seat. The doors slammed, the engine growled and we pulled out into the slow stream of traffic on Soundview Avenue. The wipers set up a slow, steady squeak and thud, pushing the melting flakes of sleet from the windshield. I leaned against the door with my head on the cold window and watched the people hurrying through the frosted, pre-Christmas light. After a while, Dehan frowned at me.
“Was it my imagination, or is Fernando gay?”
I grunted. “I don’t know if he’s gay, but it wasn’t your imagination.”
“Huh?”
I laughed a small laugh. “He is a little camp, affected, but he might still like, or even prefer, women.”
She nodded and made a face. “OK…”
“Sex is complicated…”
I said it half to myself, but she turned and smiled a smile that was full of promise and warmth and said, “No it’s not.”
“Keep your eyes on the road, you wonton hussy.” I rubbed my face with the palms of my hands. “We have every reason to believe she knew her killer. We will confirm that tomorrow, but as a working hypothesis which we can be pretty sure of, we can say for now that we have every reason to believe that she knew her killer. A, because there was no sign of a forced entry, and B, because we have a witness whom we shall speak to tomorrow, who saw a man climb the steps, knock on the door and go in. That makes it very unlikely it was a passer by. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“So, for now at least, this narrows our pool to Giorgio, Fernando and Cyril, none of whom is completely convincing. You like both Giorgio and Fernando…”
“And,” she interrupted me, “you didn’t let me press him on it, but note that Fernando lied about going home. He said they parted company when they left the party, but he went home with her and we don’t know if he went inside. Like you say, we will talk to the witness tomorrow, but that second man who went in could have been Fernando or Giorgio. Agreed?”
I was quiet for a bit, then nodded. “Agreed.”
“And if he is gay, or part gay or whatever, the three of them could have had some weird sex thing going on, some kind of Sharon Tate shit.”
I shook my head and sighed. “Dehan, I don’t know how to even begin to answer that.”
“You know I’m right.”
“As I was saying, you like Giorgio and Fernando for the murder.”
“And/or.”
“Giorgio and/or Fernando for the murder. My gut is telling me we need to look into Cyril, for several reasons.”
“Like?”
“Wait. Let me finish. But we also need to look into Sue’s past. Our pool of suspects may not be as small as we think. The killer could be somebody from her past.”
She looked at me and grunted. “Who just happened to turn up on Halloween?”
I shrugged with my eyebrows. “Halloween may have some special significance. There may be no ‘just happened’ about it.”
She grunted again. “What’s really troubling you?”
“Cyril.” We turned into Morris Park Avenue. The shops and restaurants cast amber light onto sidewalks that were turning slowly white, where the few people who were forced to brave the cold, hurried toward safe, warm homes. “He behaves like a killer with a motive,” I said, “but he kills like a serial killer.”
Five
We didn’t talk again until we were in the kitchen. It was too cold for beer, so we each had a tumbler of Irish whiskey. I was peeling potatoes and she was slicing eggplant and laying the slices in a colander, sprinkled with coarse salt. Then she said, quietly but suddenly:
“You’ve made up your mind that it’s Cyril.”
“I never make up my mind, Dehan, you know that. That is what evidence and proof are for. I just think he is our most likely candidate.”
She raised a withering eyebrow at a slice of eggplant and dropped it in the colander. “You said, and I quote: ‘He kills like a serial killer.’”
“You asked me if I have made up my mind. I haven’t.”
I started slicing the potatoes into nice, thick rounds and she started dicing carrots.
“All right, you want to explain to me what you mean by, ‘he behaves like a killer with a motive, but he kills like a serial killer,’? Or am I not smart enough to be allowed into the sanctum sanctorum of the great Sensei’s mind?”
“Stop it. You are more than smart enough and you know it. I am just not sure of my own thoughts right now. You know what the English call these?” I held up a round of potato.
She looked at it. “Potatoes?”
I shook my head. “Chips, and you have one on your shoulder. Get over it.”
“Funny. Explain. And while you’re explaining, get the lamb from the fridge.”
I got the lamb from the fridge, then rested my ass against the side and sipped my whiskey while she put olive oil, garlic and herbs into a big, cast iron pan.
“OK,” I said. “The introverted, socially inadequate loner is a recurring profile among serial killers. The handing in of his notice, both at work and to his landlord, suggests careful planning, as does the killing on a notable date that is associated with death. His presence at the party is surprising, as we know that he does not like interacting with people. The same goes for his presence at the painting group. Both suggest the possibility of a predator seeking a prey.”
I sipped. She fried. The smell of olive oil, thyme and oregano was rich on the air. I inhaled, then went on.
“The killing itself bears some hallmarks of a serial killing. It is both sexual and homicidal. We know that he had a knife because he stabbed her post mortem, but there are no signs that he used the knife to terrorize her into submission. There are no cuts on her throat, and he used both hands to choke her while he was raping her. It is only after she is dead that he goes into his frenzy of stabbing. It feels methodical, almost ritualistic; like an organized serial killer getting his victim to the point where he can safely release his rage without fear of a comeback.”
I sipped again.
“And finally, there is the bold, brazen leaving of his DNA and fingerprints at the scene, like a challenge to the cops: ‘I can do all this and you are still not smart enough to catch me.’ So much preparation, and yet no gloves and no condom. It’s as though he wanted—or needed—to leave his mark there. It’s primal, like a lion spraying to mark his territory.”
I sighed. “And yet, typically, a serial killer has a territ
ory. If he lives and works in a fixed location, he will kill nearby, within a few hours drive, perhaps in neighboring towns.
“Alternatively, if he has a job that involves driving distances, like Adam Leroy Lane, he might kill all across the country—or the continent—like Jesperson. But what you don’t get is a serial killer giving up his house and his job to move on every time he kills a victim. Either they travel or they hunt locally. They don’t do both.”
She shrugged and frowned, like to her it was obvious. “So our guy is not a serial killer.”
“Sure, I think you’re right. But, he kills like a serial killer. Which means his motivation is similar to a serial killer’s.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure.” I walked slowly across the kitchen and leaned against the fridge, watching her as she spooned the browned meat, onions and garlic into a deep, blue, cast iron dish, then began to lay rounds of eggplant over the top. “I’m just thinking aloud here, but a serial killer is driven by a deep, unconscious need to kill, which builds periodically and overpowers him. Usually, almost always, he is driven to kill a particular type of person. That type of person is like a symbol of what he is raging against. But what drives him is that rage, the need to kill.”
“OK.”
“So, what if we have a person who has all the pain and hurt inside him that could lead to rage, but instead it leads him to hide away from people and become a loner, protecting himself from the hurt that people can cause him. Now let’s say he meets somebody who takes a liking to him, somebody who encourages him to break out and interact with people…”
She froze, then turned to look at me, holding a potato round in her fingers. “Fernando.”
“Cyril worked at the library. Fernando lives right next door. He stressed that he liked him and invited him to the party. Now, I am speculating like crazy here, Dehan, but just suppose that, having allowed himself to be lured out of his safety zone, he encounters the trigger that turns his pain into rage…”
“Fernando telling Sue to sit on his lap and give him a kiss. He described her as a prick tease and said that that made Giorgio mad. Did she flirt with Cyril on Fernando’s encouragement?”
“We don’t know, but it is not a huge stretch of the imagination, and it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that if she did, that could be a trigger for his rage.”
She had finished stacking the layers of meat, eggplant and potato, and now set about making a béchamel sauce. As she did it, she nodded and said, “That is very plausible, Stone, but I am not sold. If I had come up with that, you’d have told me it was all speculation and we needed some hard evidence…”
“And I would have been right.”
“But I am almost sold. It is a very compelling scenario. I still prefer Fernando and Giorgio, but I can see where you are coming from.”
I drained my glass. “As soon as we have spoken to the witness across the road, we need to talk to Cyril’s sister.”
“I agree, we can call her before lunch…”
“No. I need to be there and look into her eyes. I need to know what kind of childhood they had together. I need to see the house where he grew up and see photographs of his mother and father. I need to be there.”
She laughed as she pulled open the oven and shoved in the dish. “You just want an excuse to go to Cali’ and get away from the cold.”
“I am outraged. Outraged, I tell you. Come here, woman. You need to be severely punished for such scandalous slander against your lord and master!”
And after that, things got complicated.
* * *
Bob Smith was in his sixties. He had a broad, Caribbean face with warm, brown eyes and tightly curled black hair that was turning gray one curl at a time. He was wearing a mulberry shirt and a sage cardigan, copper corduroy pants and dark blue slippers. All in all, he looked comfortable. Almost as comfortable as the large, black cat he was holding in his arms, which managed to appear both expressionless and disdainful at the same time.
His voice was rich and resonant. He stood back as we showed him our badges and said, “Come on in out of the cold. It ain’t a day to be outside. I have some coffee on. Have you had breakfast?”
We stepped through the white door into a small hallway where he hung up our coats. Then he led us into a warm living room with a large bow window overlooking Patterson Avenue. From that window, there was a direct view of Sue’s house on the corner across the road. Dehan eyed the view and said, “We had breakfast, but we wouldn’t say no to some coffee. Thanks.”
He chuckled. His chuckle, like everything else about him, was comfortable. He dropped his cat on the large, cream sofa and spoke over his shoulder as he went to the kitchen.
“Make yourselves comfortable, Detectives. I won’t be but two minutes.”
Dehan went over to the window and I sat in one of his large, cream calico chairs. A New York Times lay in pieces on the sofa, and the cat was in the process of turning it into a shredded nest. On the heavy, oak coffee table there was a copy of Catch-22. By the look of it, he had read it several times.
After five minutes, Bob Smith returned with a tray bearing a coffee pot, three cups and saucers, a dish of brownies, sugar, milk and cream. He set it on the table, sat himself on the sofa and smiled. He did both things comfortably.
“It was twelve years ago last Halloween,” he said as he poured a black stream of brew into a cup and handed it to Dehan. “Please help yourself to sugar and cream, and a cookie.” He picked up another cup and poured. “But when you telephoned this morning, I sat and thought about it and I am pretty sure my memory is accurate.”
He handed me a cup and I sat back while he poured his own and kept talking.
“I am an amateur mathematician,” he said. “After I studied mathematics part-time at NYU.” He sat back and sipped. “I am not a mathematical genius or anything like that. Just an aficionado, but I have always liked to keep my mind agile and strong: attention, concentration, observation. I am very observant, and I retain what I observe.”
I smiled. “Admirable. So what did you observe that night, Mr. Smith?”
He pointed at his windowsill. “I had a pumpkin in the window, to signal to the children of the neighborhood that they could come and trick or treat at my door. I usually keep the drapes open on Halloween until about one AM, as a lot of the children around here stay up late that night.
“However, that particular night I had been reading, and I had dozed off. I was awakened at about two twenty by a woman shouting. I went to look and saw my then neighbor, Sue, with a young man. They were at the top of her stairs—you see that she has a steep flight of thirteen steps leading up to her door on the second floor—he was speaking quietly. She seemed to be a little inebriated and kept shouting, ‘No means no!’ and knocking his hands away as he tried to take her shoulders…”
Dehan frowned and pointed at the window. “You could hear her? Only I see you have triple glazing.”
He nodded. “Oh, yes. When I saw what was happening, I opened the window, intending to call to her and ask if she was all right. But then, when I saw that he wasn’t taking no for an answer, I went to get my telephone. It is wireless, but I don’t use a cell anymore. One of the pleasures of retirement.” He smiled, comfortably. “When I got back, the man had descended the stairs and was walking away. She was gone and her door was closed.”
I leaned forward. “The door was definitely closed?”
“Oh yes, definitely.” He gave a smile that suggested the answer was obvious. “Had she left it open, I would have called her. However, just as I was pulling the drapes closed, another man approached from the direction of the party. He climbed the stairs and rang her bell. After a moment, the door opened, they seemed to exchange some words, not in an unfriendly way, he stepped in and the door closed behind him. I assumed all was well, closed my drapes and went to bed.”
Dehan nodded for a moment, sipping her coffee. Then she asked, “Could you describe the tw
o men? Did you know either of them?”
He sighed and stroked his cat. “Please, let me give you a cautious answer. I should hate for an innocent man to go to prison because of my erroneous identification. That said, I had the impression at the time that the first man was a friend of Giorgio, the Mexican artist who lives up the road, where the party was being held that night. I don’t know his name, but I have seen them together on many occasions. Average height, slim, well-built, curly hair. He looks something like Carlos Santana, if that name means anything to you. The second man was not dissimilar, but it was much harder to make any kind of identification because he was so wrapped up with clothes, including a thick woolen hat.”
Dehan scratched her chin. “I don’t want to influence you, Mr. Smith…”
“You won’t, don’t worry.”
“Good. Is it possible that the second man was the first man, having returned after putting on warmer clothes?”
His eyebrows shot up. “Well, now, that is something that had never occurred to me. Yes, it is certainly possible, but I could not put my hand on my heart and say it certainly was him. Also, I would have to say I doubt it, because she was so adamant in rejecting the first man that I think it unlikely.”
“But you would say he was roughly the same height and size.”
“Yes.”
I drained my cup and set it down on the table. “When he rang on the bell, and the door opened, did you see Sue?”
He looked surprised again and chuckled. “My, you two have an interesting line in questions.” He leaned back against the sofa and thought for a moment. “One is so cautious about creating false memories. Did I see her, or just assume that I had seen her? No, I saw her. She pulled the door open, she had taken off her coat, they spoke a moment, she was smiling, and they went inside. She closed the door.”
“I am sure your recollection is very accurate, Mr. Smith, but can I just make sure? Are you absolutely certain that the first man left?”
“Oh, without a doubt. I returned with the telephone, and the very reason I did not call 911 was because he was leaving.”
