Whispers of a Killer

by Jen Haeger

  But what has me reeling right now is, Sistern hadn’t given us any evidence against Chester, and seemed to like her. She hadn’t even been at the trial. None of the other victims, original or copycat, had such an obvious tie to Chester. I don’t know whether this means anything or not, whether it will help us catch the copycat or just confuse the case even more. Maybe the copycat really wasn’t a fan of Chester and just saw Pamela Sistern had given a statement to NYPD and then assumed something in the statement led to Chester’s arrest. Or maybe the copycat hadn’t gotten the publicity she wanted by killing a random person with Chester’s MO, so she’d decided to kill someone who knew Chester as a bid for more attention.

  My head is still spinning in Crone’s car on the way to the new crime scene. Crone is unexpectedly and blissfully silent on the drive. I don’t know if he’s thinking about a lot of the same questions I am or if he’s just stewing because the killer had struck again with us still being mostly in the dark. When we pull up, the front of the boarding-house-slash-apartment-complex is littered with media vans.

  “Shit.”

  I think Crone has summed things up quite succinctly, so I say nothing. But I know at least one thing before I open the car door, if the copycat was looking for notoriety, she got it with this victim. We fight our way through, and have barely finished with the coroner when my cell rings and then Crone’s rings a split second later. What the hell? The phone feels cold against my cheek.

  “Harbinger.”

  “Detective, there’s been another.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “And lo the angel came and wept by Saint Gregory’s side, saying, ‘See what man hath done with the freedom granted unto him by God. He has sundered himself in twain, and hath pushed his own soul from his body and then shunned it.’”

  Gospel of WHISP 20:17

  It’s seven in the morning and I’ve been at the precinct all night. Ben had brought me some egg rolls and moo shu pork around eleven with only a hint of martyrdom on his face. I’d done my best to turn off from the case for the few moments he was there, but it was too much, and the case was too fresh. He’d seen it in my eyes and didn’t linger. Now I was calling the sad, reheated leftovers breakfast.

  Two murders. Same copycat MO, different ends of the city, and the coroner can’t appreciably differentiate times of death. One, Pamela Sistern, an eighty-six-year-old female known associate of Chester; the other, William Rocks, a twenty-two-year-old male accountant with no obvious ties to Chester or previous victims. It didn’t take long for the words “cult following” to make their way around the precinct. I couldn’t swallow it. Rachel Chester being responsible for fostering a cult just didn’t compute. She liked to get into people’s heads, sure, but cult leaders had charm, charisma. Compared to David Koresh, Rachel Chester was a dead fish.

  The chief knocks on the corner of my desk. I hadn’t noticed him walk up.

  “I’ve got some news.”

  From the tilt of his mouth, it’s not news I’m going to be happy with.

  “I’ve called in the FBI.”

  Maybe before the Chester case I’d have fought the chief tooth and nail on this, but right now, all I do is nod. I don’t want to answer to some dick in a black suit, but I also had my shot at cracking this case solo. Ego will only get more people killed and then even more blood would be on my hands.

  “They’ll be here for a briefing at nine. Maybe you want to go home and change…maybe take a shower? For the sake of the rest of us?”

  Despite everything, a weak smile manages to move the corner of my lips. “For you, Sir. Screw the FBI and everyone else.”

  Home and back in record time, in clean clothes and smelling of eucalyptus stress-relief body wash, I’m one of the first people in the briefing room. A younger agent with neat, brown hair is setting up a screen and hooking a laptop to a projector. He glances up when I pull out a chair, recognition flashing in his eyes. Straightening, he winds around the table and holds out his hand to me.

  “Agent Coppola.”

  I stand to shake his hand. “Detective Lieutenant Harbinger.”

  “I thought so, but I thought…”

  “Thought I retired? So did I. I’m just back for three months as a consultant on the Chester copycat.”

  “You mean cult.”

  Not really, but I don’t want to antagonize Agent Coppola within the first two minutes of meeting him. “I honestly hope not.”

  Agent Coppola’s gaze takes on an appraising quality. “All right, what’s your take then?”

  “Don’t really have one yet, but my gut’s telling me it isn’t a cult. Cult leaders have charisma. I’ve met Rachel Chester, she doesn’t.”

  “Doesn’t mean one of her fans lacks charisma or she didn’t have an accomplice with charisma.”

  So now we’re back from cults to accomplices, and I can feel the muscles in my jaw locking up. “Chester’s only accomplice is Ray.”

  One chestnut eyebrow raises. “Her WHISP?”

  Instantly, I regret saying something so stupid. I’m trying to get people to dismiss rumors of me being on some kind of crazy crusade against WHISPs. Smiling, I layer my reply with sarcasm, “It was a joke, Agent Coppola.”

  “Right. Sorry. My sense of humor is always a bit stunted in the face of two dead bodies and a possible cu—possibility of more than one killer on the loose.”

  Tired as I am, I’m not in any mood to take sanctimonious bullshit from this fed. “Christ, you know I didn’t mean it like that. No one’s had to see more of Chester’s legacy of horror than I have, Agent. I was just trying to make a point. I don’t see her having an accomplice or a cult following, it doesn’t make sense. We’re missing something.”

  Agent Coppola opens his mouth, but a stream of people flows into the room, and he has a briefing to run. He turns and strides back behind the table and up to the podium. Irritation stoked by exhaustion is making me too twitchy to sit right away. I feel like I need an ally. Instead, a well-rested Crone shuffles in and regards Agent Coppola with a glower. Unfortunately, images of him and Coppola in a literal pissing contest fill my weary mind. Trying very hard to dispense mental bleach, I approach Crone.

  “Funny, he doesn’t look like the chief.” I cock my thumb toward Coppola.

  Crone huffs. “This is bullshit. We ask them for a profile and suddenly the feds think they own our fucking case.”

  “Oh, so this is my fault and not the near simultaneous pair of homicides last night.”

  His glower turning into more of an amused pout, he amends his statement, “Someone mentions the word cult and suddenly the feds think they own our fucking case.”

  “Better.”

  We sit together in feigned indignant solidarity. Crone might actually be slightly pissed off at the feds taking over the investigation, but deep down he doesn’t want more people to die, either. At least, I hope that’s the case, I still don’t know the man’s first name. We sit silently amidst the milling and murmuring until the clock on the wall strikes nine and Agent Coppola calls the briefing to order.

  “All right folks, this is what we know…”

  My rapt attention at Coppola’s words steadily wanes as he repeats information that I’ve been going over all night. My mind drifts and I catch myself dozing off despite my anxiety and frayed nerves. Going over the conversation with Coppola again in my head, I’m mad I let him get to me, but even angrier I didn’t have a workable theory about the murders to replace the FBI’s cult or maybe multiple accomplices scenarios. Both seem overly complicated. Murder is hard and messy. It has to be a trick for a single killer to butcher their victims the same way every time, let alone getting multiple killers to cut up a body the exact same way. Occam’s razor comes to mind, but I can’t come up with the simple explanation for the life of me.

  Coppola saying my name drags me from my reverie.

  “…has agreed to suspend her retirement briefly in order to consult on this case. For anyone living under a rock for the past ye
ar, Detective Harbinger was the lead detective on the original Rachel Chester case. Direct any questions regarding the original murders to her.”

  Crone surreptitiously elbows me in the ribs.

  “Now, we have to remember, even though these murders are very similar to those committed by Chester, this is a different killer or killers. They are murdering women as well as men. Also, one of the victims knew Rachel Chester personally, which is unique from Chester’s original victims. Her only living relatives are her mother who lives in a nursing home in Queens and a cousin who resides in Covina, California. We’ve already stationed officers to monitor Chester’s mother and the FBI is working with Los Angeles police to place a detail on the cousin, but we can’t rely on them being the killer’s next targets. There’s been escalation and we don’t want to see any more bodies. But we need to be fast and efficient. I’ll be handing out assignments, but if you feel like you can take on more than I give you, I’ve got more than enough for everyone. Work smart, work together, and keep the lines of communication open. Questions?”

  “How many members do you think are in this cult?”

  Coppola shakes his head. “We haven’t found any evidence yet to support the cult following theory other than the impossibility for yesterday’s murders to have been committed by the same person. So, to answer your question, if it is a cult, at least two.”

  Low laughter trills through the room.

  The fed’s mouth remains a tight, humorless line. “Any other questions?”

  “Yeah, what does Chester have to say about all this?”

  My face burns and my molars grind.

  “She didn’t have anything to say after the first copycat murder, but she might now that Pamela Sistern is dead.” Coppola directs the glare of his tan eyes right on me. “Which is why Detective Harbinger has offered to interview her again.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “There is a clear scientific explanation for WHISPs. They are comprised of clouds of magnetically charged particles that orbit the electricity generated by the human body, and this is why their appearance resembles a “shadow” of static electricity. Particles of this nature have no anima, they are no more alive than the electron clouds around the nuclei of atoms.”

  Dr. Harold Lieber, PhD, Particle Physics, King’s College, London

  I was going to interview Chester again anyway, but Coppola making it seem like it was his idea pisses me off to no end. As soon as he dismisses us, I’m out of my seat and storming to my desk. I’ve got my car keys out of the drawer when Crone appears, puffing like The Little Engine that Could, and grabs my shoulder.

  “You’re not going to see Chester right now.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  He releases me. “Oh.”

  “Give me a little credit, Crone. I know when I’m tapped out. If I go like this she’ll eat me alive and I’ll come out with jack shit. I’m gonna go home, get about four hours of sleep and then take another shot at her.”

  Crone rubs his neck. “I should go with you.”

  Shutting the desk drawer with more force than I mean to, I meet his gaze. “We both know that’s not true, so please don’t do anything stupid like try to appeal to the chief.”

  I didn’t anticipate the injured look on Crone’s face, but it only lasts a heartbeat before his usual swagger is back. “Give me a little credit. I know you’re the chief’s pet detective. Just, you know…don’t fuck it up.”

  The sentimentality of his words actually produces a twinge in my chest.

  ***

  “Hell no, you’re not!”

  For the nth time I’m regretting telling Ben about going to see Chester again, only alone this time. To be fair, I was operating on four hours of Benedryl-induced sleep followed by a slammed off-brand energy drink when he asked me why I had to leave the apartment.

  “This is crazy! Why can’t someone go with you?”

  I’m slipping on my second shoe, while balancing on the other foot and trying not to break my ankle. Black pants, black blazer, white blouse, and black heels: battle armor. “Because she won’t talk if someone else is there.”

  “You don’t know that. I’m not saying you need to take Crone, just somebody, anybody else.”

  Both shoes now on, I’m searching for my car keys. “Another person would just be a distraction. Two more people are dead. I can’t just fuck around because Chester gives me the willies.”

  He grabs my arm. “Sylvy, love, you don’t have to do this. I know you think you do, but you don’t.”

  “Ben, I already have blood on my hands because I let Crone come with me the first time. I do have to do this.”

  We stare at each other in silence.

  “You need to let me do this.”

  Ben grinds his teeth. “Like hell I do.”

  “A month, Ben. You promised me a month.”

  Something which isn’t quite resignation takes hold in his eyes. Letting me go, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out my car keys.

  ***

  The slanting, late afternoon sun does nothing to cheer up the exterior of Rikers Island. It’s later than it should be for an inmate interview, but the FBI pulled some strings so I’m not on any fixed schedule except for the countdown going on in my head, the one that will hit zero when the copycat or copycats or cult or whateverthefuck strikes again. Chester isn’t waiting for me when I get to the interrogation room, but is brought in about ten minutes later in full cuffs and chains by two guards. The guards sit her in the metal chair that is bolted to the floor and then lock her leg cuffs to a ring set in the floor and her wrist cuffs to a ring in the table. My eyes are focused on Chester, but the way the guards secure her forces her to sit up straight and makes Ray visible to me over her shoulder. One of the guards nearly walks through the WHISP as they both retreat toward the door and take up positions on either side.

  Right away, I sense that Chester isn’t as collected as she typically is. Normally, even chained, she exhibits a laziness in the way she carries herself, but not now. There’s tension in her limbs even though her face is slack, and an odd mark at the corner of her eye stands out. It wasn’t there when I interviewed her with Crone.

  “What, no monkey this time? Pity. It was pretty funny watching him trying to fling his feces at me.”

  “You should see him smoke a cigarette while riding a unicycle. But I wanted a chat without distractions today, just the two of us.”

  The corner of Chester’s mouth flicks up. “No, you didn’t, but you thought it would help. Cute.” She blinks and the injured eye twitches, the left one. Her sclera is red just on the side with the mark.

  I rub my own left eye. “Ah, sorry about that, had an itch. Pink eye must be a bitch with those cuffs on.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about my eye. It was just a…misunderstanding, but it’s all cleared up now.”

  A misunderstanding? Did one of the guards do it? Even if it’s Chester, that’s not even a little bit okay. I check the guards’ faces for a reaction, but they aren’t looking at us or even hardly blinking. “Rachel, there shouldn’t be any misunderstandings in here. Not anymore. If someone hurt you—”

  Chester laughs long and loud, letting her mask of humanity fall away and revealing the cold, dangerous thing I know lives underneath. “You remind me of a hamster I had once, Detective. Bert was fun to play with until he bit me. Did you know hamsters can scream when you put them in the garbage disposal? It’s a unique sound. You wouldn’t think something so small could make it.”

  Okay, so probably not abuse from a guard. Focus, Harbinger. “Threats from you are kinda less scary when you’re chained to a chair. Makes me think you think I should be afraid though. Interesting.”

  Chester lunges across the table toward me. “Fool!”

  I was expecting some kind of reaction, so it isn’t her movement that makes me jump, but coming face to not-face with Ray. The guards reach Chester in seconds. One grips her around the throat with a baton and the other stands w
ell clear and unsheathes his stun gun.

  “Chester, this is your warning! Relax or I’m lighting you up.”

  Crap. I was too reckless. I could see she was off kilter and I pushed too hard too fast. FBI influence or not, the interview is over.

  “I think you should be afraid.” Foamy spit is accumulating at the corners of Chester’s mouth and raining down onto the table. Her eyes flick to the side like she’s trying to look over her shoulder and I wonder if she’s trying to get a bead on the guard behind her.

  I’m out of time, but I take one last shot. “How many?”

  “How many what?”

  “How many disciples?”

  I’m expecting a sneer, a last insult, Chester to spit in my face; what I’m not expecting is the complete confusion in her eyes.

  “Out of the way, Detective! Jones, get clear! Barthel three forty-nine discharging weapon in three, two…”

  Chester’s shoulders are slumping as she retreats into her head and a blankness spreads through her eyes. Her injured eye spasms. In another few seconds she’d be docile again, but the guard with the stun gun doesn’t give her that long. The gun’s barbs hit Chester in the chest and she jerks like a speared fish then drops as far as the chains will allow. Behind her, Ray is slouching, but suspended in mid-air, her head, like Chester’s, tilted slightly toward me. Chester’s eyes are closed, but I can’t shake the feeling Ray’s featureless face is staring at me and it freezes my blood. Then the room is filled with guards and I’m being escorted out.