Dusk was imminent. Time to get out of sight; make herself disappear. Go to that place. That place of safe harbor, if only in her mind. But as twelve-year-old Margaret rolled herself into a ball and squeezed herself into the narrow cubbyhole, she could still hear the footfalls outside her bedroom door. She prayed to Saint Rita he’d pass.
Some nights he did. Some nights he didn’t.
And on those nights. On those Godforsaken nights, when the Lord was asleep and the saints were at play, the door would creak open and in he’d walk.
“Margaret?”
His tone was always the same. One of expectancy.
The ritual that followed was played out in darkness.
“You’ll do it to show how much you love me,” he’d say. “C’mon, a little faster. Hold it a little tighter. That’s it! Just like I showed you.”
Margaret followed his instructions carefully. The goal was not to upset the man. God forbid that happened. It only made him drink more and Margaret knew what that meant. The alcohol would dull his senses and interfere with his concentration. Even so young, Margaret realized, perhaps not on a conscious level, but realized nonetheless, that sex was, indeed, ninety percent mental. And if he drank enough, fast enough, she’d have to do it all over again. But this time with her mouth.
“You’re Daddy’s little girl, aren’t you?” he’d stammer. “You love your Daddy, don’t you? Now, slow it down. Just use your palm on the tip. That’s it! Oh, yeah! Slower, now. A little slower. That’s it! Ohhh…”
The sound of the phone ringing shattered the nightmare.
“Hello,” she managed.
The voice was familiar but she couldn’t place it; part of her was still under the influence of the terrifying memory
“This is Claire. Claire Bartlett. From the foundling? You called our office. Left this number?”
“Oh? Oh, yeah. Thank you. Have you come up with something?” Margaret’s heart began to race.
“Yes, we have. One of our resident therapists knows what became of Miss Newburger.”
“That’s good news. Tell me.”
“I’m afraid she’s dead, Miss Aligante. She died close to three years ago. At an assisted-living facility in Nanuet.”
Margaret tried to respond but couldn’t.
“I’m sorry,” said the caller and after a moment of silence hung up.
As Margaret placed the receiver on its cradle, she was certain she heard the sound of footfalls making their way toward her door.
Chapter 12
Once again that billion-dollar New York City skyline made Kyle Ramsey awaken minutes before dawn, climb atop his Bontrager ten-speed racer, and make a swift dash across the bicycle path of the Brooklyn Bridge. Greeted by a saffron sky, Kyle came upon the runway that led him to the upper stretch of the historic overpass. Filling his lungs with Brooklyn air, he lifted his body to gain increased thrust from his gluteus maximus muscles, and the bike rocketed up the incline; the Edward Jones financial wizard upshifting in rapid succession. As he was circumventing the first stanchion of architectural pylons, Kyle noticed a body slumped against the massive brick column. It was a dozing wino still clutched fast to his empty pint. Indifferent, Kyle increased his speed and continued across the bridge’s medial span. By the time he reached the second set of pylons, his spandex biking gear was drenched with sweat. He checked his wrist chronometer: 48.6 seconds. Good. But not good enough. Yesterday, he covered the same stretch in 42.9. Last evening’s second martini proved costly.
Someone or something darted out in front of him. Kyle swerved to avoid contact, but collided headlong with the shadowy figure, who let out a groan before running off. Kyle tumbled and crashed into the span’s wooden decking. The bike careened against the second brick column of the bridge. The errant pedestrian was now a vanishing speck in the distance.
“You son of a bitch!” Kyle screamed, painfully scrambling to his feet. “You’re dead meat when I get ahold of you!”
He righted the ten-speed and mounted it. The front wheel, bent from the impact with the brick column, locked in his grip. The frame looked like an accordion.
“That bike cost me two thousand dollars, you bastard!”
Something else caught his attention. A figure was strewn near the base of the second column. Was that a camera and tripod lying at his feet? Curiosity drew him closer. He bent down and picked up the camera. A Leica.
“That sucker costs nineteen hundred dollars!” he mumbled, fingering the casing, tempted to make it his. Loot for the taking. No? He examined the camera closely. Sure, it came fully loaded with a Summilux-M f/2/50 mm lens! “Wow!” he said, discovering its 0.85x viewfinder. He clutched the camera to his chest and eyed the probable owner sprawled before him. What’s wrong with him, he wondered?
That’s when he spotted the rivulet of blood.
This guy’s hurt. And pretty bad, at that.
Kyle lifted the man’s head. “Good God, what happened to your hair?” Blood flowed heavily from a massive wound, just behind the right ear.
“Jesus! I think this guy’s dead!”
He didn’t know what to make of it. If this was a mugging, how could the thief miss the camera? Maybe, Kyle thought, he had interrupted a crime in progress. His mind wandered to the fleeing pedestrian. Pressing his ear to the victim’s chest, he thought he heard the man’s heart still pumping but then realized the sound was emanating from the vibrations caused by the pre-rush hour traffic below. His original suspicion was confirmed. The guy was deader than dead. What were needed now were a cop and a coroner. Retrieving his cell phone from his saddlebag, he powered on and punched in 911.
As he ended the call, his focus fell, once again, on the camera.
Chapter 13
The sound of the alarm clock jarred Driscoll from an uneasy sleep. It was 6:30 A.M. Police sirens echoed in the distance. Their wailing was growing increasingly closer. He checked on his kid sister by opening his cell phone. There were no messages. He walked to the window and took a peek outside. Two hundred yards away, the Brooklyn Bridge glowed in the dull morning mist. At the entrance to the bridge were two parked police cruisers, their array of emergency lights flashing. A police helicopter hovered above, its searchlight bracketing the span’s northwest pylon. An ambulance sped east on Tillary Street, the bridge’s Brooklyn foothold.
I guess the Thirty-ninth Airborne is on its way, he mused, closing the shutters and heading into the kitchenette, where he hit the switch on the Braun espresso machine. The whine of another police siren tore through the dawn.
He found his Bushnell field glasses in the hall closet, behind several boxes of shoes. Ambling back to the window, he took a closer look. There were three more police cruisers parked at the foot of the bridge, lights ablaze. He watched two ambulance attendants cart off a body. There was a man bending over, examining a bicycle. The man righted himself.
That’s Jimmy Capelli, Brooklyn South’s top dog!
Driscoll found his cell phone atop the kitchen counter, next to his keys. He rushed back to the window and punched in a number.
He watched in amusement as Capelli patted down each pocket in search of his phone. Finding it, the top cop flipped it open.
“Capelli, here.”
“Who dressed you this morning?” said Driscoll.
“Who the hell is this?”
“You look like Robin Hood! Who in their right mind wears a bright red tie with an olive-green suit?”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Driscoll. And have I got my eye on you.”
“Driscoll! Where the hell are you?”
“I lay out an extra three hundred a month to have a view of the Brooklyn Bridge, and this morning I gotta see your ugly mug?”
“Funny man you are, John. Your landlord must have thrown in a pair of binoculars.”
“That’s why you’re a detective. Whaddya got?”
“A DOA. He took one hard to the head. You’re sure to get a call. This one’s been scalped.”
<
br /> Driscoll’s eyes narrowed. “What else ya got?”
“There’s some pretty expensive camera equipment lying around. There’s even a professional tripod. We’re figuring the DOA for the photographer. What brings a guy out onto a bridge at six in the morning?”
“Any witnesses?”
“All we got is an anonymous call to 911. Otherwise, zip.”
“You ID the DOA yet?”
“Guenther Rubeleit. He’s carrying a German driver’s license. You know Reirdon’s not gonna be happy with that.”
“Tell me more about the head wound.”
“It’s ugly. Just behind the right ear.”
“I see a bike there. Looks all bent up.”
“Yeah. Looks like it hit something. I’m figuring maybe it belonged to the DOA.”
“Doubt it.”
“Why’s that?”
“Tourists don’t get around on bikes. Especially one carrying a tripod. It’s gotta belong to somebody else. Make sure the lab boys are all over it.” Driscoll heard a beeping sound on the line and rolled his eyes skyward. “Gotta go, Jimmy. I got another caller and I’m sure I know who it is.”
Chapter 14
Cassie couldn’t sleep. That was unusual. Was the killing spree she and Angus had begun weighing on her conscience? Her brother warned her that might happen. She still had a portion of her soul left, was how Angus had put it. She glanced next to her. Angus’s eyebrows were twitching, an indication he was dreaming. Where did his nocturnal escapades take him? Did he, like she, still dream of Mother in the hope that she’d return and somehow put an end to the madness? Or was what Angus said the truth? That the only thing she was good at was leaving us behind.
Cassie gathered the covers around her as uninvited memories swirled.
“One little, two little, three little Indians…” Father’s voice sounded, as he pressed his pockmarked face into mine. “Circle the wagons! The injuns are comin’!”
Grabbing hold of my arm, he yanked me from my bed. “Time to get ready, little darlin’.”
After dragging me down the stairs, he steered me into the small room behind the furnace, where I was forced to climb atop a table and lie down.
“One little, two little…lie still little darlin’. Daddy needs to get this just right.”
Using angular brushes, Father dabbed at the acrylic paint and applied a colorful array of markings to my face.
“This is just for practice, mind you, little darlin’. When I get the war paint just the way I want it, we’ll make it permanent. Four little, five little, six little Indians…”
Chapter 15
“Examination of the cephalic region reveals sharp force trauma resulting in a massive head wound, measuring seven-point-six-six centimeters to right parietal, causing fracture to the skull and bone splinters to penetrate the brain. Thirteen-point-eight-centimeter linear penetration to the skin of the forehead noted. Irregular tearing of scalp…”
Larry Pearsol’s words echoed in Driscoll’s ear as he and Thomlinson, seated in the Chevy cruiser, blended with the flow of traffic on Second Avenue. It marked the third time the medical examiner had used those words in as many weeks. And it officially tied the crime on the bridge to the other homicides, making it part of Driscoll’s investigation. New York had another serial killer on its hands and, thanks to the press, the city’s populace was reminded of it with every newscast and in every headline. The Daily News went with DEADLY TOLL ON A NO TOLL BRIDGE while the Post opted for NUMBER 3 SCALPED!
Driscoll had spent the better part of his morning listening to the ranting of Joseph Santangelo, the chief of detectives. How the man had risen from inspector to chief was a mystery. There had been other more qualified candidates for the job. The belief was that he had some politician or cash-cow benefactor in his pocket. Chief Santangelo, derisively called “The World’s Greatest Detective” by his squad commanders, was his usual cantankerous self, telling Driscoll he’d be directing traffic down on Canal Street if he didn’t turn up a lead in the case soon. But after his posturing, he gave Driscoll the green light to set up a task force. A contingent of thirty detectives and three sergeants, from throughout the borough, would be handpicked by Driscoll. The support team at TARU, or Technical Assistance Response Unit, would be ordered to stand at the ready. And Fleet Services would supply ten additional cars and two surveillance vans. A Tip Line, a phone number established by the department at which the general public was encouraged to report any pertinent information, would be established and manned twenty-four-seven by a police investigator. The line had proven to be a valuable aid in many previous investigations. Thomlinson would be Driscoll’s broom, his right-hand man. He would oversee the Tip Line activity and other administrative duties. Any directives that came from him were to be interpreted as coming from the Lieutenant.
Crime Scene had reported their findings to Driscoll immediately after the barrage of mortar fire from Santangelo. Helga Swenson’s blood had been found in the third stall of a second-floor ladies’ lavatory in the east wing of the museum. The blood of victim number two, Yen Chan, was found in one of those industrial green Port-a-Potties near the entrance to Cleary’s Boardwalk Fun House, just steps away from the site where his body had been found. Now came the hard part. Crime Scene would have to process two public facilities where hundreds, if not thousands, of fingerprints and other forensic evidence would be found. This wasn’t television’s CSI. The NYPD Crime Lab was understaffed and lacked the high-tech gadgetry of the highly equipped labs featured on TV. But they got the job done, just not within the sixty minutes it took their TV counterparts. But, as Driscoll was fond of pointing out, the NYPD did it without those annoying commercials.
All precincts throughout the five boroughs had been ordered to beef up their presence at all tourist attractions throughout the city. This presence was to be provided around the clock. Thomlinson had made some of the forensic team’s findings known to the news media, asking that they include the information about the holding sites in their reporting. The general public was urged to call the task force’s Tip Line with information about any suspicious activity they may have encountered in and around the restrooms, the attractions, or on the bridge. Trace evidence of three other blood donors was also discovered at the museum. Test results showed all three to be menstrual blood. Driscoll figured as much. After all, it was a ladies’ room. Considering that the crime scenes themselves had been violated by being trampled upon by the general public, Driscoll wasn’t banking on much, if any, pertinent evidence. But the preliminary forensic reports did prove Sergeant Aligante’s theory to be correct about where the victims were held. And her assertion that the killer had a conversation with the deceased before rendering the fatal blow was also likely. The autopsies of all three victims revealed no defensive wounds. And all three were indeed tourists. The sad part was that none of them saw it coming. Support for Margaret’s speculation was encouraging news. Score one for the good guys. And a slam dunk for Margaret!
Fifteen minutes later, Driscoll pulled the cruiser into a restricted parking space in front of Thirty-two East Houston Street, NYPD’s Crime Lab, where he tossed the Police Department Vehicle Identification card onto the dash.
Once inside the building, he and Thomlinson were greeted by Ernie Haverstraw, the lab’s top criminalist, who reminded Driscoll of the ubiquitous hefty man you’d inevitably run across in the meat department of every Gristede’s grocery store in the city.
The three men crowded around the Bontrager ten-speed bicycle that had been recovered from the Brooklyn Bridge. It was still coated with blotches of white powder, the residue of the technician’s search for fingerprints.
“That exerciser-on-wheels retails for about twenty-one hundred dollars plus,” said Haverstraw. “But now it’s fit for the junkyard. Not only was the front wheel damaged but also the frame was bent in the collision. Whoever left it behind knew it was a total.”
“What’d it hit?”
“Something made o
f brick. My guess would be one of the columns on the bridge.”
“Come up with any prints?” asked Thomlinson.
“A few. But none that matched any in our databases.”
“Figures,” said Driscoll.
“Found something, though.” The technician held up a clear plastic envelope about the size of a pack of cigarettes. Driscoll squinted to see what was trapped inside. “We found it wedged into the brake assembly on the bike’s handlebars. We know it doesn’t belong to your victim.”
Driscoll brought the bag to within inches of his nose. He was able to identify the find: the jagged edge of a bloodstained fingernail. He handed the pouch to Thomlinson.
“Now if we could only get hold of the guy that belongs to this nail…” Thomlinson said.
“That won’t be easy,” said Haverstraw. “We tested the blood. Another no-hit. We’re still waiting for the chromosomal scanning results on the blood’s white cells. That’ll give us the likely race and gender.”
“Tell me more about the bike,” said Driscoll.
“It’s imported from Italy by Stranier and Sons. You’ll find it available in only three stores in the Northeast. One’s in Darien, Connecticut. Another in Manhattan. And one more in Southampton. But you see that emblem? That bike ran the Tour de France. And your rider is a professional who bought it right here in Manhattan.”
“I’ll be damned,” said Thomlinson. “All that from a bike?”
“Well, the serial number helped.” Haverstraw grinned like the Cheshire cat.
“So we’ve got a name,” said Driscoll.
“That we do. The bike’s owner is one Kyle Ramsey. He lives at Two-Thirty-one Pineapple Street. Downtown Brooklyn. That makes him a Brooklyn Heights resident, Lieutenant. Right in your own backyard.”
Chapter 16
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