A member of the Mayor’s security detail ushered Driscoll into a Georgian-styled reception area, where a second officer escorted him into the Blue Room. Sitting in a plush divan, a wiry-haired man with eyes the color of Caribbean waters was arguing vehemently with the Mayor.
“John,” the Mayor said without rising, “Mr. Shewster.”
Shewster, clad in a charcoal gray three-piece Armani suit, resembled George C. Scott in some of his memorable roles. Driscoll eyed the handsome silver-haired man with his head tilted forward, his stern mouth above a tightly fitted tie, with eyes simmering, and a look of contempt filling an angry face. He acknowledged Driscoll with a nod.
“The city is responsible for the grief of a father who has lost his daughter because of our ineptitude,” the Mayor pronounced.
“Mr. Shewster, I know what it’s like to lose a daughter,” Driscoll said, offering his hand. “My heart goes out to you. We did everything…”
“We didn’t do enough!” Reirdon barked.
Shewster, deaf to their exchange, stared at the Mayor. “This killer is laughing at you. The both of you. It’s his show, isn’t it, Mr. Mayor?”
Reirdon saw the accentuation as a jab.
“Like hell it is!” he growled. “This city is my town.”
“My daughter’s body was ripped apart by zoo animals. Save your proclamations for your next campaign.”
Driscoll studied Shewster’s face. It was filled with pain.
“Tell me why a twenty-two-year-old woman who comes to your city for a ribbon-cutting ceremony ends up as dinner for caged beasts.”
The Mayor’s eyes caught Driscoll’s. There was no answer in their exchange.
“A year ago, research and development at Shewster Pharmaceuticals, my company, introduced a miracle drug. After two weeks on it, your arteries are swept clean. Its chemical compound had been designed to Roto-Rooter those arteries like Drano through clogged pipes. Imagine that! An end to heart surgery.”
Neither the Mayor nor Driscoll knew where he was going.
Shewster reached in his vest pocket, produced a Cohiba Crystal Corona, and lit it.
“Word reached me that someone in our department had leaked the formula for this compound to Merck. Now, mind you, our miraculous drug was going through its preliminary testing. We were not yet ready to go before the FDA with our breakthrough. We didn’t want to cure the heart this year only to kill the kidney the next. But that doesn’t matter,” he grumbled, watching a spiral of cigar smoke loft skyward. “What does matter was that our secret had been funneled to the other side by someone on my payroll. As CEO, what was I to do?” Shewster’s eyes narrowed. “I fired the entire department! Four hundred and sixty-three pink slips. Problem solved. Leak sealed.”
“You can’t be suggesting I fire my entire police force?” said Reirdon.
“Drastic developments require drastic measures.”
“Mr. Shewster, I’m an elected official. I’m not the CEO of some West Coast medical company. I can’t fire the entire police force!”
“Then what is it an elected official can do?”
“Not that we live in two different worlds. But corporate maneuvering has no hold on city affairs.”
“Well, while your city-paid sentinels are standing watch, your killer is knocking off ducks in a pond. And to top it off, nobody sees a goddamn thing until the carcass floats to the top.”
Driscoll was too familiar with the feelings of loss that preyed on Shewster. And of how bitterness spawned rage.
“Why is the body count still climbing?”
“It’s just not that simple,” Reirdon replied.
“Let me tell you what is simple. I’m prepared to offer a large sum of money to the man who delivers the psychopath that killed my daughter, an only daughter, found ravaged inside a goddamn cave, three thousand miles from home, in some zoo.”
Tears welled up in Shewster’s eyes.
Hmm. Human after all, thought Driscoll.
The grieving father produced a small vial of pills and popped two into his mouth.
“This drug grossed fifty-two million dollars in first-quarter sales this year alone. I never thought that one day I’d be popping them myself. Here. Be my guest.” Shewster tossed the vial to Reirdon.
“A good Merlot does it for me,” the Mayor replied, catching the plastic bottle in midair and handing it to Driscoll.
“Phenaladin 500 mg. Warning: May cause drowsiness. Avoid consumption of alcohol,” Driscoll read. “They wouldn’t like that at Sullivan’s. I’d better stick to my Harp.”
“These are the best hostility eradicators and anxiety relievers money can buy,” Shewster boasted. “Okay, enough informality. Let’s talk about your inquiry. Tell me what you’ve got so far.”
“Mr. Shewster, our investigations are confidential,” said Driscoll.
“Lieutenant, I’m not ‘Mr. Joe Public.’ My corporation hasn’t donated millions of dollars toward police associations for nothing; not to mention the large contributions to your mayor’s campaign. You’ll tell me what I want to know.”
“It’s okay, John. Tell him,” the Mayor said.
Driscoll began to fill the man in on the details of the case.
“We were initially going on the theory that only one killer was involved. Now we know there are two. We think acting in tandem. Each of them slipped up once, leaving behind a telltale trace. We found the bloodied fingernail of one of the killers at a crime scene atop the Brooklyn Bridge. Remnants of human skin, detected under the fingernails of a later victim, confirmed a second killer. Then, DNA analysis unveiled something extraordinary. Our killers are twins. Male and female identical twins.”
“No such thing!” said Shewster.
“We thought so, too. But our tests are conclusive. The female suffers from a medical condition known as Turner syndrome. It makes the pair genetically identical in all aspects but gender. It also makes them a rarity.”
“Tell me more.”
“Our first search encompassed the United States, where four such pairs were discovered within a time frame that would make them possible suspects. In order to diagnose Turner syndrome, a blood test called a karyotype must be done. But in all likelihood, no one would have done that at birth. It would have been done later in life. And it has to have happened after 1959, the first year they discovered the method to test for the syndrome. Based on their age, all four fall within that time frame too. We’ve already ruled out three sets of twins as suspects. Our investigation continues on the fourth while we continue our probe outside the United States.”
“What’s the hold up on the fourth pair?”
“There’s reason to believe the pair had been raised on an Indian reservation outside of a small town in West Virginia.”
“Where they picked up their penchant for scalping, no doubt.”
“Our investigation is now focused on that reservation.”
“The apprehension of these killers is Job One with this administration,” said Reirdon. “Rest assured that every resource available to the New York City Police Department will be deployed.”
“Save your speech for the tabloids. You still haven’t explained how my daughter’s body ended up with the apes.”
An exasperated Reirdon glared at the man. “On with the details, John.”
“These twins like to showcase their crime scenes. Forensic evidence indicates your daughter was killed just outside the baboons’ compound and that her body was propped up on its protective fencing. We suspect that during the night her body slipped and fell from the fence.”
Sadness returned to Shewster’s face. The man’s hand gesture entreated Driscoll to go on and so he did.
“We’ve detected a pattern. These twins have apparently chosen New York City tourist attractions as their killing fields. We discovered the first victim at the Museum of Natural History, a second on the Wonder Wheel at Coney Island. Another on the Brooklyn Bridge, a fourth aboard the USS Intrepid, and most recently, sadly fo
r you, at the zoo. All the victims thus far have been either foreign tourists or, in your daughter’s case, an out-of-towner. Each victim is felled by a forceful blow to the right side of the head. And, of course, the scalping. We’re not sure how that ties in, but serial killers have been known to take trophies from their victims. This killer-”
“You mean killers,” Shewster barked.
“We don’t know they’re working in tandem.”
“Are these sick bastards playing some sort of game? Some sort of competition as to who can kill more people? And, if so, what would the prize be?”
“We don’t know their motive,” Driscoll said, flatly.
“Is it money they’re after? Maybe the bounty I’m considering will turn them against each other.”
“There’s been no evidence of robbery. In many cases, crimes of this nature don’t follow any standard of normalcy. They may be simply getting off on the act of killing.”
An electronic purr interrupted the conversation.
“Driscoll, here.”
The look on the Lieutenant’s face confirmed what the Mayor feared most.
“Another one?” Reirdon asked.
Driscoll nodded.
“Where?”
“Central Park.” He stood. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to get over there right away.”
The Mayor agreed.
As Driscoll disappeared out the door, Shewster exhaled a cloud of cigar smoke and raised an eyebrow at Sully Reirdon.
Chapter 30
Hours before news of the latest murder broke, Angus, clad in Old Navy overalls and a blue polo shirt, slid into a fiberglass seat across from his sister. The all-night diner was near empty. It would be some time before the early morning rush of breakfast-hungry New Yorkers would descend upon the eatery. The only other night owl was a bulbous female patron seated diagonally across from the booth where the teens were hunkered down. She had stopped stuffing herself with corned beef on rye long enough to stare openly at Cassie’s scarred face.
“And what the hell are you lookin’ at?” Cassie asked.
The patron cast her eyes downward and returned to her meal. Cassie turned her attention back to her brother.
“Score?” she asked, eyes wide and expectant.
“Of course,” her brother said with a grin, before disappearing behind an oversized laminated menu. “Hot fudge sundae for me! You?”
“Stack of blueberry pancakes on the way. Tell me! Tell me!”
Angus’s face floated up balloonlike from behind the list of delicacies. “It all began with a stroll…”
Chapter 31
An anonymous 911 caller had brought the police to Strawberry Fields, a two-and-a-half-acre tear-shaped landscape inside Central Park. The well-manicured expanse had been dedicated to the memory of the slain music icon John Lennon, who lived and died a stone’s throw away at the Dakota on West Seventy-second. The site boasted a bronze plaque listing 121 countries that endorsed the area as a Garden of Peace. Driscoll pondered the incongruity as he stared into the face of the city’s latest victim, propped, marionette-like, against a bald cypress that marked the sanctuary’s northern perimeter. Dead eyes, open and sullen, returned his gaze.
“She’s been dead eight to ten hours.” It was the voice of Medical Examiner Larry Pearsol, who had sidled up next to Driscoll. “No defensive wounds or evidence of sexual assault. ID has her as Antonia Fucilla, from Tuscany. What she’s doing inside a New York City park, alone, after dark is what I want to know.”
“She wasn’t alone,” said Driscoll, tracing a gloved finger along the linear head wound made by the killer’s weapon. His frustration was escalating. He turned and barked orders at the flock of Crime Scene detectives. “I want every inch of ground swept within a hundred-foot radius. Cigarette butts, gum wrappers, food containers, the goddamn soil if it looks out of place. Anything! You find a snipped fingernail, I want it bagged.”
“Whaddya make of the scalping?” asked Pearsol, eyes on the ravaged head.
“Serial killers are collectors, Larry. But I’m betting these scalps are more than just a trophy. These lunatics are doing something with them. Though I’ll be damned if I can figure out what that is.”
“The Indians used to post them on a stick.”
“I know. Nineteenth-century machismo in the Wild Wild West.”
Margaret approached, wearing a smug look. “The vic’s got surprise painted on her face and my money says the killer put it there.”
“These killers are no Picassos.”
“They think they are. They’re posing the bodies, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, someone’s supposed to get their message.”
“Meaning?”
“Follow me on this one. The woman at the museum is shoved up the ass of a dinosaur. Our vic on the Wonder Wheel gets taken for a ride. They prop a guy from Kamikaze Central inside the cockpit of an American fighter plane for Chrissake! This pair is doling out humiliation. God knows what they had planned for the German on the bridge because the killing was interrupted and how they posed Miss Moneybags at the zoo is anybody’s guess ’cause she did a Humpty-Dumpty.”
“That’d take careful planning and a lot of smarts,” said Pearsol.
“We may be dealing with psychos. But nobody said they had to be stupid. They’ve got an agenda, these two. I say it’s spearheaded by vengeance.”
“You may be right,” Driscoll said, impressed with Margaret’s insight.
“It’s textbook. Ask any profiler and he’ll tell you these killers are inflicting punishment to match the way they were punished. Look at her,” she said, motioning to the murdered woman. “There’s no evidence of a struggle. She knew her killer.”
“That’d give us motive and would indicate the killings weren’t random. You know? I think you are right! We’ve been looking at these attacks from the wrong side. Sure! The answer may lie in what the victims had in common. Margaret, I could kiss you.”
“For now, I’m gonna settle for a pat on the back,” she said, hoping her angst wasn’t showing.
Chapter 32
“I had placed a call to the West Virginia Department of Health and Human Resources making an inquiry about this Raven’s Breath ever being part of their foster care system. A Cynthia Travis there said she’d check into it.” It was Margaret on the phone. She sounded excited. Driscoll listened intently to what she had to say. “The woman just called back, said she’d found no records in foster care but had run the name through other state agencies. On the line with her, by way of a conference call, was Pauline Curley of the North American Registry of Midwives. Her search shows a Raven’s Breath as being a midwife in 1991, residing on the Catawba Indian Reservation outside of Oak Flat. Cedric’s news article, which ID’d her as the pair’s foster parent, indicated the twins were five in 1996. The numbers add up. She probably was the midwife who assisted in their birth!”
“Great work, Sergeant. I’d say it’s time to have a powwow with the Indians. While I’m gone, I want you and Cedric to check into the backgrounds of the vics. We’ll run with your theory. See if they share anything in common that would warrant a set of twins wanting them dead.”
“On it.”
Driscoll wasn’t fond of flying. Once the aircraft came to a complete stop on a regional airfield outside of Healing Springs, Virginia, he stood and grabbed his carry-on luggage. Anxious to get on with the investigation, he stepped onto the tarmac and headed for the Avis Car Rental Booth to secure the Dodge Intrepid he had reserved.
Traveling north on Route 220, he paralleled the Allegheny Mountains. The sun had climbed high in the sky, casting shadows on the red clay and evergreen mix that made up the countryside. He crossed the border into West Virginia at a town called Harper. It boasted a convenience store, an Exxon station, a single-screen movie theater, and a bait-and-tackle shop. Driscoll followed the instructions of a gas station attendant and climbed the side of the mountain into Oak Flat, destined for the
Catawba Indian Reservation, which spread for two miles beyond the northern edge of town.
It was nearing 3:00 P.M. when the Lieutenant parked the rental beside a pine cabin that appeared to serve as the reservation’s produce market and general store. It also marked the entrance to the Catawba land. Driscoll stepped inside. On the far wall hung a four-foot stretch of leather that was adorned with a painted buffalo head.
“Welcome,” the Native American shopkeeper said.
Driscoll took note of the necklace the man was wearing. A string of bear claws. Levi’s and a well-worn plaid flannel shirt clung to the man’s angular frame. Around his forehead he wore a red bandanna, the color of blood. What concerned Driscoll, though, was that he was loading a handful of bullets into a Winchester rifle. “Going hunting?” he asked.
“For deer,” the man replied. “The name’s Bill Waters.” He offered his hand. “You?”
“Driscoll. I’m also hunting.”
“On Catawba land?”
“For Raven’s Breath.”
“Why? Did she do something wrong?”
“She delivered babies. No?”
“Nothing wrong with that. What do you want with Raven’s Breath? You’re police, right?”
“Adoption service,” Driscoll lied, not wishing to cause alarm. “I simply wish to talk with her.”
Waters ran his hand down the carved wood of the Winchester rifle, then doused it with an oil-soaked rag.
“What is it you need to talk with her about?”
“Babies.”
“I’m afraid you won’t find her here.”
“Where would I find her?”
“Many miles away.”
“In which direction?”
“Down. Six feet. She’s buried in Blue Ridge Cemetery.”
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