The local authorities in all three cases not only confirmed that the bodies were found wrapped in dry cleaner’s plastic and that the hair had been painstakingly shaved off post-mortem, but that the murder weapon was most likely a straight razor and used to do the shaving. Those facts had been concealed from published reports in all instances, just as they have been here in New York.
It would have been difficult, if not impossible, for local police investigators to spot a pattern that would link homicides unfolding so many miles and months apart. Viewed individually, the cases would appear to be random, even when checked against a state’s unsolved homicide database.
The federal databases are considerably more effective than they used to be, but they’re far from ideal. Crimes continue to slip through the cracks.
Sully and Stockton alerted the FBI that they might have evidence of a highly organized serial killer crossing state lines. If this were a television show, a string of black government SUVs would immediately be dispatched to hunt down the killer. In reality, the bureau is as overburdened and understaffed as the NYPD, and it will take some time and red tape before they’ll be able to assist in the case.
At least they’re making progress on their own, although it’s painstaking. None of the missing persons reports filed over the past couple of days fit their Jane Doe’s description. The distinctive ladybug tattoo might help to identify her, but for now, they’re holding that detail back from the public as well.
“You know what I could go for?” Stockton asks, leaning back and stretching.
“Coffee? Sleep? San Shan soup and shredded beef with spicy Asian green chili leeks and white rice?”
He groans. “Szechuan Emperor again?”
They’ve had takeout from her latest favorite Chinese place at least two days out of the past four.
“It’s a serious craving, Barnes. I can’t stop thinking about that beef.”
“Maybe you’re pregnant.”
She snorts. “With my track record lately? Yeah, sure. It would be an Immaculate Conception.”
Naturally that comment sets Barnes on a snarky roll until the phone rings on Sully’s desk, cutting off his comment about the Blessed Virgin Gingersnap.
It’s the desk sergeant, informing her that he’s putting through a tip line caller. “She’s the real deal. Got a missing roommate who fits the bill.”
“Go ahead,” she says, and grabs a pen and paper as the call clicks in. “Hello, this is Detective Leary.”
There’s a long pause. Then a halting female voice says, “I, um, just saw on the news . . . there was a thing about a . . . um, death, and I’m worried . . . I haven’t been able to get ahold of my friend in a few days and when she blew me off the other night I thought she was just being annoying but now I’m scared that . . .”
“Okay, what’s your name?” Sully asks, pen poised.
“Dana Phelps.”
“And what’s hers?”
“It’s Julia. Julia Sexton.”
Bob Belinke hasn’t been stood up since . . . since . . .
Wait, has he ever been stood up?
Not that he can recall. But there’s a first time for everything.
“Would you like to order your entrée, sir?”
The waiter has materialized yet again, the furrow between his brows deepening with every visit to this cozy table for two since Bob sat down over an hour ago. Clearly, he thinks Bob is waiting for a date—something he figured he and Rick could laugh about when Rick gets here.
But it looks like he’ll be laughing alone—if at all.
“I’ll hold off a little longer,” Bob tells the waiter. “I’m sure my friend is coming.”
“Shall I clear away the appetizer?”
“Why don’t you leave it for now? My friend might have some.”
Friend . . .
Remembering that Rick had used the same term yesterday to refer to his previous diner companion, Bob wonders again why he was so cagey.
As the waiter walks away, he checks his cell phone.
It’s been nearly two hours since Rick texted to say he was leaving the office. He didn’t pick up when Bob called to say he was going to be seated to keep the reservation, and he still hasn’t called or texted back, which isn’t like him.
At least, it wasn’t like him.
How well do I know him now?
How well did I know him, ever?
Those are the questions that have been running through Bob’s mind for the past hour, as he sipped a beer and nibbled the appetizer he’d felt compelled to order. The restaurant is crowded tonight with several office Christmas parties occupying the private rooms and large tables, along with crowds of shoppers who made their way across the street from the Union Square Holiday Market.
He can’t sit here much longer without either ordering dinner or asking for the check.
He types another text to Rick—Worried about you, and adds it to the stack of sent messages that include: Where are you?; I’m at the table; Can I order you a drink?; and Is everything okay?
No reply.
Ten minutes later, the waiter has pocketed a generous tip, a pair of German honeymooners has happily settled at the unexpectedly vacated table for two, and Bob is out on the street. He pulls up the hood of his nylon jacket, wishing he had something warmer to ward off the chill and knowing it would take more than a layer of down.
Rick’s silence and failure to show up seem even more ominous now that he’s left the restaurant.
The sidewalk is teeming with people. It’s still rush hour, and this is one of the busiest neighborhoods in the city. The NYPD presence is strong, with uniformed cops directing traffic and pedestrians. Across the street, Union Square Park is bedecked with garlands, flooded by warm white twinkle lights, and lined by red-and-white-striped canvas-covered market stalls.
If Rick had taken the subway to Union Square from his midtown office as he’d claimed he was about to do earlier, then he would have had to walk through or around the market to get to the restaurant.
Maybe he got this far, was drawn over to . . . to pick up a last-minute gift, and . . .
And lost track of time? For over an hour? And didn’t notice his phone ringing or buzzing or vibrating?
It seems ludicrous to imagine that something happened to him along the way, though. Not here, anyway. This isn’t a deserted outer borough street corner in the middle of the night. If there had been a violent crime or a serious accident in the vicinity, Bob would have heard sirens and there would be evidence even now: bystanders, commotion, flashing red lights.
Most likely, Rick never got this far. Maybe something came up at work.
He would have called or texted, though.
Okay. What else might have happened?
Maybe Rick lost his phone. He doesn’t have a landline at his apartment. A lot of people don’t these days—that’s not unusual.
He still could have found a way to call—unless he kept Bob’s number stored in his phone and not on paper or in his head . . .
That’s possible.
Or maybe it was plain old cold feet?
That might have made sense yesterday, when they were about to see each other for the first time since Vanessa died. But not today. The ice was already broken. Rick seemed to want to talk.
Even if he’d changed his mind at the last minute for some reason, he’d have come up with a reasonable excuse. He was always good at telling white lies.
And I was always good at seeing right through them.
Rick may have teased him about playing detective, but Bob does have a keen sense of intuition. Right now, his instincts are telling him that something is wrong.
A gust of raw wind goes right through him, and he thinks longingly of his warm hotel bed thirty blocks north. He should probably head back there
—but this time, he isn’t going to walk. Having had no luck finding a cab on his way downtown, he can already sense that it’s going to be a challenge to find one heading back up. He can take the subway, and keep an eye out for Rick as he makes his way toward it, just in case.
Shoving his chapped hands deep into the pockets of his light jacket, Bob crosses the street toward the maze of brightly lit stalls.
The rain has given way to a yellow haze drifting in the festive glow, fragrant with steamy cider and cocoa, rife with chatter and piped-in music and a chorus of sidewalk Santa bells.
Caught up in the slow-moving crowd of shoppers, Bob gradually makes his way toward the domed subway kiosk on the south side of the park.
“Todd!” a female voice shrieks a little too close to his ear. “There you are! Where have you been? I’ve been waiting an hour!”
“Sorry,” calls a guy who’s shouldering his way toward her. “Some guy jumped in front of my train and I’ve been stuck in the tunnel.”
“No way, that’s sick! Did you see it?”
Todd’s reply is lost as the crowd propels him away, but a new realm of possibility has been introduced that Bob finds either comforting—or terrifying.
Maybe Rick, too, was delayed by the subway incident . . .
Or maybe he was the reason behind it, having chosen to take his own life just as Vanessa had taken hers last November.
From the Mundy’s Landing Tribune Archives
Editorial
June 23, 1992
On Monday, researchers in Moscow announced that they had used computer modeling to positively identify the remains of Russian Czar Nicholas II and his wife, Alexandra. Murdered by the Bolsheviks on July 17, 1918, along with their five children, three servants, and the family doctor, the Romanovs were among nine skeletons unearthed last year in a shallow grave in Yekaterinburg. Tests will continue on the remaining bodies, along with the search for the missing two. That this development comes as a prelude to next week’s historical society fund-raiser is an interesting coincidence.
Last year’s inaugural gathering was such a resounding success, drawing attendees and media attention from across the globe, that the society determined that it will be an annual event whose purpose is twofold. Primarily conceived to raise much-needed funding for the non-profit, the event lured armchair sleuths by extending an invitation to solve the so-called Sleeping Beauty murders that took place here in 1916. Never identified, the trio of young female victims is buried in Holy Angels Cemetery.
At last summer’s event, sitting on a panel of scientists and criminologists, chemistry professor Lina Abu Bakr of Hadley College stated that it might very well be possible now to identify those bodies using modern scientific methods that were unavailable in 1916. The issue will be further examined at this year’s convention. Many locals are in favor of exhumation in order to lay the mystery to rest at last. Yet perhaps an equal number of us are opposed to disturbing the remains, citing ethical or fiscal reasons.
Indeed, is it prudent, in this pivotal presidential election year, with an ever-tremulous economy and unemployment at levels not seen in nearly a decade, to devote significant resources to further investigate a crime whose victims have not only been deceased for three quarters of a century, but whose loved ones and yes, most likely the perpetrator himself, are likely also dead or infirm?
Chapter 11
Early Tuesday morning, Casey is back behind the wheel of the van, heading north and admiring the winter sunrise—the first actual glimpse of the sun in days—visible through the passenger’s side window. Ordinarily on this journey, the speakers would be blasting “Sunday, Bloody Sunday.” But today the radio is on, tuned to 1010 WINS, New York City’s all-news station. Politics, sports scores, and even the traffic report hold little interest, but this morning, there are two reasons to listen.
The first is the weather forecast. When your livelihood depends—quite literally—on which way the wind is blowing, you pay close attention. The storm brewing out West is threatening to turn into a full-fledged blizzard. Naturally, the tri-state meteorologists are orgasmic at the idea that it might pick up steam and hit here by the weekend. Casey has been keeping tabs on the potential storm on television and online as well. But the day’s most compelling news involves the latest updates on the West Side homicide victim. She has yet to be identified, but there are reports that she fits a missing persons report filed last night.
Looks like pretty soon, I won’t be the only one who knows her name.
But that’s okay, Casey decides, leaving the highway at the familiar exit and heading west. Last night was an unexpectedly busy night. It may not have been a Sunday, but it was sufficiently bloody. Perhaps the experience wasn’t quite as gratifying as Julia had been—or nearly as thrilling as Rowan will be—but it was satisfying in its own way.
Now Casey has a new secret, and the intoxicating afterglow lingers like the faint streaks of red in the patch of eastern sky visible in the rearview mirror.
The ache lessened a bit after last night, though it has yet to subside completely.
How much longer can you hold out?
Not as long as you thought.
The storm might force a game change.
Up ahead, the bare branches, rooftops and steeples of Mundy’s Landing are bathed in golden light.
The streets are stirring to life as Casey drives into the village proper. A couple of delivery trucks are parked along Market Street, unloading stacks of the Mundy’s Landing Tribune at the deli and paper-wrapped loaves of fresh bread at the café. A few blocks away at the elementary school, a green truck is just pulling into the parking lot, past the row of yellow buses that won’t embark on their daily routes for at least another hour.
Casey drives on past the school, parks the van around the corner in the empty bank parking lot, and darts on foot through the woods that border the back of the school playground. From that spot, there’s a clear view of the green truck parked alongside the back door of the school. The Wholesome & Hearty deliveryman is propping it open so he can roll in a hand truck bearing food service supplies.
Casey has witnessed this routine enough mornings to know that the delivery will demand four or five trips, and that each trip from the truck into the school and back again will take sixty to ninety seconds. That leaves a golden opportunity during the thirty-second safety window while the deliveryman is busy stacking cartons in the cafeteria kitchen.
Casey waits for the man to embark on the second delivery. The moment he disappears inside, Casey races from the playground toward the door, counting down the seconds.
Thirty . . . twenty-nine . . . twenty-eight . . .
The interior corridor is deserted and dark other than the pool of light spilling from the lunchroom. Water is running there, and the deliveryman’s voice mingles with that of a woman, probably a cafeteria worker. Beyond the lunchroom, another hallway branches off into the main part of the school.
Twenty . . . nineteen . . . eighteen . . .
Casey swiftly tries the handles of several doors that line the service hallway. All are locked.
Dammit! . . . eleven . . . ten . . . Dammit!
Trapped in a dead end, Casey has two choices: either head back outside, or scoot past the cafeteria doorway and risk being seen.
Sometimes, you have to take the risk.
Seven . . . six . . . five . . .
Casey strides quickly down the hallway. Inside the cafeteria, the water is still running but the voices have ceased. Just as Casey reaches the doorway, the deliveryman steps through it and out into the hall, pushing the hand truck.
They make eye contact.
Immediately slowing to a stroll, Casey forces a smile and a casual “Morning.”
“Morning.” Bearded and burly, albeit much younger than he looks from afar, the man nods and goes o
n his way, apparently unaware that he’s just encountered a trespasser.
Heart pounding, Casey follows the hallway to the end and turns, passing the gym, the auditorium, and the music room. All is shadowy and still. A window overlooking the back parking lot reveals Mr. Wholesome & Hearty rolling a fresh load of supplies toward the door as if nothing out of the ordinary happened.
Casey stays and watches until he returns again, this time to load the hand cart into the back of the truck and secure the doors. Then he climbs into the cab and drives away, obviously none the wiser.
Safe. For now, anyway.
Casey moves on to the stairwell and ascends to another deserted hallway lined with lockers and classroom doors. This is where Rowan’s room is located, marked by the cardboard pencil cutout. Noting with interest that something is hanging from the doorknob, Casey walks closer and sees that it’s a small gift bag imprinted with snowflakes. The matching gift tag is filled out in round, perfect penmanship.
To: Rowan
From: Your Secret Santa
A second golden opportunity.
Casey seizes it, opening the bag and finding a tube of almond-scented hand lotion—Rowan’s favorite. She’s been using it for years.
But I’ve got a much better gift for you.
Out of Casey’s pocket and into the bag it goes.
A few minutes later, Casey is back in the van, weaving through the still quiet streets. Here a dog walker, there a jogger, and another, and another . . .
Driving past a female jogger on Prospect Street, Casey spots a long red braid dangling beneath the rim of her backward baseball cap. Belated recognition comes courtesy of the rearview mirror: the cute redheaded waitress from the restaurant where Mick works.
Brianna. Beautiful Brianna, with the long red hair and the fair, freckled skin. A perfect stand-in.
The hunger gains a stranglehold on Casey’s soul.
If something were to happen to her now, Mick would be crushed with grief. And then to lose his mother on the heels of it . . .
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