Scottie knew how much this investigation was costing Easy, was costing them all. Scottie felt as if he ate and drank this case; he dreamed about it at night; he hadn’t really thought about anything else for four months, and he knew Easy hadn’t either.
All the officers on the Slasher Task Force were paying dearly; even though they liked to think they were hardened to misery they couldn’t stop thinking about the women who’d been killed. Some of them turned it into a macho contest; Scottie pretended not to care at all. Easy pretended to care on an intellectual level only. He and Scottie, partners for four years and partners now on the Slasher Task Force, talked the way they’d always talked, about their chances of catching the perp, about their onerous work hours; on a case like this one they wouldn’t talk too much about their own families, because thinking about anything other than the case could be painful. They drank a lot of coffee. And they never admitted to fear or adrenaline, although they complained often of boredom. They were New York cops.
“He wasn’t a crank.” Easy watched a man being led by outside his glass wall. The fluorescent light made everybody green and old. In every cop movie Blackman had ever seen, in every television show about cops, the open space outside the glassed-in offices was always full of prostitutes, who were almost always shown as beautiful young women wearing short, tight dresses. There were no beautiful young women out there now. The prostitutes of Paris are said to be beautiful. Blackman had never been to Paris so he didn’t know.
“And he’s definitely not crazy. Did you catch that ‘my—’?” Scottie knew that if he walked away Blackman would keep talking. Sometimes one of the men would come into the room and hear his soft, deep voice talking, and he was never embarrassed or ashamed. “Not a crank,” he said to Scottie or his coffee cup. “That boy was crying. Only two of our girls had husbands, is that right?”
“Linda Swados and Belinda Boston.”
Blackman held his fist up against his mouth, he tapped it unconsciously against his upper lip. “I want you to pull everything we have on those husbands. This boy’s voice was pretty young—mid-twenties, I’d say. How about boyfriends?”
“Let’s see. Nassent—no. Moscineska, yes. Moscineska had a boyfriend out in Brooklyn.”
“Pull him. This boy wants to get to Madeleine Levy. Why? He damn sure wasn’t the press—they all know her name already, and anyway they know better than to try a stunt like that with me. I already told her daddy to get the phone number changed. There’s no professional angle going on here. Get me everything you can on that boyfriend.” Blackman’s fist tap-tapped absently against his lip.
“You’d better get me files on all the male relatives of the victims,” he added. “I think we have a civilian here who wants to do our job for us.”
19
Madeleine’s father proposed a meeting between himself, his daughter, and John two nights later, May twenty-fourth, at a restaurant in the West Village that John did not know. John parked the car too far away and walked through the streets and they were haunted. The middle of the Village, Bleecker Street, Sullivan, was a pretty place. Until quite late the streets were full of shoppers and strolling couples and groups of friends and the stores were open late and it was safe there. It was not where Cheryl had died.
John walked away from the safe, tourists’ Village and got lost on unfamiliar streets. It was beautiful there on a spring night, Grove Street, Morton, gingko trees seemingly lit from within by yellow-green light, century-old ivy twined around stone balustrades and the ancient, faceless lions that guarded the front stoops of the brownstones. The moon was invisible; it had waned to nothing. Seventh Avenue, big and impersonal, Hudson Street. The West Village proper. Cheryl had been found on the side of the West Side Highway, down by the water. No one knew what streets she had walked to get there, or with whom. No one had seen her, a blond girl of medium height and slight build wearing blue jeans and a black blazer.
The police had come to his house and asked him Cheryl’s bra size, her pantie size. Certain articles of clothing had not been recovered with the body. John had understood and wanted to help, but he had hated those policemen. He had gone into his sister’s room and read the labels on her panties, on her bras. Thirty-four C. It had felt like incest. After the police left, John sat for a long time in Cheryl’s defiled room and then he realized that no matter how long he sat there she would not send a sign of forgiveness.
The restaurant was near the water, a sleek place with glass and hanging plants. John had walked blocks and blocks out of the way. It was so easy to get lost.
He recognized Madeleine and her father immediately, even though neither of them was what he’d been expecting. Mr. Levy was small, much smaller than his voice on the phone, but he sat eyeing the door with bantam belligerence. The woman next to him was small too; John had expected a big girl. Her hair was almost mouse, darker than Cheryl’s. She was pretty, heartbreakingly pretty when you knew what had happened to her. John knew it was wrong to think that. Beauty and suffering. As though the plain do not suffer, do not die.
He walked toward their table and felt himself very far away. There was nothing in the world but this woman’s eyes, this woman who had been violated and punished for no reason at all. By the same hands that had violated his sister. “Thank you,” he said instead of hello.
It was a tense meal; Madeleine had the free-range chicken, her father had the penne, John had sweetbreads, and nobody ate anything. Now that Madeleine was in front of him John didn’t know what he wanted to say. Tell me what he looks like so I can find him and kill him? But Madeleine’s father already knew that.
“Just what is it you expect to accomplish by seeing my daughter, young man?”
John looked at the brains on his plate. An odd choice. “I want to know as much as possible about the man who murdered my sister.”
“I didn’t really see him,” Madeleine said. Her face was as fine as a pen-line drawing; her eyes were neither green nor blue. Often she reached up one long-fingered hand to push a strand of hair out of her face. She did not smile.
“The police also want to know as much as possible about the man who murdered your sister,” Mr. Levy said. “I feel for you—how could I not? But I don’t see what you’re going to accomplish this way. You’re just hurting yourself.”
“I have to know. Madeleine—Ms. Levy—”
“Madeleine.”
“Madeleine. You must know how sorry I am to be asking you these questions—”
“That’s exactly what four police officers said.” John stopped in confusion. “I know you are,” she went on, “and I’ll tell you what I told them.” Her father put his hand on her arm but she shook it off. “I’ve told it so many times it almost seems as if it didn’t happen to me. Almost.” She took a sip of wine and smiled an inexplicably kind smile at John, like a parent about to teach a child a particularly painful lesson.
“I was walking home from a friend’s house. It was about eleven-thirty. Of course I’d heard about the Slasher, but you’ve got to live, don’t you? Some of the girls I know have dyed their hair. Everybody wears hats. But this isn’t even really blond, you know? I used to streak it so people wouldn’t keep calling it brown. Anyway, I was walking home, there were people out and everything. West Fourth Street always has people on it, so I walked up West Fourth. There were people on the benches in front of Lattisimore’s cappuccino joint, that dog was there I always see around, a Doberman, his master wears a dog collar around his neck. They’ve got the same nose. The dog’s coat is shiny and the master always wears these shiny black pants, I always think the master’s name is Spit and he calls his dog Precious.” She started to cry.
Mr. Levy touched her arm without awkwardness; this father and daughter were close. “You don’t have to tell me,” John said. “It’s none of my business.”
“Oh, but it is. I understand exactly why you want to know. Need to know. It’s okay, Daddy, I’m okay.”
“You sure? The young man says you don
’t have to continue. I personally don’t want you to continue. This is our private grief, it’s not for strangers.”
“Oh, but Daddy, wouldn’t you need to know? If it were me, Daddy.”
Mr. Levy looked down at his plate for a long moment. He nodded without raising his eyes.
“I turned down Charles Street.” Her voice sounded stronger. “I like Charles Street. Do you know this neighborhood, Mr. Nassent?”
“John.”
“John. It’s very pretty. I live really far over, on Bank, near the river. There are some hairy scenes at night. The transvestite hookers come down from the meat-packing district, and there are regular hookers too. Daddy hates it that I live so close to that, but where I am it’s really safe. Was really safe. And it’s pretty, did you see any of the old brownstones on the way over?” John nodded.
“He was waiting for me in a stairwell on Washington Street. I didn’t see him. Even when he was—he grabbed me from behind. He was tall, I told the police that. They wanted to know if he smelled like anything. I don’t think so. He just—he grabbed my neck. He pulled me down into the stairwell and I hurt the back of my head when he threw me down. I kept my eyes closed. He never took his hands off my neck, I don’t know how he did that. Always one hand. He had enormous hands. It was like that was all I could feel, his hand on my throat. Not any of the other.
“He didn’t say anything. Even his breathing hardly made a sound. I heard this terrible noise, this wrenching sound like the last breath of something, and I realized it was me. I heard it from a long way away. And then suddenly I heard a jet engine. This is so strange. This is what it sounds like to die. Like a jet engine going over in your brain—I can’t explain it. A very, very loud noise, and when I moved it was just reflex. The whole time I hadn’t believed it was happening and then I knew it was.
“I kicked him. I wanted to kill him. Not just stop him, kill him. I knew a little bit of what he must be feeling: it would have made me very happy to kill him. That’s not something anybody should ever have to feel. Anyway, I kicked him and I guess I startled him because suddenly I was running screaming down the street. I don’t really remember how I got away. I was just running.”
John was ashamed to be listening to her. “This couple walking their dog helped me. They took me up to their apartment and gave me clothes and called the police. All the lights were on up and down the street but these were the only people who helped me. I wish I could tell you more, I really do. But I knew if I opened my eyes he would kill me.”
“How do you know it was really the Slasher?”
“The police said it fit his M.O. I didn’t know about the strangling part. And he had a knife.”
“How do you know?”
Madeleine put her hand on her thigh. “He cut me,” she said. “Nobody knows about that. I think the cops didn’t want people to know it was the Slasher. But somebody talked. He cut my leg when I kicked him. I don’t know how. I didn’t even feel it. I don’t know where the knife was while he was choking me. I guess next to him. I guess he reached for it when I kicked him.”
“He’s fast, then.”
“He’s a monster. He’s not real. But that’s not the worst thing, is it? The worst thing is that he’s not a monster. He’s a man, just like you.” She looked down at her plate and a strand of hair fell into her face and she pushed it away with her hand.
“Mr. Nassent,” said Mr. Levy, “I agreed to let my daughter meet with you because I know what you must be going through—my Madeleine is very dear to me. But we can’t help you get over the loss of your sister. I don’t think you just want to know what happened for sentimental reasons—even though I would want to know too. I think you’re looking to turn this into a personal vendetta, Mr. Nassent, and though in my heart I can find a place where I want just what I think you want, I can’t be a party to helping you find and harm this man. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“I don’t have a chance in hell of finding the man, Mr. Levy,” John said truthfully.
“But you want to try.”
“I don’t know what I want. I guess I just wanted to see the woman who’d escaped what my sister couldn’t escape.”
“Well, we’re happy to help you there. But I won’t allow my Madeleine to get involved in a vendetta. If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Nassent. Maddy, if you see a waiter, order me a cup of coffee, would you?” Mr. Levy got up and headed toward the men’s room.
John sat uncomfortably. He didn’t know what to say; there was nothing of Cheryl in this woman.
Suddenly she leaned forward and touched his hand. “I want to kill him, too,” she said. Her voice was low and her touch was cold. “I can help you. I did see his face. Daddy didn’t want me to tell you, he knew what you wanted. But I want it too. Listen, the police will be releasing a sketch in a couple of days. The police artists have been wonderful, but it won’t be him. I tried and tried, but I can’t get out what’s in here,” tapping her temple with her cold fingers. “A general description, yes, but not the eyes. Not the mouth. I saw his face and it’s trapped inside me and I have to get it out or it will drive me mad. I couldn’t make the police artists see him—really see him. But I see him all the time, John. I’ll help you. I’ll help you find him. But you have to promise me something.” Over Madeleine’s shoulder John could see Mr. Levy on his way back from the men’s room. “Anything,” he said.
“That you’ll kill him. I don’t want to sit in the witness box in front of the whole world and say my name out loud. I want you to kill him for me.”
20
The van was parked on Hudson Street, down by the park next to the water. He could see the Midtown skyline splayed out and sparkling across the river. From the other side, Hoboken was nothing but a swatch of darkness at night. Across the river everybody was afraid, and nobody knew where he was. It was his city now.
He got out of the van and walked around to the side doors. Tonight there was no tape over the logo. Across the street an old woman was walking an old poodle. She looked into the van and saw nothing. There was no trace of the body that had lain there.
The tarp lay rolled up now at the back of the van. The old lady and her dog had gone away ignorant. He turned on the overhead and looked at the equipment spread out in front of him on the floor: a pile of newspapers, a white bottle of Elmer’s glue, scissors, several sheets of heavy construction paper from a multicolored pack, a pair of skin-thin rubber gloves. These things reminded him of school supplies, and how he had always loved school supplies.
He took out his pocket diary. The diary was the week-at-a-glance type; his heavy script ignored the ruled boxes as it crawled down the page. He needed a challenge. He checked the date in his pocket diary: May twenty-sixth. The summer symphony season was about to begin.
He slid the gloves onto his hands; this was awkward, and it would take a long time, but when he slipped the final creation into an envelope (Number 10) and mailed it (Series A stamp) from Staten Island or Bay Ridge in Brooklyn or Riverdale in the Bronx, he would have played the first note of what was surely going to be his greatest part. He reached for the scissors, pulled the stack of newspapers close, and began.
21
Stacy Iocca stopped walking. She stood at the corner of Fourth and Hudson streets. She often walked this way in the evenings; the lights of Manhattan looked pretty across the river. Stacy was exhilarated by the spring air, by the big white clouds moving over the river. They made her happy to be alive.
Lately she hadn’t been so happy. Her friend Rosalie had been dead for almost three months; their babies had often played together in this park. Rosalie and Stacy had gone out for Japanese food several times, leaving their husbands home to watch the babies. (Her Joey was home now with his father, who thought Stacy was overly moody of late and needed to get out more.) They always sat in the same booth and ate sushi and drank three or four little porcelain cups of warm saki. They had told each other their childhoods. Since Rosalie had been murdered that horrible way�
��the knife coming out of nowhere, the baby alone on the bright green lawn—Stacy had learned what death was.
She had never thought much about death before. She was twenty-six, healthy. Her husband and the baby were healthy. But now she knew that only the thinnest membrane separates us from death at any moment. The membrane is as thin as a breath. She could look at the clouds and be happy and the next moment she could be dead. Even a heartbeat is not faster than death.
Stacy stopped walking. There was a dark van parked midway down the block. Its doors were not open and she couldn’t see any light, but the stereo was blasting music into the night sky: classical.
For some reason, for no reason, the dark van on the dark street blaring classical music suddenly seemed horribly sinister. The van reminded her of a hearse: black for death. Only her breathing separated her from the dead. Abruptly Stacy turned and walked up Fourth Street toward the lights and bustle of Washington Street.
22
Zelly sat on the floor in front of the closet looking at the pair of panties in her hands. They weren’t hers.
She had been meaning to clean out the small, overstuffed closet for months now. It was June first. Mary lay happily entangled in a heap of pants Zelly had decided really never would fit again. And should she just throw out the blouses she used to wear to work? Would she ever be able to wear anything again without getting applesauce on it?
Then she found a bag way at the back of the closet. A plastic bag from the QuickChek down the block. The bag had a pair of panties in it. It was on top of a pile of particularly repugnant pornography.
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