Precious Blood

by Jonathan Hayes

  He was calmer now. It had been several hours since she’d last been alive, during which time he’d worked on her—

  crafting her basic structure, bestowing the text upon her face, finally completing the transformation by relieving her of her vision.

  Finishing her was easy: he doused her with gas, and when the bottle was almost empty, set it at her feet open, then tossed a match.

  After that, he had walked down the stairs and out the front door, strolled down the street, and onto Hester. There he cooled his heels, leaning against the wall of a Chinese seafood packaging company until he heard the commotion on Mulberry.

  Jenner’s arrival with the detectives was a pleasant surprise.

  Apparently they were getting closer to him; the thought pleased him. That there was a team out there, whose purpose was to track him and interrupt his work. A challenge!

  He was grateful for this opportunity to watch his opponents in action.

  He’d caught sight of them when he’d looked up Mulberry at the sound of the sirens. Jenner, of course, he knew; he was fascinated by the look of concern on the man’s face as he ran to the Saint. This was the closest look yet he’d got at the Hispanic, who looked middle-aged, flabby and out of shape.

  But the younger one, the one he’d not seen before, Italian, maybe, was muscular enough to present a challenge, should it come to a confrontation.

  When the time came, he’d do the Italian first.

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  He watched, neck craning up, mouth slightly open, just like the rest of the sightseers behind the barricade. The ladder went up, and the window was smashed, and the hose was turned on, and when the smoke turned into steam, the crowd broke into applause. He joined in, pounding his hands until they stung. When the fireman made them all move farther back onto the sidewalk to make space for the ambulances, he leaned over to clap the man’s shoulder and say,

  “You guys are great!”

  He clapped even harder when the firemen led the two cops out of the door and down to the ambulances, clapped until he wept. Their faces were black, their eyes pink holes with little white rivulets from their tears; the older one actually looked quite ill. As people saw him stumble, the clapping faltered, and everyone looked grim; the man mimicked their looks of concern, then smiled with relief as the cop gave the thumbs-up.

  Looking up at the apartment windows, he realized he’d done everything with the blinds up. Had he been sloppy, or was this perhaps his hidden intention?

  He wondered how she looked now, the Saint. Would her writing still be visible? He’d tried to splash the gas on her lower face and trunk, but the flames had probably spread to consume her. Why hadn’t the sprinkler system come on sooner? There’d be more about that in the newspapers, no doubt.

  Jenner appeared at the window, coughing. He hacked for a bit, and then spat black onto the ledge.

  He watched Jenner, leaning out of the window, elbows on the wide sill, panting. Was he crying, or just exhausted? He didn’t look like much; it seemed ridiculous that a man like him—fired from his office, it said in the Post—should end up with Ana de Jong.

  But, of course, that was his own fault. He’d made the bed for them, and they’d tumbled in. Now they lay together, in-tertwined, knowing each other carnally.

  He grew angrier. Why Jenner? The man didn’t find him Precious Blood

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  particularly good looking; he was unemployed and, from the way he was gulping air in the window, obviously not in good shape.

  This was another excellent example of the fallibility of the theory of natural selection: Jenner, a demonstrably inferior male, could spread his seed through the girl, who was made of far finer clay. His genes would continue on, prospering without merit.

  This was just ridiculous.

  When he intervened, he would make sure that Jenner knew exactly what had happened, that Jenner understood that he himself was directly responsible for whatever happened to Ana. She would have to be taken from Jenner, ideally while they were together in his apartment. Now, that would shake him up a bit! A police source in the Post had described him as “reclusive” ever since the Twin Towers; well, this would help change his feelings about lazing around in that apartment . . .

  It wouldn’t be difficult. He’d discovered the super had a naughty habit of propping open the door of the loading dock in back when he was bringing garbage out; access would be a snap.

  He realized he was staring at Jenner, and consciously broke his gaze. Jenner straightened, apparently having seen the Hispanic being treated in front of the ambulance. He disappeared from the window, no doubt on his way down to see to his friend. His amigo.

  The man itched to do it.

  Patience. It wasn’t yet her time.

  He could wait; it was something he was good at.

  The chief of detectives arrived, and ordered Joey and Rad to the St. Vincent’s emergency room over their objections. He took Jenner to one side.

  “You okay, Doctor? You look as bad as them.”

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  “I’m going with them, Chief.” His voice was hoarse from the smoke and the shouting.

  They watched as Garcia was lifted up into the ambulance, a green oxygen mask over his face. He saw Jenner talking to Scales, and gave a helpless shrug.

  “Good.”

  The chief was silent for a second.

  “You know, Jenner, you put me in a really difficult position on this. I know all about this beef between you and Whittaker, but the fact is, he has the power, and we have to work with him officially, and long after this whole mess goes away, we’ll still be working with him.”

  Jenner nodded.

  “You’ve been right all along. You’ve found things he’s missed, you’ve figured out stuff he didn’t, and today we almost got the guy because of you.”

  Jenner looked up at the gaping windows of the torched apartment. “Yeah. Almost,” he rasped.

  “Come on, Doc, get real! Sure, we’d have found this guy eventually, but you and Garcia and Roggetti have been on this right from the start. You tracked down Green, you found the girl, you almost stopped him. We’re so close.”

  Jenner wiped his mouth. “You really think it’s Green?”

  Scales gave a decisive nod. “We’ve got more information.

  You know about the incident in Mexico, but we found out, back twenty-plus years ago, before he went to college, Green was convicted of sexual battery. He was working at a country club, fondled a girl in the crew room showers; she was thirteen at the time. But he was a minor—rich parents, good lawyer, different era—five years’ probation, record sealed.

  The girl’s family saw him on the news and called us up.”

  “I don’t know, Chief. I’m still not sure.”

  “Yeah, Garcia told me the two of you don’t like him for this. But I gotta tell you, the harder we look, the better he looks.”

  Garcia’s ambulance was backing up. The chief waved at Precious Blood

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  his driver, then said, “Anyway, what I’m saying is thank you.

  Garcia said you were the best, and he was right. I hope you’ll continue working the case—we could really use you.”

  Jenner’s eyes were burning from the smoke; when he reached to wipe them, his hand came back with an oily smear of soot.

  “I appreciate it, Chief. I should go. I’ll ride over to St.

  Vincent’s with Roggetti.”

  “Wait a sec. I’m thanking you in private, because now’s not the right time for me to express this publicly, but I’ll work something out.” The chief stepped back, then clapped a hand on his shoulder with a nod. “I want you to understand, that time will come.”

  Jenner glanced over at the ambulance, where Roggetti looked exasperated in the stretcher as the paramedic tightened the chest belt.

  “Thanks, Chief. I should go.” Jenner left him waiting for his car and walked
to the ambulance, climbing in to sit next to Roggetti’s stretcher.

  saturday,

  december 14

  Garcia, Roggetti, and Jenner met in the mid-afternoon on the brick plaza in front of the U.S. attorney’s office, grimly shaking hands and nodding at each other. Garcia made a feeble joke about shitting black, but Roggetti didn’t even crack a smile.

  Rad rested a hand on Joey’s back. “C’mon, buddy. We’ll find him soon.”

  “We’d have got him yesterday if I hadn’t slowed us down.”

  “Jesus, Joey. You didn’t slow us down! You had your doubts, you expressed them appropriately. And we ignored them—also appropriately. Eh?”

  Smiling, he shook Roggetti’s big shoulder, but couldn’t break the sulk. “C’mon. We’re getting closer. We’ll find him.”

  “What have we got to go on now? We don’t even know if it’s Green—what, he’s on the run and he takes time out to punch someone’s ticket?”

  “I spoke with the Chief of D’s last night,” said Garcia.

  “He’s ninety percent it’s Green, but he doesn’t want to take any chances. So he wants us to work whatever leads we want while the rest of the task force stays on Green.”

  Roggetti said, “If it’s Green, we won’t get any credit for the collar. It’ll go to Pat Mullins and Ruben Santiago—and you know Pat won’t share.”

  “Joey, everyone knows we cracked it. Besides, what, you really want all that paperwork?”

  “It’s not the paperwork, it’s the boat! The sooner I make first grade, the sooner I get a boat.” He was trying to hide a smirk.

  “Hey! It’s Joey! He’s back with us!”

  “I’m back working for my promotion. Come on.”

  The three of them set off toward One Police Plaza.

  Joey turned to Jenner. “So, how’s Ana? She good?”

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  Jenner thought for a second. “I don’t know. She was passed out in front of the TV last night when I got home, and she was so tired I could barely wake her. She said she’d been watching the news all day, which probably didn’t help. And this morning when I woke, she was still asleep. I think she’s depressed—she needs to speak with a counselor.”

  They signed Jenner in, then went up to Computer Crimes on the eleventh floor. The lab was at the other end of the building, through a warren of offices, behind a white door posted analysis, the ysis crossed out with a scribble of pencil.

  Garcia turned to Jenner and muttered, “New York’s Finest in action . . .”

  Mason stood at the central workbench, jotting notes, while two task force detectives watched the oversize screen next to it. When he saw the door opening, Mason hastily shut down the show, triggering protests from the cops with him. Jenner recognized Green’s computer next to the monitor.

  “Anything good, Mason?”

  “Well, yes and no. Nothing Inquisitor-related yet. Most of the data on the hard drive is corrupted, and the recovery software is pretty damn slow. But he screwed up: he used CD-ROMs for backups.”

  Mason pressed a button on the computer, and the CD

  tray slid out. He dropped a CD in and closed it. A window opened onscreen, a list of the files.

  Mason murmured, “Pick a file, any file,” and double-clicked at random. Windows Media Player opened up, low-res color video clearly shot in Green’s clinic.

  A girl on an examining table, apparently asleep. Green, sitting on a low stool in front of her, leaned back, took his scrub cap and mask off, and then his gloves. He turned and pointed something toward the camera; the camera zoomed in as he pushed the stool away and knelt down to lean forward between her raised legs, his hands moving toward her pelvis.

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  Mason hit Pause, saying, “After that, the thing writes itself.”

  Roggetti gave a slow whistle. The paused image on the screen hovered, Green clearly recognizable.

  “The video lasts about twenty minutes. The CD has eight of these, and because the good doctor is a happy little grazer and takes off his mask, we’ve got beautiful portrait shots here he could blow up and send out as his Christmas cards . . .

  What’s more, it’s a CD-R, so I can pull the date stamps for the file creation from each one. And the CD itself is labeled in indelible marker . . . wait for it! . . . number 17.”

  Rad said, “Mason, bring in a female cop—enough with the peanut gallery here. Have her watch the videos and catalogue the times.” He tapped the screen, pointing out a wall clock visible behind the victim. “Pull the appointment schedule from the office computer, and have the squad work up preliminary IDs on the victims. Then she and someone from Sex Battery can start with the notifications. Does the chief know?”

  “Yeah, I called him. He was in a sec ago.”

  “And nothing from the hard drive?”

  “Still working on it. The guy’s got a zillion pirated Jimmy Buffett songs but, like I said, nothing obviously Inquisitor-related.”

  “Are there any straight photos of Green, where he’s not busy committing a felony? Something we can use for an ID?”

  “Yeah, I saw something.”

  Mason tapped at the keyboard, opening and closing folders, the screen finally filling with thumbnail photos of Green attending a medical meeting.

  “Print one that shows him best?”

  “Sure.”

  A few minutes later, they were leaving, the color print tucked in Rad’s pocket.

  “Let’s see what Ana thinks.”

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  *

  *

  *

  They found her tidying the TV room, CNN on in the background, stereo blaring. She was flushed from the effort, her smile bright and brittle.

  “Here they are! The Men Who Went Into the Fire!”

  She put down the garbage bag and walked over to Roggetti, said, “I’m glad you’re safe,” then kissed him on the cheek. And then she kissed Rad’s cheek and said, “You too,”

  and then Jenner’s mouth, a little longer. “And you.”

  Rad said, “How are you doing, Ana?”

  “Me? I’m fine. Good.” She nodded her head firmly. “I’m good.”

  She sat. “But you’re the guys who went into the fire! How are you feeling?”

  Everyone muttered they were fine, and then she stood, turning to Jenner to ask, “Would your guests like something to drink, honey?”

  Roggetti asked for juice. She walked out of the TV room toward the kitchen, humming, leaving Rad and Jenner staring at the empty door frame. Rad turned to Jenner, eyebrows raised.

  Jenner shook his head and shrugged.

  Roggetti leaned forward and said “Whoa!” fumbling for the TV remote. Onscreen was a montage of video from the evening before, shot from a helicopter above Mulberry Street. There was video of Joey’s stretcher being loaded into the ambulance, and Rad giving the thumbs-up sign to the crowd, and Jenner climbing in after him. The caption read

  “Fourth Inquisitor Victim.”

  “God! We look terrible!” Joey said.

  The station cut away to a live feed from in front of the medical examiner’s office, where Jacob Sarkies, MD, billed as “Forensic Psychiatrist, Tristate Forensic Task Force,”

  was holding forth. Jenner had met the guy a few years back, Precious Blood

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  when Sarkies was in the middle of his psych residency; he was still an obnoxious little prick.

  “Robin, all the evidence we have so far is totally consistent with Dr. Green leading a secret life as the Inquisitor. There’s a very high degree of correlation with the profile Tristate Forensics had generated—age, build, previous sexual history, previous failed marriages, even his having a large car in which to move victims and equipment.”

  “Doctor, isn’t it unusual for a physician to be a serial killer?”

  “Well, yes and no, Robin. It is unusual for a serial killer to be
so highly functioning, but you have to remember that such men—and occasionally, women—range across the IQ

  scale.

  “It also makes sense that he was drawn specifically to surgery. Surgery is a practice of medicine that demands an almost cold-blooded ability to shut down emotions like anxiety and fear. Surgeons tend to be strongly opinionated men of action, and work in an environment where there’s a hair’s-breadth difference between saving life and taking life.

  I’ve observed a tendency toward narcissism in surgeons, and narcissism is a most useful tool for the serial killer. Not to mention an ability to use a knife.”

  Sarkies allowed himself a small grin.

  Jenner snorted and glanced at the cops. “Talk about narcissism, eh? You think that profile of his told him Green drove a Mercedes SUV?”

  Rad said, “Probably told him the color, too.”

  “Well, Doctor, you’ve certainly given us a lot to think about. Thanks. Back to you, Mike and Jess.”

  Ana had come in with a tray while they were watching.

  There was orange juice for Roggetti, a two-liter bottle of Coke, a couple of cans of beer, and two airline mini-bottles of whisky that Jenner had swiped when he was upgraded to first class on a Chicago flight the year before.

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  Rad asked her to sit for a minute. She sat close to Jenner, her hand on his thigh.

  “Ana, we’d like you to have a look at a photo, see if it looks like the man you saw. Do you think you could do that for us?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Rad removed the photograph, placed it on the coffee table, and smoothed it flat.

  It was a photo of Green with two older physicians, standing by a fountain in a resort hotel lobby.

  “Could this be the man you saw?”

  “I’m not sure. I only saw him for a second, and he was in the dark, and bloody.”

  “Take your time. No rush.” He pushed the image closer to her.

  “I guess he’s about the same size, same age, roughly. As best I can tell.”

  “How about the face?”

  He pushed the photo a little closer to her. She tilted her head from side to side, studying it.

  “It’s hard to say for sure . . . But, yeah, I think that’s him.”