by Oliver Stark
Mac stood and stared at the crowd of women. ‘Levene, stand up.’
Denise stood. She walked towards him.
‘You know I’m stronger than you, right? I look stronger, I can probably hurt you in a few seconds so you also believe I’m stronger — but am I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wrong. It’s not a question of strength but of what you’re willing to lose. If you’re willing to fight to the death, you will fight very differently and you will be stronger. Your attacker will not be willing to fight to the death. Your attacker wants to rob, rape or hurt. He does not want to injure himself. He’s probably got a wife and a mother he has to go home to. You must fight as if every fight is your last. So, you need to be a predator, and the moment your attacker realizes that, you’ll have bought yourself enough time to get away. If we’ve both only got our lives to lose we’re equals. Okay?’
Denise looked around. Seven other women sitting in fear.
‘So let’s try,’ said Mac.
Mac lunged at Denise and held her. They struggled. She tried to nip at him with her teeth, scratch at him, kick him and elbow him. Mac stopped and stood back.
‘If I’m stronger, taking that number of different approaches only strengthens me. Each time your change your strategy, I feel stronger. And none of them actually hurt me.’
‘So what can I do, if you’re stronger?’
‘Intention is what’s terrifying. Find one thing, choose it and go for it. Whatever that is, it doesn’t matter, but if you want to unhinge your opponent or make him think twice, it is the fear of the intention. I want you to choose something. One thing, then to try to get me. Think — he can do what he wants, but I will gouge his eyeball. Or I will bite off a piece of his cheek. And then go for only that one thing. Make it your entire goal.’
‘Okay,’ said Denise.
Mac waited for a second and then lunged. Denise had one thing in mind and that was to bite him. They wrestled hard, but every time Denise had a half-inch of space, she lunged her teeth towards him. The fight went on longer and longer.
Mac finally pushed her away. ‘How did that feel?’
‘Better,’ she said, breathing hard.
‘You have a target, you think less about your pain, your passivity, his strength, or how tired you get. The predator always has a single target. It is what makes him a predator. Even under attack, never play the victim, always play the predator. When you have confused him or frightened him or made him question himself, you’ll have the opportunity to get away. The predator needs to remain intact. Intend specific hurt. He has that in mind, which makes him dangerous. Have that in mind too.’
Denise walked back to her seat and sat down. Her body was still thrilling from the fight, tingling with adrenalin that felt more positive than usual. She suddenly realized why: she was not using it to defend but to attack. She was becoming a predator.
Denise felt the power of the session. Somewhere inside each of their minds, they were beginning to remember those events, those terrible events, but now, they were facing them not with the terror of being unable to defend themselves, but with the questions: What could I have done? How and when?
Chapter Forty
Apartment, Lower East Side
March 9, 6.07 p.m.
The walk up Essex was unremarkable. It was an ugly stretch of road with a huge municipal parking lot opposite the retail market. The sidewalks were busy with young Asian students and the odd guy with seemingly nothing better to do. Harper crossed Rivington and Stanton and found Detective Jack Carney’s building opposite a bright public-school playground. The kids were all at home and the playground stood empty.
Jack Carney worked Brooklyn Hate Crime and had lived on the Lower East Side for most of his life. The city had changed a great deal since he grew up on the streets of Lower Manhattan, but Jack insisted that there was nowhere else that felt like home.
Harper took out the address, which was scribbled on a small scrap of brown envelope. He looked up at a dirty black building. Under all the grime it was quite an ornate piece of architecture. But the carbon emissions had brought it down to earth.
Tom Harper pressed the buzzer. He had called Jack in advance, to let him know he was coming by. Jack was off shift for two days, but didn’t mind helping out an old colleague. He waited and pressed again. Then he checked the address. After a couple of minutes, a voice came through the speaker.
‘That you, Harper?’
‘This is me, Jack.’
Jack Carney laughed. His voice was deep and filled the tinny speaker until it crackled. They’d never been close, just went through training together, remaining aware of each other, the way two lions are.
‘You know it all comes flooding back. Come on up.’
Harper pushed the door and found his way to a small elevator. He reached the fifth floor and walked down the dark corridor to Jack’s apartment. The door was open.
‘Come right in, buddy.’
Jack Carney and Tom Harper were of similar height, but apart from that they were about as different to look at as you could get. Harper was big, strong in the shoulder and with strong features. Carney was like a dark wiry animal you’d find surviving some terrible arid landscape on scraps. He was hardened Brooklyn stock.
‘Jack.’
‘Tom.’
‘I could’ve met you somewhere.’
‘No need, I don’t want to put you to any trouble. How’s Dr Levene?’
‘She got pretty shaken up by those four thugs.’
‘They don’t play by normal rules,’ said Carney. ‘Been dealing with them for years and they continue to surprise. We’ve got all our ears to the ground down at Hate Crime. Is that where your investigation is heading?’
‘Lukanov is involved. We also got an 88 moniker at the crime scenes of David Capske and Abby Goldenberg. You ever seen that?’
‘Sure, neo-Nazis use it. Means Heil Hitler.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I understand. We’re going to need your help, Jack.’
‘Any way we can.’
Harper looked directly at Jack. He looked good. Still sharp. ‘Shit, you look ten years younger than me.’
Jack’s blue eyes searched Harper’s face. ‘You think? Maybe it’s just because you look like shit.’
‘I got my ass kicked in the ring.’
‘You could handle yourself better than that — what happened?’
‘Shit happened.’
‘I guess. Was he that good?’
Harper smiled. ‘No, he wasn’t. I was that bad.’
‘Now that’s what I’ve been telling people all over. There’s something up with the world. The strong are being ousted by the weak, you know. Who was it, Tom?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Someone took the focus and fight out of you — who was she?’
‘There wasn’t anyone, just had a bad night.’
Carney smiled. ‘Sure. I’ve had bad nights like that plenty of times. You want a drink?’
‘No, thanks. I want to find out about these fucked-up groups. These neo-Nazis.’
‘They come out of the woodwork. America has lost its confidence, right? An economic ecosystem, just like the dust bowl — you take too much and the whole thing turns to desert. People are losing their livelihoods out there. So they find someone to blame.’
‘You notice it in Hate Crime?’
‘Sure do. The economy goes down, hate crime goes up. Being rich is the only way to fight against racism.’
‘Horrible thought.’
‘The worse things get, the more scary the politics get, the worse it is on the streets. Low-level frustrations tipping over into full-scale turf wars. Poverty and desperation are only half of it.’
‘And the other half?’
‘Politics. The rhetoric from the government, the ruddy-eyed American dream. People on the streets hear it and it creeps into their blood, but it’s nowhere to be found where they live, so they get to think that someone stole i
t from them.’
‘Understandable.’
‘Leo Lukanov. People like that. They’re told that the Mexicans or the Koreans or the Jews have taken their dream. You need to look carefully at dreams, Tom. Yours too. The dream is always a fake, and the man who sold it to you is long gone, so you need someone to blame.’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘Someone once told you that you’d be happy, didn’t they? But it went belly up, right? The girl left, the world became gritty and real. It’s called waking up. Hardest thing in the world is waking up.’
‘Waking up isn’t hard, it’s keeping clean once you see how things are.’
‘Damn right,’ said Carney.
Harper looked around the apartment. ‘You push two ends of a piece of metal and at some point, it buckles. That’s all it is. We’re the buckle.’
‘Hey, I like that, Tom. Look at us. Old buddies.’ Jack laughed. ‘Where the hell did it all go wrong? You married, Tom?’ And when Harper shrugged: ‘That’s what I’m talking about. The dream didn’t turn up, did it? I’m living in this tiny room and working my ass off for less than 40K. Happy? When did the pursuit of happiness get so fucking hard, Tom?’
Harper shook his head. He felt it too. It was hard. Life had fragmented — communities blistered and split apart in the heat of poverty and need. Everyone was on their own. There was no community.
‘If I could afford it, you know what I’d do?’ Jack went on.
‘No.’
‘Buy a plot of land and farm the soil.’
Tom laughed. ‘I just can’t see you as a farmer, Jack.’
Jack smiled. ‘Maybe you’re right. All dreams are bullshit.’
There was a silence. ‘Enough of that,’ Jack said finally. ‘Let’s talk about your case.’
‘We’re not sure about Lukanov.’
‘You’re not sure it’s him or you think there are others involved?’
‘He attacked Abby and Denise, there’s no question about that, but we’ve got nothing on the Capske shooting. And it seems a different crime altogether. Much more brutal.’
‘Except the barbed wire? That’s a physical link between Lukanov and the crime scene, right?’
‘Not quite. The print was on the post, not the barbed wire. It wouldn’t hold up in court. We’re trying to match up some fibers.’
‘What kind of fibers?’
‘Looks like wool. Left on the barbed wire. Probably from the killer’s coat.’
‘You ransacked Lukanov’s place?’
‘Yeah. He’s a member of this neo-Nazi group. We haven’t got the name.’
‘They’re called Section 88,’ said Carney. ‘They’re new or it’s a new set-up. We’ve not got much on them.’
‘But there’s something more. Lukanov’s scared.’
‘What of?’ asked Carney.
‘Something, someone — not sure. Maybe the organization itself. Any evidence they hurt their own?’
‘It happens, yeah. Usually in prison, if word gets around that someone’s talked.’
‘No big player out there frightening these lowlifes?’ asked Harper.
‘Unless it’s the leader. But we’ve not been able to infiltrate the hierarchy. They’ve kept themselves hidden and they never talk even if they get caught.’
Harper stood up and walked about the small apartment.
‘There’s something else,’ said Jack. ‘Let’s have it.’
‘I want to talk about Esther Haeber.’
‘Who?’
‘Esther Haeber. Two months ago, you were involved in the investigation. I spoke to the Investigating Officer, Hilary McCain from Brooklyn Homicide. She’s a tough investigator, but she’s not stupid. Far from it. She got a prosecution out of it, but she wasn’t a hundred per cent on it. She said you knew the case. The perp was one of your regulars.’
‘That’s right. So what’s the problem?’
‘I don’t think your man did it. I think it’s one of our guys. You know what else? I went to see the crime scene and guess what I found?’
‘I don’t know, Tom.’
‘An 88 scratched into the concrete, about twenty yards from the body. This killer can’t help himself.’
‘Come on, Tom. An 88 that could have been scratched there by any lowlife. The perp was good for this.’
‘I don’t buy it. Esther Haeber goes walking late at night wearing gold jewelry in a part of Brooklyn that she should’ve avoided. Just like Capske. She’s carrying five hundred dollars that’s not taken from her purse. And yet, the story is, this killer follows her, then tries to rob her. She struggles. Maybe she screams. He gets scared and pulls out a gun.’
‘He panicked.’
‘Panicked? He left five hundred dollars on the body and before he shot her, he cut off each of her fingers, one by one. That’s not panic, Jack, that’s fucking pathological.’
‘I remember. He cut off her rings. They were worth something.’
‘Then he shoots her. The bullet goes right through her carotid artery, shatters her seventh cervical vertebra and lands in a beautiful brand new Porsche Carrera on the side of the street.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. The owner was sick — that’s an eighty-thousand-dollar car,’ Jack Carney said.
‘Detective McCain didn’t find any leads to anyone else, but this guy fell into her lap.’
‘It was a homicide. Wasn’t my case.’
‘Why did they bring you in?’
‘Homicide wanted to see if there was evidence of hate crime. Someone heard some racial slurs about a half-hour before the murder. We looked into it. Impossible to get anywhere, and by the time we’d done the rounds, they had their man.’
‘Was there any racial motive?’
‘The killer was a racist, but he seemed to want money more than anything.’
‘How confident were you that the suspect was the killer?’
‘He had a history. They found her jewelry in his apartment. Still blood-smeared.’
‘Yeah, I’ve been through the case. Careless to keep that kind of thing.’
‘Damn right.’
‘But the crime scene left nothing. No prints, fibers, nothing. The bullet was in no shape to be analyzed. Seems incongruous.’
‘Mind that can cut someone like that isn’t thinking straight,’ said Carney.
‘Anything odd about the crime scene?’
‘I wasn’t at the crime scene, Tom, I was just advising. I was looking for evidence of hate crime.’
‘The killer who worked on David Capske wasn’t new to the game. He’s killed and hurt people before. I think Esther Haeber was one of his kills.’
‘Shit, you really think they jailed the wrong guy?’
‘I can’t be sure. But if you can remember any more detail, Jack…’
‘I’d need to revisit the case-files, try to jog my memory, see what I can come up with,’ said Carney.
‘I’d appreciate it.’
Jack nodded. ‘You’re either inspired or you got too many bumps to the head, Tom. Not sure which it is.’
‘Me neither. But Esther Haeber is supposed to have been mugged — yet the killer cuts off her fingers for some cheap jewelry and takes a fur coat, but he leaves her purse. I read the report, it doesn’t add up.’
‘He got spooked maybe. It happens.’
‘I’ll tell you what’s bugging me about this case. Simple as this — staging.’
‘What?’
‘This woman is staged to look like she’s been mugged but she hasn’t. But the cops look around, there’s no other motive so they’ve got nothing else to say. So they guess she struggled or he got scared and didn’t get to finish the job.’
‘She fought him, he reacted.’
‘I looked at the report. No scuff marks, nails unbroken, hair wasn’t even messed up. No sign of a struggle or fight. She must’ve been unconscious when he cut off her fingers. Else, there’d be more to see.’
Carney shrugged.
‘H
e had Capske out cold while he rolled him in wire. One more question. Did she have anything tattooed or written on her chest?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘I just want the truth, Jack. The truth.’
‘You look long enough into the abyss, it starts to look back at you.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You seem wired. Keep things in perspective, Harper. You’re under a lot of pressure here and nothing’s breaking. Lukanov’s been found. Don’t go looking for the extravagant theory, when you’ve got your man in the can.’
‘I know, I know, I’ve had all those doubts myself, but I can’t stop thinking that there’s more to it.’ Harper pressed his hand on Carney’s shoulder, then headed out the door.
Chapter Forty-One
Midtown, Manhattan
March 9, 6.43 p.m.
They had not found her yet. The thought pleased him. She was still there, tied to the post and dragged by the currents. He had submerged Marisa in the East River in the dark night, sat by her side as the cold water stripped away her body heat. He had read much about these experiments, he had absorbed every detail, every statistic, but nothing compared to the cold reality. He had kept his stopwatch close to his eyes as her lips turned blue and her head shook above the water. She wanted to submerge herself, to drown, but he wouldn’t allow it. Death belonged to him, not her. How long would she last? Would she die first or ask for salvation?
Under forty-five minutes. It had surprised him. She hadn’t lasted as long as he had anticipated. Hypothermia was a curious death. Dying while fully clothed as the traffic roared by on FDR Drive. He could still remember the distinctive sound of her teeth chattering above the water.
It was his need, to take these people apart, to absorb their life as they died, to feel them slip away as he grew stronger. She managed only minutes before she was blue with cold. Then he fished her out, revived her on the wooden platform until she showed signs of life. Then he put her back in.
It took three submersions until Marisa was nearly unconscious with the cold. He smiled as he shot her through the top of her head. Orders were orders.
The smoke twirled in his car; he stared out, excited by the experiments, the slow precision of his deaths, the fear that grew as the knowledge that there was no escape ripened in their minds. These inferiors wanted you to want something — sex, revenge, money, something tangible. They couldn’t conceive or cope with the glaring eye of impartial observation, or the brutal logic of the fanatic. They were not human to him, they needed to suffer as a means to his own survival and to the growth of knowledge.
