by Oliver Stark
‘And?’
‘If we can believe it, then there’s some good news. It indicates that Abby’s alive.’
‘And the bad news.’
‘It also seems to indicate that he’s starving her to death.’
Chapter Forty-Six
North Manhattan Homicide
March 9, 10.15 p.m.
Harper stood up in front of Blue Team. ‘Let Lukanov go. Sign him out, tell him we’ve got nothing.’
The rest of the team looked up. ‘What’s the story?’ said Garcia.
‘He’s giving us nothing.’
‘He’s our prime,’ said Swanson. ‘Let’s get the judge to give us some extra time. We can break him.’
‘He’s a foot soldier,’ said Harper. ‘Maybe he bought the barbed wire, maybe he took it to the compound, but he isn’t our guy. He gave us Heming. We need to concentrate on finding Heming.’
‘What about the compound?’ said Garcia.
‘We checked it out. It’s been torched. Presumably because of the heat on Section 88.’
‘What makes you so sure Lukanov wasn’t part of it?’
Harper looked across at Denise Levene. She nodded. ‘He’s part of the organization, all right, but he’s not the killer. Marisa Cohen was killed after he was arrested.’
‘He attacked Denise and you. We don’t let some sick racist scum out for nothing. He’s still the only suspect we got.’
‘He’s our only link to Heming. We got to take a chance.’
‘There might’ve been a few guys. This guy might’ve been there, watching.’
‘Eddie, give them the low-down.’
‘His girlfriend puts him at home all night.’
‘His fucking girlfriend. The bleach blonde in the hot pants with the Nazi tattoos? Like she’s a good fucking alibi.’
Harper nodded and looked across. ‘There’s enough to discount him. But listen up. He’s involved somehow, he’s just not the main man. And I want the main man. He’s our lure. Leo Lukanov will lead us to the killer.’
Harper set the surveillance operation going. The team set up the rota for a tail on Lukanov. They would let him go before midnight.
At 11.57 p.m., Leo Lukanov was released and left standing on the steps of the precinct in a state of confusion. He looked like he wasn’t sure whether it was a sick joke by the cops or just luck. He went straight home to his apartment. Behind him, just out of sight, Swanson and Greco kept up the tail.
Twenty minutes later, Lukanov took off. He got the bus to his mother’s place. Ratten and Garcia were already sitting outside in a car. No doubt he was surprised to find that the media hadn’t been anywhere near his mother.
Ten minutes after arriving he left and visited his girlfriend’s place. Harper and Kasper were sitting right outside.
Lukanov made several phone calls from his girlfriend’s house. The cops couldn’t trace them, but they could be used in evidence later.
After four hours, in the dead of night, Lukanov left his girlfriend’s building and walked home. It took him an hour to walk the streets. Harper and Kasper had to get out and follow on foot.
He entered his own apartment building for the second time at 5.08 a.m. Harper returned with Kasper to their car and headed back to the bunkhouse. Likewise, Garcia and Ratten. Swanson and Greco were the unlucky ones. They sat outside his apartment, with an unmarked police car at the service entrance at the back. At 5.42 a.m., the lights in Lukanov’s apartment finally went out.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Apartment, Crown Heights
March 10, 5.10 a.m.
Lukanov wasn’t stupid. He knew he had a tail. Anyhow, even if he had missed it, Heming had told him he was being tailed. They had a routine. He called a cell number three times, waited forty minutes then called a public booth from his girlfriend’s place. By that time, Heming was there to answer the call. Heming had told him to keep his mouth shut, go home and stay put.
Lukanov intended to follow the instructions. He opened the door to his apartment. The lock had been busted, so he only had to push it. He pulled off the remnants of the police security stickers pasted across the frame. The cops must’ve kicked the door down, fucking assholes.
He entered the room for the second time that morning. Most of the room was wrecked. Everything was tipped out, the floorboards ripped up, wallpaper torn down. A note from the police department had been left, with details of how to get compensation. Assholes. This was what Heming had told them all about. The cops were part of the problem.
Lukanov stared at the mess and then heard a noise in his kitchen. He turned. He suspected cops. Maybe they were going to get in a reprisal for attacking Denise Levene or for punching Detective Harper.
He called out, ‘Who’s there?’ No one replied. Was it just rats? The cops had left food and shit all over the floor with the door open. Could even be cats. He hated cats.
Lukanov heard a low cough from the kitchen. Not cats, then. An open apartment in this kind of building with the door kicked in would be quite a temptation. It might be kids or some hobo.
Lukanov picked up his baseball bat from the floor and headed towards the kitchen.
He pushed open the kitchen door and peered in. Someone was there, staring out of the window. A figure.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ shouted Leo, and he raised his bat.
The man spoke. ‘How long does it take you to find someone in your own apartment?’ He turned. ‘Hello, Leo.’
Leo let the bat fall. ‘Is that you, Martin? You scared the shit out of me.’
Martin Heming stood tall and powerful in front of him in a suit. He was clean-cut and had shaved. ‘I look a little different. I had to be careful. Police are tailing you and they’ve been hunting me. They’re searching for some tank-top-wearing, unshaven thug, so I just put on a suit, carry a briefcase and wander around Manhattan.’
‘That’s a great idea, Martin, but why are they tailing me?’ said Leo. ‘They let me out.’
‘They let you out to lure someone else out. I can’t think of one other fucking reason, Leo, why they’d let kike-hating scum like you out of the slammer. Why would they? You raced down a cop. You hit a cop. You got caught. Ellery pulled a knife.’
‘I didn’t hurt anyone.’
‘It doesn’t seem right to me, Leo.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I just got a nose for it. What did you tell them?’
‘Nothing. But they told me something, Martin. Told me you set us up.’
‘You think I’d do that? Why?’
‘To pin Capske on us.’
‘Like they’re going to believe you lot could kill Capske. You can’t even rough-up a woman.’
‘They found us, somehow.’
‘They probably tailed you.’
‘I promise, Martin, I said nothing to them.’
‘You lying piece of shit.’
‘No, Martin. Not a thing.’
‘You fucked up. You had the operation. Your first independent and you fucking embarrassed us.’
‘The cops knew.’
‘So that’s what they told you?’
‘How else did they get there so quick?’
‘They got there so quick, Leo, for two fucking reasons. The first is that you didn’t wear gloves transporting the barbed wire. The second is that you fucking emailed your squad and left the black card in your apartment.’
‘I needed the team quick. I couldn’t get hold of them on the forum.’
‘What’s the problem with email?’
‘It’s traceable.’
‘Right, the forum is anonymous.’
‘Sorry, man, sorry.’
‘You going to be sorry to me or you going to tell me?’
‘What?’
‘You tell them about Sturbe?’
‘No. You think I’m stupid?’
‘He’s in the fucking bedroom, waiting. He thinks you told them. He’s going to be coming in here and pulling your teeth out one by fuck
ing one.’
Lukanov went pale. ‘Fuck you.’
‘You want me to call him out?’
‘No.’
‘Sturbe’s angry.’
‘I took a hit for you.’
‘You’re out, no one else is. Not Paddy, Ray or Ocks. Just you. You know what that tells me?’
‘I didn’t get caught hitting someone.’
‘You hit Harper. No, Leo, it means that you gave them some information.’
‘No, sir, not me.’
‘You know what that’s called, Leo?’
‘No.’
‘High fucking treason.’
‘I did nothing. No treason, nothing.’
‘You’re not safe, Leo. You’re like a weak point in a wall and the thing is, the weak point is the point where the wall breaks.’
‘I’m not a weak point, I swear.’
‘I’m going to go in the bedroom, talk to Sturbe; we’re going to decide what to do with you.’
Leo watched. ‘Fuck you, Martin. There is no Sturbe. You fuck. You’re just trying to spook me. We all know that Sturbe’s just a fucking game you play. You can fuck off and die, Martin.’
‘Really? You think that, do you? You think that this has no one behind it? Really? You think this is just me?’
‘Fuck you, Martin. We’ve all been up to the compound this Sturbe wants us to build and none of us have seen him.’
‘You’ve got to watch yourself, Leo.’
‘Do I?’
‘Sure you do, kiddo.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘You know what happens when you stop believing in the bogeyman.’
‘What?’ said Lukanov, his head twisting to look over his shoulder.
‘The bogeyman comes to pay you a visit.’
Chapter Forty-Eight
Apartment, Yorkville
March 10, 6.45 a.m.
The autopsy on Marisa Cohen found a third bullet. Harper had it in his hand. He needed an answer soon. Even if they caught Martin Heming, they’d need some evidence to link him to the murders.
Each bullet was too mangled and, without a cartridge, there was no way of matching it to a gun. But Harper wanted to know more.
Eddie was working with Hate Crime, conducting interviews with friends and relations of Marisa Cohen. So Harper brought Denise with him.
Denise sat in the car. ‘Where are we going?’
‘I need someone to look over the three bullets. Ballistics have nothing much, but I gave them to someone who used to work with us. He’s retired, works the odd case with the FBI. He’s one of the best. Hans Formet.’
‘What are you looking for?’
‘These bullets look different to me — so do the entrance wounds they leave. They’re tight, no expansion. Look, Hans is a genius. If anyone can find something, he will.’
‘Anything on the tail?’
‘No, he’s still in his apartment. Sleeping. He didn’t get back until after five a.m. What about Abby?’
‘We’re working on the note. Nothing yet. What am I here for, Tom?’
‘You’re here to certify I’m of sound mind and let me know if I’m not.’
‘But if you’re not, you wouldn’t believe me.’
‘Then get me to a psychiatrist as soon as you can.’
They both smiled.
‘I want to hear more about what Aaron said. You can talk on the drive over.’
Harper pulled out. Denise filled him in on the Nazi symbols used in the three murders and Harper listened intently. ‘It makes sense,’ he said. ‘You’re beginning to understand him.’
‘With Aaron’s help, I am.’
Harper and Levene arrived at the home of ballistics expert Hans Formet and walked up the steps.
‘What did the CSU find on the Capske bullet?’ asked Denise.
‘The initial ballistics report was inconclusive. They carried out some ballistic imaging on the bullet, but nothing came up on the National Network. There was too much damage.’
‘No way to tell if it was the same gun that fired both bullets?’
‘If the gun that shot this bullet had been used before, we wouldn’t be able to tell from the mangled slug we’ve got. We didn’t find the cartridges. They’d tell us more.’
‘So what the hell can Hans Formet tell us?’
‘I don’t know, but we’re going to find out soon.’
Harper rang the bell and waited. After a long while, Hans Formet appeared.
Hans was of Austrian origin. A short, balding man with small intense eyes, he was in a white coat, the picture of the anti-social scientist. Harper said hello. Hans smiled and stared at Denise.
‘How you getting on?’ said Harper.
‘Who’s this? Some inspector?’
‘Dr Levene. Psychologist. Working on the case.’
‘Don’t try to read me, Dr Levene, okay?’
‘We’re interested in bullets, not therapy,’ said Denise.
Hans eyed her for another second, then seemed to let it go. He turned to Harper. ‘I found something interesting,’ he said. ‘Something very interesting. You should come in.’
‘Thanks,’ said Harper, and the door opened.
Hans stared at Harper for a moment longer than was comfortable. ‘If you want something done properly, you come to me. Those new recruits at CSU are full of techniques, but they have no depth of knowledge. Everything is from a computer. No real-world experience.’
Hans smiled thinly and led Harper and Levene down to his lab. He waited for Harper to say something. Clearly Harper was supposed to acknowledge his old-school brilliance. Harper didn’t. He looked around at the images on the walls — all of them bullets and cartridges. ‘You like bullets, Hans?’
‘Yes, I like bullets. That’s called dry humor, isn’t it?’
‘If you ever got caught up in a murder investigation, you’d be a prime suspect,’ said Denise, staring at the obsessively neat closeups of bullets.
Hans led them past the workbenches to a desk with three computer screens side-by-side.
‘So this is where you get to play now?’ said Harper.
‘Since I retired, yes. Anyway, I like to do my own work out here away from those new guys with their smart shirts. I don’t like bright colors, you see. What did they find in these bullets?’
‘Nothing,’ said Harper. Denise watched from a distance.
‘Nothing is correct, Detective. But what did I get?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Harper. ‘What have you got for me?’
‘What have I got for you? Here,’ said Hans. A picture came up on the screen.
Harper looked at two close-up photographs of the twisted gray bullets. ‘What am I looking at?’
‘It didn’t take long — not long at all, considering that no one else spotted it. There is something unusual in your bullets. Your instincts were right, Detective.’
‘What did you spot?’ said Harper. ‘Come on, he could’ve murdered again in the time you’ve taken building up to the show.’
Denise Levene felt her interest growing as she stared at a magnified picture of a used bullet. A bullet that had passed through Esther Haeber’s body.
‘Look, here’s the Capske bullet. And here’s your bullet from Esther Haeber. They are both badly damaged. Much more deformed than you would expect. You can see that right away. I presume that is why the young technical specialists at the CSU labs could not identify them. They only know modern bullets. But even for me, this is not something I’ve seen outside of museums and I’ve seen everything post 1961. So that led me to believe that this was older.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yes. This, Detective Harper, is, as you know, a 9mm Parabellum. But it is an unusual 9mm. Firstly, the metal is different from usual and so is the color.’
‘Looks like it got burned.’
‘It’s a different metal. Not a metal anyone uses to make bullets.’
‘What is it?’
Hans Formet put his hand on to
p of Harper’s. He whispered, ‘This, Detective, is an iron bullet.’
‘An iron bullet — what does that mean?’
‘Very rare in this size of ballistics. Very rare. So rare, in fact, that you have a connection between your apparently unconnected murders.’
Harper put the third bullet down on the desk. ‘This came from our next victim, Marisa Cohen.’
Hans pulled it out of the bag with forceps and turned it under his eye. ‘It appears the same,’ he said. He dropped it into a small dish and squeezed some droplets on it. They changed color. ‘Iron,’ nodded Hans.
‘But an iron bullet isn’t conclusive, is it?’
‘Iron is made strong by the addition of various impurities. Pure iron is very soft, whereas iron with the right mix of impurities becomes steel. So I had the iron content analyzed. The proportion of iron, carbon and other impurities.’
‘Okay, I get iron, Hans, but what does it tell us?’
‘Well, guess what I found? An exact chemical match. Not only are these bullets of a similar type, they are from the same batch.’
‘Is that admissible?’
‘Who knows what the DA would accept, but for a detective, knowing there is a real link is worth something in its own right. Correct?’
Harper’s skin was tingling. Hans was a showman all right. This was the first piece of real physical evidence, providing a link between the three murders.
‘The bullets might not be from the same gun, but they were manufactured in the same factory, at the same time, is that right?’ said Denise.
‘Yes.’
Harper caught Denise’s thinking. ‘A munitions factory must make a million bullets of the same type at the same time. How does this give us a link?’
‘It’s not absolutely conclusive. I never said it was. But who makes iron bullets, these days? And iron is different from lead. This match is not close, it’s identical. Same batch. How many killers are there in New York using old iron bullets?’
‘You’d say not many,’ said Harper.
‘One. No more,’ said Hans.
‘Can you tell me anything more about these bullets?’ said Harper.
‘I have to continue my work. At the moment, I don’t know what they are or where they were made. I will try for you, Detective.’
