by Oliver Stark
‘Yes, but she’s got bruising all up her arm and her pantyhose are ripped.’
‘What are you thinking?’
‘Why bother to stage it? Why write 88 on her chest like some big signature? I don’t think this was staged. I think he wanted to rape her. I don’t think he necessarily did, but he sure wanted to. Seems like he’s punished her for his desiring her.’
Harper crouched again. ‘She’s got dirty fingernails. Dirt across both knees too. She’s been kneeling in this alley. Just like Capske and Haeber.’ He stood and looked around the alleyway. ‘What do you suppose she was doing here? How did she get into this alley? She looks dressed for work.’
‘He’s brought her here or he’s forced her here.’
Harper suddenly stopped and listened.
‘What is it?’
He walked towards a dumpster and pulled his gun out. ‘There’s something in that dumpster.’
‘It’ll just be rats,’ said Eddie. But he drew his gun too and headed towards the sound.
Harper shouted, ‘Get out of there, right now!’
Nothing moved.
Harper moved in close. He moved behind the dumpster and yanked aside a large piece of cardboard. Two sets of eyes stared out at him.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Harper exclaimed. ‘We got two kids back here.’
Chapter Sixty-One
North Manhattan Homicide
March 11, 5.34 p.m.
Denise Levene and Tom Harper sat across from Captain Lafayette, who was scowling. ‘I’m going to have to bawl you out about that Erin Nash article, but this takes precedence,’ he said. ‘What you got on the victim?’
‘Nothing. Not even a name. We’ve tried dental records, prints… She wasn’t carrying a phone or a purse. Maybe they were taken. No ID.’
‘What about the kids?’
‘They won’t talk. They’re not talking to anyone. Not a single soul. Shut up tight. The psychiatrist says it’s trauma, so I’m guessing that they saw the whole thing. Makes you want to hurt someone, doesn’t it?’ said Harper.
‘They won’t say a thing?’
‘Not a word. Doctor says it’s not voluntary,’ said Denise. ‘I spoke to him in person. He says they’ve frozen. I’m going to see them, see if I can get through, but I’m not promising anything.’
Captain Lafayette walked across to the large blue board that Harper had started to use to pin up images of the unidentified Jane Doe. Either side were the four other boards in chronological order. Haeber, Goldenberg, Capske, Cohen and Jane Doe.
Photographs of the crime scene and body were all they had and they made for a grim spectacle. ‘What do you make of it, Harper? This is his work, right?’
‘Yes. It’s his. Iron was found in the bullet. He wrote 88 on her chest.’
‘But she’s half-naked.’
‘Yeah, but we just got back from speaking to the Medical Examiner. We wanted to see right away if there’s any DNA or semen. There’s nothing. No evidence of actual rape.’
‘He’s losing control,’ said Denise.
‘How so?’
‘I think all his kills have been sexual, but he’s been repressing it, made it about hate. I think he’s finding that hard. He wanted to rape her. He staged it so it looked like he did, but he couldn’t do it, or hates himself for it, if that makes any sense.’
‘No, it doesn’t.’
Denise stood and pointed at the photograph. ‘He’s left her in an explicit pose to humiliate her, but he’s covered her face. He’s never done that before.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s ashamed. Not of killing her, not of raping her. He’s ashamed of letting his desire control him. He didn’t plan to rape her, that would be my guess, which would mean that he might have left semen or pubic hair on the scene.’
‘Before you ask, we’re checking it, Captain,’ said Harper.
‘Do you have a story? Why the kids?’
‘We’re walking the streets, talking. She looks like she was at work or going to an interview.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Crime Scene found spit on the ground. Her spit. Quite a lot of it.’
‘Strange.’
‘She appears to be on her knees, leaning on one hand and she’s either dribbling or spitting. They reckon it’s spit.’
‘How?’
‘There’s a spray pattern.’
‘This some fetish we ain’t heard about?’
‘We’ve got to re-enact it, get some people to look at the possibilities.’
‘If only the children could talk.’
‘It’d save a lot of time, I know that, but for their sake, I hope they didn’t see anything.’
‘Unfortunately, the psychs think they saw the shooting,’ said Denise.
‘How did they get to be separated, unless they heard something and went to hide behind the dumpster?’
‘He couldn’t have known that they saw him, is my guess, or else he might have killed them too. At the moment we don’t even know if they are connected to her. We’ve got to keep their existence tight.’
‘No way we can do that, Harper, not long-term.’
‘Then our only alternative is to catch this guy soon.’
Lafayette remained silent. ‘Tell me what you’ve been itching to tell me,’ said Harper.
‘I had a call about the kids. I didn’t want to say. It might not mean anything.’
‘Is it bad?’
‘Both the kids are wearing Magen Davids around their necks.’
‘Wearing what?’
‘Jewish Stars of David,’ said Denise.
Harper stared back. ‘So this is definitely our fifth Jewish victim?’
‘And they gave the kids paper and pens. All the boy has been doing is writing 88 all over the paper. It’s compelling, as you say. See if you can find anything more. As soon as you get an ID on this body, I want to know. The press is going to make some connections of its own, you know? If I could prove that you spoke to the press as I imagine you did, I’d discipline you so fast you wouldn’t know what hit you, Harper. It’s caused me all kinds of shit upstairs.’
‘It’s good to know you’re helping, Captain.’
‘With the Capske and Cohen murders going national on every channel, another murder of a Jewish woman is going to give the media plenty to report. So we need some results now. People are getting spooked out there and we need an answer for them.’
Chapter Sixty-Two
Levene’s Apartment, Lower Manhattan
March 11, 7.18 p.m.
Denise appeared outside her apartment block and Harper felt a surge of admiration. She was dressed for work, wearing a black suit with a white shirt, and looked every bit the young, ambitious, go-getting star she had been a few months earlier.
She got in the car beside Harper.
‘You ready for this? We need something from the children.’
‘Sure, I’m ready. At least we managed to get an interview with the psych team. I had my doubts.’
‘Lafayette got the Chief of Detectives behind us.’
‘The brass are beginning to believe us then?’ said Denise.
Harper nodded. ‘Reluctantly. The boy scrawled 88 all over his coloring book. He saw something. They can’t ignore that.’
‘Or heard something,’ said Denise.
‘Right. We only have one shot, though.’
‘I understand.’
‘You think you can argue your way in?’
‘What do you think, Tom?’
Harper smiled and started the drive across town to the children’s hospital. The kids were in a secure ward with police protection.
Despite several attempts to get to talk to the children, the psych team had refused on the grounds that the welfare of the children was paramount. The police needed someone who could convince the psych team to give them access to the children. Levene was a specialist, not a cop, but even so, it had taken some persuasion to set up the initial meeting, and there was
no guarantee that the psychologist would allow them to actually meet the children.
As they went up to the seventh floor Denise straightened her jacket.
‘You look good,’ said Harper. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘You notice how I look?’ said Denise.
‘I notice. You’ve chosen pink nail varnish,’ he said. ‘I guess you’ve chosen a gentle color for the children. You usually wear a stronger color — crimson. The pink’s a little soft for you.’
Denise looked across at a now smirking Harper. They waited for half an hour before they were summoned into the room to see the children’s social workers. Denise pushed Harper out of the way. ‘Okay, now it’s my world, Tom. Let me do this alone.’
He took a seat, as directed by Denise, outside the room.
The psychologists sat in front of a big empty polished table, all with notebooks and case-files open and ready. Denise introduced herself, shook each hand and opened her own notebook.
‘This case is our number one priority at the moment,’ said the consultant child psychologist. ‘There are indications of extreme psychological trauma, which has unfortunately increased over time. Your friends at the NYPD don’t do subtle. Our staff have been given a hard time.’
‘No, they don’t do subtle,’ said Denise. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘Listen, I’ll cut to the chase,’ said the consultant. ‘Our recommendation is that we do not allow any questioning until we can see how these children are coping. They have suffered and will suffer even more trauma if we allow further access to them. They need time to recover.’
‘I agree with you,’ said Denise. ‘I understand what you are saying — and I don’t mean to be rude, but there’s an important principle here that I would like you to acknowledge.’
The consultant looked up, his expression indicating surprise but a grudging respect for Denise.
‘Your concern is for the welfare of these two children,’ said Denise. ‘And you’re right: an experienced detective will naturally exert psychological pressure during an interview. Two big guys in suits are scary. Guilt is scary. These children are suffering fear and guilt — that’s not the way to ease their pain. I entirely understand that you would not want them interviewed. In fact, normally I would support it, Doctor. There is nothing more important than the welfare of these two children.’
‘Thank you, Dr Levene.’
‘But here’s my point,’ Denise continued. ‘These two children, we believe, have lost their mother. What I want to offer, Doctor, is a chance for them to close this primary trauma, not shy away from it. I want them to understand who killed their mother and why, then you can work on the secondary trauma, their fears. They have seen irrational violence. We need to show them that a man, who was very sick, and very wrong, did this thing and is now locked up. Until we can tell them this story, they will not heal.’
Denise stopped and held the psychologist’s gaze. When she saw the movement in his throat, the tiny muscle twitch in his eye, she knew she had him.
‘So, Doctor, for the welfare of the children, I am suggesting that we need to know how their mother died and who killed her. If we find these two simple facts, we can begin to piece their world back together.’
She saw the consultant swallow.
‘First, though, you will need to know what I am asking for. I need three sessions, each lasting thirty minutes. I will ask them a single question about the event. I won’t repeat it. I’ve written the question here for you.’ Denise handed the piece of paper to the consultant. He read it, nodded, then passed it around the table. He waited, looked at each set of eyes.
‘Okay, Dr Levene. I’ll give you the three sessions, but no one else speaks to the children.’
‘No one but me.’ She reached out her hand and the consultant shook it. He held it a moment too long, just as she’d expected.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Children’s Psychiatric Unit, Harlem
March 12, 9.00 a.m.
The room was a small ugly square. It had the lack of generosity and aesthetics of every municipal building. Denise had asked for the three sessions to be held in a single morning. It wasn’t ideal. It would have been better to hold them on consecutive days, but time was too important.
The first two sessions had gone reasonably well. The kids didn’t utter a word, but the odd nod and their facial expressions showed Denise that they were paying attention.
The third session was the important one. Harper sat at the back, watching, with his sketchpad open. Denise talked about her own mother. The kids didn’t seem to care.
Denise knew she didn’t have long to get a connection with them. She took her question out and smiled at the two kids. ‘We’ve got to go now, unless there’s something more you want to tell us?’ She searched their faces. They had no idea what to say or why.
She toyed with the question in front of her. She turned it in her hand, let the time slip by. Finally, she looked up.
‘Is there anything you can tell us about what happened in the alley that might help us catch the man who hurt your mother?’
She waited. The boy’s face seemed to show thought. His eyes moved around. The girl didn’t even look up. She hadn’t once held Denise’s gaze.
Nothing. Two minutes passed. They had all said that the boy knew something. He gave out more clues with his non-verbal communication, as if he needed to get this horror out of his system.
In the corner, Harper sketched a falcon from memory, the pylon below. Denise watched the children closely, then spotted something. A small, perhaps insignificant thing. She honed in on the girl and flicked a quick look over her shoulder. The girl was watching Harper.
What was interesting her? Denise waited another two minutes. Again, the girl’s eyes rested beyond Denise’s left shoulder.
Denise leaned back in her chair and reached her arm out. ‘Can I have your sketch?’
Harper let her take his notebook. Denise started to look through the pictures, concealing them from the girl. She needed to know what was interesting her. Another two minutes passed. The second hand on the white clock-face was slipping by. She didn’t have much time left. Then it happened again. The girl looked up through her bangs. She looked first at Tom but then quickly searched the room and rested her eyes on the book in Denise’s hand.
It was not Tom she was interested in, it was the book. Denise placed it in front of her. She slowly lifted her eyes again and stared at the picture of a falcon. There was a moment of apprehension, then she reached out and touched the picture of the bird.
‘Do you have the crime-scene sketches in here?’ said Denise.
‘Few pages back.’
Denise took up the book and flicked back to the scene of the alleyway. It was drawn several times, from different angles. She chose the one from the perspective of the far end where the dumpster was. She placed it in front of the children.
They both stared at the alleyway. The little girl reached out her hand and touched it.
‘Tom, draw a figure in the alleyway.’
Harper moved across and sketched a person standing in the alleyway. The two children watched intently.
‘Okay, draw another figure.’
Tom drew another figure. The mother this time, wearing a black suit. The little girl’s hand reached out and touched the figure.
‘Good. Now draw a third figure.’
Harper moved in again and drew a third figure next to the first. The girl’s hand darted out and she started to shake her head vigorously. Harper took his pen and scribbled over it. The girl calmed.
‘Okay, this is good. It’s one guy.’ She looked at Tom. ‘Draw me the dumpster.’
He did. The children looked at it. Presumably, they had heard people coming up the alleyway and had scurried behind it.
‘Draw them. Draw the boy watching but the girl hiding her eyes.’
Harper drew, but the girl’s head started shaking again. Tom sketched the boy hiding his eyes. He then show
ed the girl watching. There was no interference. ‘It was the girl who saw what happened,’ said Denise. ‘No one’s ever asked her. We’ve all just presumed the boy saw it while the girl hid.’
Harper drew a gun in the man’s hands. The girl pointed to the page. Harper seemed to understand and changed the man’s arm to point to the ground. Then the little girl pointed to the sketch of her mother and then at the man’s feet. It had been Harper’s instinct that she’d been kneeling and polishing his boots. He drew. The girl rested her finger on the man.
‘What?’
She took the notebook and turned a few pages back. She found the bird and pointed at it.
Harper and Denise stared for a moment. They didn’t understand. The girl then turned back to the alleyway and she pointed to the man.
‘A tattoo?’ said Denise.
Harper drew a small bird on his arm. The girl nodded. Harper then drew three quick sketches of birds. She chose the picture of the American Eagle, its head to the side, its wings arched.
‘Unbelievable,’ said Denise. ‘She was ten yards away.’
Harper looked at the girl. Her features were like her mother’s. Blue eyes, freckled cheeks. He drew her mother from memory and put it in front of her. The girl stared down. It had been only a day since the children had seen her face. Her brother looked away, biting his thumb, curling all his limbs inwardly.
The girl’s hand reached out and touched the face on the page. Harper handed her the pencil. She took Harper’s pencil and wrote two numbers beside her mother’s face. Two number 8s, side by side. Then she looked up at Denise and Harper. ‘Did he say anything?’ said Denise.
The girl looked up. It was the first time she had spoken and her voice was clear and unemotional. ‘He said his name.’
Harper and Levene held their breath. ‘What was it?’ asked Denise.
‘Something I don’t remember,’ said the girl.
‘Josef Sturbe,’ said the boy. ‘I heard it.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said, “I am Officer Josef Sturbe. Clean my boots”.’
The girl and the boy stared at them, clear-eyed.
