88 Killer th&dl-2

by Oliver Stark

  ‘It’s probably true, but how many years have you got?’

  ‘Come on, Harper, I just want an interview. Your story. The cop who came face to face with the 88 Killer. You got to be heard, for the sake of those people who lost their lives.’

  ‘I didn’t see him.’

  ‘They said you did.’

  ‘Not me,’ said Harper. ‘Wish I had, but I was second to this one.’

  ‘Who got there first?’

  ‘Detective Jack Carney of Hate Crime Unit.’

  ‘I don’t know him. Should I be speaking to him?’

  ‘He didn’t see him either.’

  ‘Sad, isn’t it. You’re having to play Buzz Aldrin to his Neil Armstrong.’

  ‘This isn’t moon walking, Erin. This is serious.’

  ‘I know that, Harper.’ She turned to Denise. ‘Denise Levene. You’re back at work? I didn’t know you were on the case. The A Team is back in business, is that right?’

  ‘No,’ said Tom. ‘Denise is not officially on this case.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Erin. ‘You’re obviously quite special, Dr Levene. Tom Harper doesn’t share his thoughts with many people.’

  ‘Cut it out,’ said Tom.

  ‘Come on, something happened last night, didn’t it, Detective? You had the killer in your sights, so how the hell did he get away?’

  ‘He just did. We were a few minutes too late.’

  ‘How did he get the location of the kids?’

  ‘You heard the press conference, we are looking into it.’

  ‘You fired shots in the alley. I hear your gun’s been taken, right?’

  ‘Standard procedure. We tried to take the killer down but the killer evaded us. He shot at me. I shot back.’

  Harper made his way up the steps and pulled open the big brown door.

  ‘I’m going to keep at it, Detective. I’m going to stick to this story until I get an angle. I always do, you know.’

  Harper waved without turning and closed the door. He didn’t doubt her.

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Borough Park, Brooklyn

  March 13, 11.17 a.m.

  The killer straightened the front of his coat, flicked a thread from one of the shining black buttons, pressed his hair against his head and replaced the low cap that covered his face. His facial muscles creased and flexed as if he were trying to straighten out his expression. He had been standing across from the synagogue for two hours now and the soles of his feet ached. He felt that the world was spiraling away from him. He needed to concentrate all that pain on to one object. One detested type of person. He looked up at the sky. It was an uneven color. A line of dark gray growing across the horizon to a heavy ominous stormcloud just out in the Atlantic.

  He checked his watch, moved his head from side to side to stretch his neck muscles, then shifted his weight from foot to foot. He had read most of the newspapers that morning and got a thrill out of the thrashing anger of the media. He liked it in the way an animal enjoys the resistance of its prey when it struggles in its jaws. They were angry, the Jews were outraged and the police were full of confident rhetoric. They were all pleased with themselves. But he was unconcerned. It was not him they should be hunting down, but the Jews conspiring against America.

  He knew now what he had to do, though. He had to continue like he had been doing, keep the pressure on himself and keep watching. There were two security guards outside the synagogue, there to protect the Jews. He smiled at the thought and walked across. The synagogue was situated twenty feet back from the street, with a raised plaza in front with four benches.

  The first security guard moved over to stop him. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ he said in a thick foreign accent.

  ‘Terrible thing, last night, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Very bad thing,’ said the guard.

  ‘I want to help. Is there something planned?’

  ‘You’ll hear later today,’ said the guard. ‘They want to plan a vigil in Union Square.’

  The killer nodded. ‘A good idea. It will attract all their supporters. A very positive step.’

  ‘It will be big,’ said the guard. ‘You can be sure of that.’

  The man knew that the doors would soon open, the Jews would come out and he needed to disappear. ‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘Hope it goes well. Hope nobody does anything stupid and ruins it.’

  The guard looked on. ‘Thank you.’

  The door to the synagogue opened, and the men and women started to appear. They had been planning the event. A big event right in the heart of Manhattan. The killer lowered his head and walked away.

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  North Manhattan Homicide

  March 13, 11.54 a.m.

  The late morning light streamed into the small room off the investigation room that Denise was using as an office. The Sturbe profile had been going backwards and forwards between her and Aaron Goldenberg. They were starting to piece together a picture of Josef Sturbe.

  Harper walked along the corridor, the next phase of the investigation clicking through his mind. He pushed open the door. Denise looked up.

  ‘I’ve been going through the profile again,’ she told him.

  ‘You need more time?’

  ‘You left me less than an hour ago.’

  ‘So did you get anything in that hour?’

  Denise smiled and sniffed the air. ‘You could do with a new set of clothes, big guy. You smell like a night in a cell.’

  He couldn’t say the same of her. Not at all. ‘Less of the advice, just talk me through this Sturbe profile.’

  ‘Initially, we thought Sturbe was chosen because he was a vicious Nazi who took the law into his own hands and murdered in his own way, in his own time. We thought this gave our killer validation as a model and an identity so that he didn’t have to think of himself as doing these things. But now we don’t think that’s what the killer is seeing. We think that Sturbe means something personal to him.’

  Harper crossed to the window. ‘Is this going to be difficult?’ he said. ‘I haven’t eaten or slept, and my brain’s getting all dysfunctional on me.’

  ‘Be quiet and listen,’ said Denise. ‘You can sleep later. The killer is a neo-Nazi who executes people with a point-blank gunshot to the head. He has this neo-Nazi agenda, this Sturbe identity, but he is psychologically and emotionally motivated, not ideologically motivated.’

  ‘I understand, Denise, I’m not an idiot.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s difficult to tell.’

  Harper gave her a look. Denise ignored it and continued. ‘We’ve been hunting for the political elements of the killing and missing some key details.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘The Sturbe link isn’t just political, Tom. This killer is acting out some ritual and the level of overkill is frightening. Sturbe isn’t one of your well-known Nazis. He’s been chosen for a reason. I don’t believe things are chosen randomly, and if it’s not random then the killer has some personal reason for taking Sturbe as his model. We’re trying to find where the profile of the killer and Sturbe meet. In simple terms, Sturbe is hard to research — so where did our killer come into contact with him?’

  ‘I understand,’ said Harper. ‘Well, soon as you’ve got something, let me know.’

  Denise stopped. ‘You heard anything from the team with the children?’ she asked.

  ‘I talked to the head psych.’ Harper grimaced. ‘He was less than impressed.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Would it help catch the guy? I said no. He asked me in what universe was it a good fucking idea to show these children a photograph of Martin Heming, their mother’s killer?’

  ‘And what did you answer?’

  ‘The NYPD. It’s that kind of universe.’

  ‘He didn’t laugh?’

  Harper shook his head.

  Lafayette appeared just as Harper was about to leave. ‘How are you, Harper?’ He paused but Harper remained silent. ‘Okay
, an easier question. What did Forensics find at the safe house?’

  Harper rubbed his face. The whole team had been on the go all night trying to track the killer, but every lead had turned cold. ‘Look, crazy as it sounds, they’ve not been able to find a single piece of material evidence.’

  ‘What about the car?’

  ‘Nothing there either.’

  ‘This guy’s invisible. You sure they got nothing?’

  ‘They got all kinds of stuff, but it all belongs to the safe-house team, cops or the children. He must’ve tried real hard to keep things that clean.’

  ‘What about the leak? Someone gave the killer the location of the safe house.’

  Harper looked out across at his team. They were a hive of activity even though nothing was opening up. He turned to Lafayette. ‘I’ve had all night to think about it. There’s not many cops who knew the whereabouts of those kids, but one of them, for some reason, let that information leak. I’m not saying it was deliberate.’

  ‘You got any ideas about this accident?’

  Harper nodded. ‘The killer didn’t just know where the kids were, he knew that the second officer wasn’t there.’

  ‘You think it’s the second officer?’

  ‘I talked to him. He made a mistake. He knew he wasn’t going to make it on time so he radioed Candy Simons. He gave the street name and said he wouldn’t get there until midnight. All the killer would need was a scanner.’

  Captain Lafayette shook his head. ‘Shit. I can’t believe that. You got a name? I’ve got to report this.’

  ‘I already told him to own up. Better it comes from him.’

  ‘Another fucking casualty of this thing,’ said Lafayette, and walked off down the corridor with heavy steps.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Apartment, New York

  March 13, 12.14 p.m.

  The killer lay on his bed holding a small fob with two keys in his hand and twisting them in the light. He smoked a cigarette and watched the smoke twirl above him. He was thinking about his next steps. His eyes flicked to the right. There was a map of New York City on the wall. He had marked each kill with a dot. Around his tour of duty was a thick black line. He knew what had to be done, but it wasn’t enough. He put the two keys into his top pocket.

  This was what it felt like, at the end of things. He knew the end was coming, but it needed to be on his terms, not theirs. He sat up and poured himself another drink. He took a sip, swilled it around his gums, then swallowed. Things had changed now, people were getting close. The children were still alive. That was a mistake. He didn’t like leaving traces and the children could identify him. It cut deep, making mistakes like that. It was unacceptable.

  The problem was Harper. Since he’d taken over the investigations, things had blown up all over town. The news was full of the shootings. The cops were all over his area and the Jews were walking in twos and avoiding going out alone at night. Harper was good. Harper had pieced together the attack on the children. Somehow, he had known about it. How was that?

  Harper made links and connections that other cops didn’t. Other cops were dumb and mindless. Harper had clarity, he looked sideways, he knew how to think. Harper was dangerous. The killer dragged hard on his cigarette and blew the smoke out fast. A haze of blue in front of his eyes. He needed a paradigm shift. He needed to change the nature of the attacks. Patterns were what cops looked for.

  The Capske shooting had thrown them off the scent and given him time. It had allowed him to tour undisturbed, to kill again, to feel their subservient hands on his feet. Glass and Cohen lying in water or flat on cold ground, a ribbon of blood from the neat wounds. An execution or a re-enactment? He blew out smoke again. He couldn’t afford another attack in the street. He needed something more substantial.

  He thought about the vigil. It would be a cut right at the heart of things. But how? How to do it and how to humiliate Harper? He just had to work out a plan. The sunlight broke through a cloud and shot through his dirty window. He saw the dense blue smoke drifting in thin waves across the room, watched them for a moment — then suddenly the idea was there, in the room with him. He felt a sense of calm, as if he had finally found the door out of a prison.

  The river was only half-crossed but there was no going back. His hands were thick with blood, but the species still lived on. He moved quickly to the window and looked out through the dirt and grime. He wanted the world purified, simplified, made clean. Just like the forest glade, a cut of green earth and a future for himself and others like him. Perhaps he was too confident, too clear-minded. Sometimes, it was necessary to cloud people’s minds with fear. Maybe it was necessary to kill to feel nearer to God.

  He thought about the other girl again. The girl he had loved who had ripped up the future. He saw her face in his mind’s eye. Let the emotion at her memory run over his tongue. Was it love or hate he felt? He wanted to see her. He wanted to love her. He wanted to hurt her. He had to go out. He had to clean up. You couldn’t kill them fast enough. There were just too many. He needed a way to kill more, to kill effectively, to get through them all.

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  North Manhattan Homicide

  March 13, 1.12 p.m.

  Harper took some time to gather his thoughts, then brought the team back together. He looked exhausted from his sleepless night. ‘This has got to get going, now,’ he told them. ‘We’ve got four unsolved murders with a link between them and a kidnapped girl. We’ve got less certainty than ever. Let’s try to keep this organized.’

  Denise looked across at Harper, indicating that she wanted to speak now. She wanted the team to understand the nature of the killer. Standing in front of them, leaning on the old table, she waited while he said to them, ‘Clear your heads. We have four crime scenes that all need re-investigating. Dr Levene is going to give us the heads-up on this killer, then we’re going to go back to basics. We’re missing something here.’ Harper raised his hand towards Denise. ‘Thank you, Doctor.’

  Denise cleared her throat, pushed her hair back and took a breath. ‘The man we are searching for is not like you or me. He is a sociopathic murderer. He’s not concerned with his personal safety. He is solely concerned with carrying out his project. As I understand it, his project has a racial element. He uses original Nazi bullets, he makes his victims clean his boots and then shoots them in the head as they do so. He enjoys their submission, but his crimes have not, up to now, had an explicitly sexual element. That is not to say that they are not sexually motivated.’

  Denise paused for a moment. ‘I happen to think that they do have a sexual element and by that, let me be clear, I mean that his control over his subjects gives him some kind of physical gratification. It may be that he is trying to stop his desires. These are crimes of hate to some degree, but they are not only crimes of hate. They are personal crimes that come from a powerful sense of inferiority that it is impossible for our killer to acknowledge. Our unknown subject believes he is hunting after Jews, after any Jew, but his victims are not just any Jews. I’ve thought more closely about the victims recently and they tell us something. Apart from David Capske, they follow a similar pattern. The women belong to a similar type. Look at this.’

  Denise pointed at the women on the board. They all had different hair color, different faces. No one could see the connection. ‘I don’t get it,’ said Garcia. ‘They’re all different.’

  ‘Yes, they seem so, don’t they?’ Denise walked across to the boards and put the crime-scene photographs of each woman side by side. ‘Do you see it now?’ she asked.

  The team stared at the three women. Esther, Becky and Marisa.

  ‘They’re all thin with long hair,’ said Mary.

  ‘Yes,’ said Denise. ‘That’s right, they’re all thin. He’s not just after Jews. He’s after a type. This is not just political, it’s personal.’

  ‘What about Capske?’

  Harper replied. ‘I think that’s what the investigation
has to ask itself. Why Capske?’

  ‘I think I might know why,’ said Denise. ‘Did you ever interview Lucy Steller? I’ve been feeling I’ve been missing something and it suddenly came to me. Abby Goldenberg was the type, but so was Lucy Steller. Thin, with long hair. Maybe he wasn’t after Capske, after all. Maybe he couldn’t get the girl he wanted, so he took it out on Capske. Maybe Lucy was his target. He’s full of desire and hatred for himself.’

  ‘What do you think, Eddie?’ said Harper. ‘You spoke to Lucy.’

  ‘It’s interesting. Lucy certainly fits the type. He was watching them both. Lucy said that. She was sure about that.’

  ‘Yeah, but Capske took her all the way home. He didn’t have a chance,’ said Harper.

  ‘So, instead, he followed Capske. Maybe frustrated with not being able to get to his target.’

  The team seemed buoyed by the idea. They hadn’t had a lead for days and the new information seemed to open some doors.

  ‘I call it a psychological fingerprint,’ said Denise. ‘He’s leaving his ID all over these kills, we just can’t read it yet. But we’re getting closer.’

  ‘Let’s check it out,’ said Harper. ‘We’ve got to go back to Lucy. He could’ve been stalking her for a while and if so, then she might have seen him.’

  ‘And if she was a target…’ said Denise. She stopped. All eyes were on her. She wasn’t sure whether she should say it or not. She looked at the floor and then back up. ‘If she was a target, then she still is — and that means she’s possibly still in danger.’

  ‘We’re already on it,’ said Harper, pointing at three members of his team. ‘Let’s move!’

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Apartment, Upper East Side

  March 13, 1.53 p.m.

  Lucy Steller sat alone in her flat. She had been too scared to go out ever since the morning after David’s murder. She couldn’t forgive herself for falling asleep as he was being tortured.