88 Killer th&dl-2

by Oliver Stark

  She had slept in a warm bed, safe and comfortable as the man she loved was being tortured and murdered. She hated herself so much, she couldn’t bear to see or speak to anyone.

  She took the razor, looked coldly down on to her own arm and steeled herself. The razor lightly touched her arm, a delicate but unmistakable sting. Not pain, but painful. She pulled the razor across her arm, watching the trail appear — a red tail to a steel mouse. The stinging deepened and intensified. She raised her hand. It was a cycle. She would cut, then the white fear would come and she’d feel depressed, scared and lost. Then she would have to cut until the fear stopped. Hurt made sense. The line of blood collected into a glistening red ball on her wrist. The tipping point was reached and the ball of blood rolled down her arm. Seeing herself bleed, she relaxed a little, a physical relief from her emotional pain.

  Her hand moved down to the cut; she drew a second line across the first line, forming a red cross. The pain from the second line mingled with the dying pain from the first. Emotional pain was layered too. Layers and layers of harmonic pain, shouting, screaming, grieving, crying.

  Blood was dripping off both sides of her arm. She cut again as the pain dulled. Each time, the dulling came more quickly, until Lucy was slicing herself every few seconds. She continued for minutes. A hundred bloody cuts, a hundred red lines spreading out in every direction like marks on a butcher’s chopping block.

  Then it stopped. The tension and anger vanished and she was left sitting on the small couch, staring ahead, her pale face gaunt and drawn from a lack of food and sleep and iron.

  Chapter Eighty

  Apartment, Upper East Side

  March 13, 1.58 p.m.

  Outside in the street, the man looked up. He knew she lived on the fifth floor and counted until he imagined where she was sitting right now. He walked up the stone stoop and took out the key. He had had the key ever since he’d taken Capske out. The cops hadn’t noticed that one of the keys on his fob was missing. Subtlety was lacking in their investigation. He pushed it into the lock and turned it. The lock was on some kind of electronic catch and the bolt buzzed and released. He entered the lobby.

  The building was old and crumbling, with post-boxes half-torn off or covered with graffiti. It smelled of mold and damp. The panels to the basement door were smashed out and the lower-ground laundry odors mixed with the heat from the apartments and the whiff of old carpets.

  He didn’t like the dirt or the idea that he was breathing in spores. He moved toward the stairs and started to climb. The key to the apartment remained in his hand as he ascended to the fifth floor. He took a look over his shoulder and felt the excitement rising through his body, lifting him up with the sensation of flying.

  In his coat pocket was his World War Two German Luger. A fine piece of engineering and beautiful to hold, the semi-automatic Pistole Parabellum 1908, to give it its correct name. He pulled the Luger out of his pocket as he reached the floor, took out an 8-round magazine and pushed it into the grip. Taking the toggle-joint between his thumb and forefinger, he pulled it back, then let the breechblock snap back into place, with a metallic clunk. A new cartridge was now waiting in the chamber. Lucy’s bullet was primed.

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Apartment, Upper East Side

  March 13, 2.09 p.m.

  The street Lucy Steller lived on was quiet and tree-lined. There was a row of shops and that afternoon people were peaceably walking along either side of the street. A moment later, a distant squawk of sirens could be heard getting closer and closer. Soon, the sound was screeching and a few people on the street turned to look.

  Eight police cars turned into the street and drove hard down towards them. The first car braked and skidded, then the other seven cars followed suit. Down the street, in a car, a man observed them closely. He checked his watch.

  The people in the grocery store watched as every car door opened and several plain-clothed detectives got out. Three of the cars were squad cars and uniformed officers started to form a boundary.

  The men and women hurried across to a building and in a moment they’d all disappeared. Only two uniformed officers stood on the street, telling the public that they ought to stand back.

  Harper was first at Lucy Steller’s door. He knocked, lightly at first. Then harder and finally, he was shouting her name. There was no response. ‘Okay, break the door,’ he said.

  Two cops moved in with the battering ram. They hit the door once and the door jamb split. Harper pushed it open. He walked in.

  ‘Lucy!’ he called. There was no reply, but there was a smashed cup on the floor and an overturned table with a broken leg lying by the couch.

  Harper knelt and touched the cup with his palm. ‘It’s still warm,’ he said.

  ‘Signs of a struggle,’ said Eddie. ‘We’re too late.’

  Harper led the cops through the rooms. ‘Just look around. Anything you can find that might tell us something.’

  Denise looked at the bookshelves. There was a row of diaries going back for several years, but two were missing. She ran her finger over the year on each diary. ‘Harper, two of the last three years are missing.’

  ‘Is that significant?’

  ‘They might be somewhere, but if the killer is targeting her, maybe he thought she’d have information. He’s getting very worked up, Harper. He’s trying to close down anyone with knowledge of him. She might have seen him stalking her.’

  Harper moved to the desk. ‘The PC, take a look at this,’ he said. ‘There’s no hard drive — another place that she might leave evidence.’

  Harper then glanced at the small hook by the door. He walked across. ‘How do you think he got in?’

  Denise raised her head. ‘Either he just rang the buzzer or he had a key. Point is, what’s he going to do next?’

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  North Manhattan Homicide

  March 13, 3.51 p.m.

  Harper and the team left Crime Scene at Lucy Steller’s apartment. Harper called Blue Team together.

  ‘The coffee cup on Lucy Steller’s floor was still warm, which means that the killer was only a few minutes ahead of us,’ said Harper. ‘He’s coming out of the shadows. We should have protected this woman. She’s in real danger now.’

  ‘We didn’t see it coming. It’s a form of escalation,’ said Denise. ‘He’s trying to cover his tracks and he’s likely to try something more dramatic, something that gives him a bigger thrill than the kills.’

  ‘It’s hard to think what,’ said Greco.

  ‘We need to get going. We’ve got the vigil at Union Square to help with. The killer risked himself with Lucy, just like with the children. That means Lucy holds a clue to his identity, right?’ The cops nodded. ‘I’m going to leave Denise and Ratten here to go through everything from Lucy’s apartment. My guess, based on the stolen diaries and hard drive, is that she either knew who he was or met him in the last two years. So we need to know when it was, who he was and how they met.’

  Denise nodded.

  Harper then pulled up the map of Union Square. Eddie looked at it. ‘How the hell are they going to police that place?’

  ‘It’s going to be hard, that’s all we know,’ said Harper. ‘But it’s going to be peaceful. We’re there with Hate Crime Unit, just to keep an eye out. We don’t know that he’ll try anything, but he may enjoy turning up, so we’re videoing every entrance and exit. We’ve got face recognition software, and Heming’s face plus every face that Hate Crime has on record is now in the database.’

  ‘How does it work?’ asked Garcia.

  ‘Mathematics,’ replied Ratten. ‘Although you’re pretty, your face can be reduced to a number of measurements and ratios. The software calculates those measurements for every face it sees and if it matches anything in the databank, it’ll flag up.’

  ‘So if Heming or any known neo-Nazi turns up, they’ll be flagged and arrested.’

  The team were just taking in the information when
Captain Lafayette flew through the door. He was red-faced and full of excitement. ‘Listen up, the press have just had another communication from the 88 Killer. A new email.’ He held up a piece of paper. ‘He emailed all the newspapers again. The boys downstairs have traced it, it’s no fake. This comes from the same account.’

  ‘So, what the hell does he say this time?’

  Lafayette eyed the room. ‘You’re not going to like this, not one bit.’ He drew the email in front of his eyes. ‘Police Press Notice: March 14, Union Square Park. During the night-time vigil in Union Square Park to remember those killed in the recent spate of attacks on the Jewish community, NYPD detectives discovered the dead bodies of five Jewish citizens. As the vigil went on, the suspect known as the 88 Killer executed five people. Senior police officials are at a loss to explain how the killer managed to fool the NYPD and kill in such a high-security operation. In the words of one bystander: “The government and the police stood by watching, while someone walked in and killed five innocent people.” ’

  ‘How seriously are we going to take this?’ said Lafayette. ‘Every news station in America is going to be down in Union Square after they receive this. He’s just set his stage.’

  ‘Can he do it?’ said Denise. ‘I mean, is it possible?’

  ‘Can we evacuate?’ asked Harper.

  ‘It’s too late and the Mayor thinks it will be a PR disaster to pull the plug on this.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘We’ll have police on every square inch of the place,’ said Lafayette.

  ‘And what if it’s a bomb?’ said Kasper. ‘Then what do we do?’

  The team looked at each other. ‘Then we’ve got to hope that the sniffer dogs will find it. We’re going to have to scramble everyone — Counter-Terrorism, the army, the Feds — on this. This is going to be big.’

  Harper took the piece of paper. He read the email and passed it to Denise. ‘It’s a challenge,’ he said. ‘I don’t like it. He’s already three steps ahead.’

  Lafayette looked at Harper. ‘Can he do it?’

  ‘Anything can be done,’ said Harper.

  ‘Not with the whole of the NYPD on his case.’

  Harper shook his head. ‘You’ve just had a message from a killer saying he’s going to make fools of the whole government as we all pay our respects to the dead. You think we can police this? There’s going to be thousands and thousands of people out there and we’ve got to find one determined and clever individual. He can do anything. We don’t have a chance. Captain, you need to speak to the Commissioner and tell him that if he’s not going to stop it, then he needs to prepare for the worst.’

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Auto-parts Yard, Brooklyn

  March 13, 4.18 p.m.

  Karl Leer had sourced the vehicle two weeks earlier. He had found a decommissioned Auxiliary Support Unit Police Truck that was lying unwanted and unloved in a scrapyard.

  As requested, Leer had checked out the engine and cleaned it, making sure that the paintwork was neat and without too many obvious scratches. Then he had left the truck outside the garage behind his workshop.

  And now the killer was standing next to the big, dark blue truck. He walked around it and looked inside. He opened the back doors: it seemed to be the right size and would suit his plan. He checked over the outside. Because it was one of the NYPD Auxiliary Unit’s trucks, rather than one of the official NYPD trucks, it still had its markings. That was essential. It had to look like the real thing and it would because it was the real thing.

  The killer jumped inside and started to pull everything out. He wanted space to hold people. He had a plan and the plan was to make a fool of the NYPD and to try to kill more Jews than he had been able to so far. Shooting people one by one would take too long, but it was more than that. It was affecting him. He wanted more dead. He wanted a bigger impact. The hunger was in him again and he couldn’t control it.

  Nor could he afford to let failure happen again. Once the truck was emptied, he got in the back with a tube of sealant. He sealed up any and every joint and hole with silicon. Then he added rubber all around the two back doors in order to create an airtight unit.

  He walked back to the lock-up and found a long piece of hose. He measured the length of the truck from the bottom to the top and then halfway across the roof. He cut a length of hose and then found a ladder. He climbed on to the roof and for the next half-hour welded all the air vents shut apart from one. On to the last vent he welded a short metal nozzle. Then he attached the hose to the nozzle and tied it firmly in place with wire. He ran the hose across the roof, taping it down, then ran it down the side of the van.

  Finally, he took the other end of the hose and, using another nozzle, attached it to the exhaust. He spent a few more minutes ensuring that each end of the hose was in place, and then painted the hose blue so that it was not so conspicuous. The whole operation lasted under three hours. He stood back and declared himself pleased. Then he went to the engine and switched it on. He let the engine rumble on and he climbed into the back of the van, leaving the door wide open.

  Soon enough, exhaust fumes started to fill the space and he began to cough. He jumped out of the truck. This was the way forward. This was much more efficient.

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  North Manhattan Homicide

  March 13, 9.56 p.m.

  Denise Levene sat at her desk. There was something more to the killings than she had been able to understand in the last few hours that she’d been researching. She was reading through the remaining diaries and looking through the photographs. Gerry Ratten was trying to find Lucy Steller’s online details. Although the killer had taken her PC, many people posted photographs online, kept blogs online, even stored their whole PC backup online. He just needed a breakthrough, but at the moment, there was nothing.

  Harper was already out at Union Square Park with half the police in the city. Every time Denise called, he seemed more wired and angry. She called him again. ‘How is it?’ she asked.

  ‘We’ve got a few thousand people in the square. The face recognition has picked up half a dozen known offenders, but no Heming. It seems smaller than we imagined it would be. We’ve got hundreds of men on the ground and no traffic coming in from any direction, so we’ve done what we can. We just have to hope that he was lying or that we get lucky. What else have you got on Lucy?’

  ‘Nothing yet,’ said Denise. ‘But I’m going to call Lucy’s friends. They might know something.’

  ‘Anything more on Sturbe?’

  ‘I’ve been in touch with Dr Goldenberg. He’s sourced two possible ways forward. The first is a news report from fifteen years ago. A man called Edward Sturgeon was accused of being Sturbe. He lived in Boston. It may be that our killer had some Boston connection, but I can’t find anything linking Heming and Boston.’

  ‘What’s the other way forward?’

  ‘There was a book written about Sturbe. It had a very small circulation — in fact, it only went to specialist libraries, or libraries in Jewish areas. Dr Goldenberg has found a copy and guess what?’

  ‘I don’t want to guess.’

  ‘This killer is copying his approach almost to the letter. The barbed wire was something Sturbe started in Warsaw. He captured Jews in the ghetto then allowed them to escape through barbed wire or get shot. They dragged themselves through the barbed wire until they got so caught up, they died there. He drowned others. And there’s the rings. He cut victims’ fingers off to get their gold. Our killer seems to have read this book.’

  ‘Any way of finding a link?’

  ‘Heming has lived his whole life in Brooklyn. This biography of Sturbe was held in fifteen libraries in the country. The Brooklyn Library had two copies. They had a special Jewish History section.’

  ‘Is there any record of who took out the book?’

  ‘We’re going to check.’

  ‘Anything else?’ asked Harper.

  ‘I’ll keep you updated,
’ she said. ‘I’m not sure how useful this information is.’

  ‘Well, keep going. If he’s copying this Nazi, then there might be something that leads us to him. For example, what kind of crimes hasn’t he committed yet?’

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Union Square Park

  March 13, 11.41 p.m.

  The vigil was almost entirely peaceful. The NYPD Command Truck was parked across the entrance to the square on the south side. Harper and Eddie Kasper arrived back from their seventh tour around the square and went inside.

  ‘Update?’ called Harper to Lafayette.

  Lafayette was sitting at one of the seats with headphones around his neck. ‘All are negatives. Nothing but complaints of infringements on human rights.’

  ‘How many searches have they done?’

  ‘Not got the numbers. Thousands, though.’

  ‘No calls or emails?’

  ‘Nothing. What’s the mood like?’

  ‘Peaceful,’ said Harper. ‘Everyone just wants to remember the dead. The park’s ablaze with candlelight. It’s moving. Really moving.’

  There were four other men in the Command Truck monitoring their teams and liaising with the huge media operation. Harper stood at the door and stared across at their compound.

  ‘If the killer doesn’t show,’ he said, ‘they’re going to have a lot of footage about the vigil.’

  ‘Let’s hope that’s all they’ve got,’ said Lafayette. ‘We could do without another horror story.’

  ‘I hear you,’ said Eddie. ‘The city’s had enough tragedy.’

  Harper nodded and made his way outside again. ‘Another tour, Eddie?’

  ‘Damn,’ said Eddie. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  The two cops moved back out into the darkness. The police compound took up the whole of the southern end of the park. Hundreds of police vehicles stretched out. Cops everywhere, sitting around, patrolling, and catching a bite to eat.