Silent Slaughter

by C. E. Lawrence

  “What the hell?” said Butts. “What is this?”

  Jimmy looked at the others. “He would probably say, that’s for him to know and us to find out.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  It was evening by the time their meeting broke up. Butts left to catch a bus to Jersey, and Jimmy had some more witness interviews to do before heading to his parents’ place to look after his brother for a few hours. He took copies of the case photos with him, and Lee agreed to join him downtown later.

  As Elena Krieger was putting on her coat to leave, Lee approached her.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “I suppose so. What can I do for you?”

  “I have a letter I’d like you to look at, if you have a couple of minutes.”

  She crossed her long arms. “What kind of letter?”

  “It’s a suicide note.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Whether it’s real or not.”

  She looked intrigued. “You have reason to believe it’s fake?”

  “Yes,” he said, taking out the note and the sample of Brian O’Reilly’s writing Gemma had given him. “Here’s some of his writing for comparison.”

  She raised one plucked eyebrow. “You have a sample of the dead man’s writing?”

  “I know his sister.” He knew he was being evasive, but he didn’t want to explain any further—he hoped Krieger wouldn’t connect it with Laura’s disappearance. “It’s for another case I’m working on.”

  “I see,” she said, sounding unconvinced. “Let me have a look.” She laid the notes side by side on the desk and studied them, bending low over the papers. He tried not to stare at the dark line where her breasts touched. She bent lower, squinting, and he realized Elena Krieger was nearsighted—but apparently too vain to wear glasses. He didn’t care so long as she helped him get to the bottom of Brian O’Reilly’s death.

  She straightened up and handed him the papers.

  “These are the writings of two different people,” she stated.

  “So the suicide note is a fake?”

  “I don’t know the circumstances of this alleged suicide,” she replied briskly. “It is extremely unusual to find a typed suicide note, though not unheard of. But I can tell you, these are not the writing of one man. Here,” she said, snatching the papers back from him. “Look at the consistent misuse of the apostrophe in it’s here in the unquestioned document. There is no such punctuation error in the purported suicide note.”

  “You’re right!” Lee agreed. “What else?”

  “Well, there are so many things. The vocabulary in the suicide note is more sophisticated, the sentence construction more elegant—to be honest, they don’t resemble each other in any way.”

  “Thank you,” Lee said. “Thank you very much.”

  She regarded him with undisguised curiosity. “So this is another case you’re working on?”

  “Thanks so much,” he said again instead of answering her question. “I owe you one.” He put on his coat quickly and opened the door. “See you tomorrow!” he said, slipping out into the hall. He could feel her disapproval trailing him all the way to the lobby.

  At home, he called Gemma O’Reilly, got her voice mail, and left her a message to call him back. Then he changed into running shoes and sweats and went for a jog along the East River.

  The warm weather that had followed the storm had continued—the air was unseasonably balmy as he headed east through the streets of the East Village. He inhaled the salt air along with the faint aroma of fish bones as seagulls wheeled above, their faint, shrill voices carrying out to sea on an offshore wind.

  His breathing synchronized with the rhythm of his feet on the pavement, snatches of phrases running through his head. Anger-excitation, an-ger-ex-ci-ta-tion, an-ger-ex-ci-ta-tion. He ran faster, harder, hoping to make the words go away, but they stayed, circling his brain like the seagulls overhead. AN-ger-ex-ci-TA-tion, an-GER-EX-CI-TA-TION. . .

  He sprinted past the tennis courts to the old tugboat dock at the bottom of the park. It used to be open farther south along the water, but now the esplanade stopped at the northern end of the soccer fields, where a small brick house stood alone at the edge of the water. Years ago a park ranger had told him it was built as a tugboat dock and shelter for their pilots. The building looked lonely and abandoned—vines crept up its ancient walls and twisted around its cracked windowpanes, the interior cold and dark.

  He stopped to stretch, and for a moment he had the feeling something inside the house moved. He peered at the nearest window, but an iron fence encircled the building, and he couldn’t get closer than a few yards away. He decided it was his imagination and turned around to go back. As he turned around, he had the feeling that he was being followed. He craned his neck around behind him, but there was no one in sight.

  He ran hard all the way back to his place, unable to shake the uncanny sensation of being trailed by . . . what? Or whom? He told himself it was ridiculous, but he was glad when he turned the lock on his front door, double bolting and sliding on the security chain. There was no sign of Chuck. He wondered if his friend had softened and gone to Jersey to be with his wife, but his things were still neatly arranged in the spare bedroom.

  He showered and changed, then went back out, heading south toward Chinatown to meet Jimmy. As he crossed Houston, his cell phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket; the screen said Fiona.

  “Hi, Mom,” he said, thinking it was odd she was calling. Fiona Campbell hated cell phones.

  “I tried calling your apartment, but your voice mail picked up,” she said, sounding irritated.

  “Well, you’ve got me now,” he said, stepping aside to avoid a deliveryman riding his bicycle on the sidewalk. Piles of slush on the avenues made cycling on the roads hazardous. He watched the man weave around pedestrians, balancing two large plastic bags of food on either handlebar.

  “So what do you think?” Fiona said.

  “About what—Kylie?”

  “Of course Kylie,” she said, sounding even more irritated.

  “She’s clearly struggling with some issues.”

  “Well, obviously. But what do you think we should do about it?”

  “I don’t think you’re going to like my answer.”

  “Try me.”

  “I think she needs professional help.”

  “I knew you were going to say that.”

  “I also think that we need to stay out of her hair. Right now she just feels pressured by us; even our concern for her is another source of stress.

  “But we’re her family!”

  “Sometimes the people closest to you are the ones who can help you the least. I’m pretty sure she sees us as part of the problem right now,” he added, shaking his head at an Italian maître d’ gesturing energetically to him outside his Little Italy restaurant.

  The temperature was falling, but the man stood in the street wearing nothing but a black three-piece suit, smiling and beckoning people to come inside. The only two Manhattan neighborhoods where Lee saw much of the hard sell were Little Italy and the Indian places on East Sixth Street. They weren’t even owned by Indians—most of them were actually Bangladeshi—but the scene was similar to Little Italy. Owners and managers stood in the street in formal dress in all weather, smiling and cajoling potential customers.

  “So I’m just part of the problem now,” Fiona said petulantly.

  Lee smiled at the underdressed maître d’ and shook his head again. The man’s face fell a little, but he gave a friendly wave as Lee walked away.

  “Not you in particular, Mom—all of us. That’s just the way it is sometimes. We all need to back off a little—but get her someone she can feel safe talking to.”

  “She can’t feel safe with me?”

  “She feels obligated to you, Mom—to all of us. She needs to talk to someone who’s neutral, who doesn’t expect anything of her.”

  “Well, if that’s how you really see i
t,” Fiona said huffily, “then we’ll get her a therapist.”

  “Good,” Lee said. “I can talk to George about it if you want. I can probably get some recommendations for good therapists in your area.”

  “No, that’s quite all right,” she said. “George and I are responsible for her; we’ll find her a therapist.”

  “Okay, Mom. I have to go—I’m on the way to meet Jimmy Chen.”

  “Jimmy Chen?” Her voice softened. “How is Jimmy these days?”

  “He’s good, Mom—he sends you his love.”

  “Such a nice young man,” Fiona sighed. “So polite.”

  Lee smiled. Jimmy was a lot of things, but polite wasn’t one of them. In fact, he had admitted that some of his behavior was to dispel the stereotype of the polite Asian. Lee didn’t have the heart to tell him that he didn’t find the denizens of Chinatown especially polite.

  “I’ll tell Jimmy you said hi,” he said. “Let me know what happens with Kylie, okay?”

  “All right,” she said.

  He swung west on Grand Street, past the loud fishmongers in dirty white aprons smeared with fish blood, past the rows of ducks hanging on metal hooks in windows, past the bins of inscrutable Chinese vegetables looking like the spawn of alien life-forms, some huge and green and hairy, others brown and mysteriously dimpled. He turned south on Mott, striding past strolling tourists sipping from plastic cups of bubble tea, past the jumble of restaurants with names like Double Happiness and Golden Pavilion, past the shacks of hardfaced women selling cheap plastic jewelry and papier-mâché dragons. He inhaled the aroma of garlic sauce, soy and vinegar, of sizzling platters of crabs and bubbling cauldrons of sweet-and-sour soup, taking in the fascinating, bustling chaos of Chinatown.

  He arrived at Jimmy’s a little after eight. His friend opened the door and beckoned him inside.

  “Want some ramen, Angus?”

  “Sure.”

  “Barry loves ramen,” Jimmy said, closing the door behind him.

  “Isn’t that a Japanese dish?”

  “Hey, we invented noodles! Even Fettuccine Alfredo wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for us,” Jimmy said, carrying three steaming bowls of soup on a tray.

  “And Marco Polo.”

  “Whatever. Barry!” he called. “Your ramen is ready!”

  Barry appeared at the door to his room in his pajamas, clutching a stuffed panda. He looked like an overgrown child.

  “Hi,” said Lee. “Remember me?”

  “Remember me,” Barry echoed. “I’m Barry, short for Barrington.”

  “He knows,” said Jimmy. “You remember his name? He’s Lee.”

  “Leeleeleelee,” Barry sang, sitting down at the low table in front of the rattan couch.

  They ate in silence for a while, Barry slurping loudly as he sucked the noodles into his mouth.

  “This is good,” said Lee.

  “Goody-goody good good,” Barry said, gulping down the rest of his soup.

  “Okay, now we’re going to work for a while, Barry,” said Jimmy. “So do you have some math problems to do in your room?”

  Barry hugged his panda and looked at his brother.

  “What is it, Barry?” Jimmy asked.

  Barry squirmed. “The supersonic wolves. I think they’re there.”

  Jimmy turned to Lee. “He thinks there are supersonic wolves living under his bed.”

  “I can hear them,” Barry said.

  “Okay,” said Jimmy. “Do you want me to come in?”

  “Can I stay here?”

  Jimmy looked at Lee.

  “I’m okay with it, if you don’t think the photos will be too disturbing,” Lee said.

  “Okay,” Jimmy said to his brother, “but you have to be quiet.”

  “I have to be quiet,” Barry replied, settling on the sofa with his stuffed panda.

  “Very quiet,” said Jimmy.

  “In fact, very quiet,” Barry echoed.

  They cleared the table and spread out the pictures of the victims in the order in which they were killed.

  “I’m trying to figure if there’s a meaning to his progression,” said Lee. “First he takes the little finger. He does that twice. Then, with the third victim, he takes two fingers. Why?”

  “He’s escalating.”

  “But not in the usual sense. His MO is the same; there’s no increase in violence, and the placement of the bodies is the same, except for this one detail. What does it mean?”

  “Maybe it doesn’t mean anything.”

  “I don’t buy that. He’s extremely methodical and precise. If you combine it with the—graphics—it has to mean something. ”

  “Okay,” said Jimmy, looking at the photos. “First he cuts off one, one again, then two—”

  “And then there are the designs he makes on them. They keep changing. What’s that about? It has to mean something, but what?”

  Barry’s voice came from behind them, with its peculiar flat tone. “The Fibonacci sequence.”

  “What did you say?” asked Lee.

  “The Fibonacci sequence. Each succeeding number is arrived at by adding the two previous numbers. One, one, two, three, five, eight—”

  “Wait a minute—start over, would you?”

  “One, one, two, three, five, eight . . . the golden mean.”

  “The golden what?” said Jimmy.

  “The golden ratio,” Barry said in a singsong voice.

  “The higher you go in the Fibonacci sequence, the more closely the ratio between two successive numbers in the sequence approximates phi.”

  “What’s phi?” asked Jimmy.

  Barry rocked gently, staring into space as he recited. “Phi is an important mathematical constant known as the golden mean. Specifically it is approximately 1.61803.” He pointed to the pictures of the designs on the girls’ torsos. “In fact, these are Fibonacci designs seen in Nature.”

  “Oh, my god,” said Lee. “What if that’s it?” He looked up at Barry, still clutching his stuffed panda, his face expressionless. “Barry, you’re a genius!”

  “No hugging,” said Barry.

  Lee looked at Jimmy, who said, “He’s afraid you’re going to hug him. He doesn’t like to be touched.”

  “Barry, I promise I will never, ever hug you,” said Lee. “But I could kiss you!”

  Barry frowned. “No kissing.”

  Jimmy and Lee looked at each other and burst out laughing. As he watched them, Barry’s face broke into an awkward smile. His muscles appeared unaccustomed to the expression—his smile was like cracks appearing in a concrete floor.

  He hugged his stuffed panda. “I’m a genius.”

  “You sure are, Barry,” said Lee. “You’re a goddamn genius.”

  “Goddamn genius,” said Barry, with a little giggle. “I’m a goddamn genius.”

  “So if Barry’s right,” Jimmy said, “then next time the UNSUB will—”

  “He’ll cut off three fingers,” Lee said.

  He stared out the window. Somewhere, out beyond the friendly bustle of pedestrians, street vendors and the traffic of Chinatown, a killer lurked, calmly calculating the mathematics of death.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Edmund listened carefully for the sound of his father’s deep, heavy breathing before slipping out of his bed and tiptoeing downstairs. He headed for his hiding place, where he kept his treasures—in the cubby under the basement stairs. He didn’t dare keep them in his room; his father would be sure to find them there. But the cubbyhole was his secret: he had carved a slat out of the side panel of the hollow steps, working at night and on days when his father was out on his rounds, selling whatever the latest product was. He had been a failure as a sheep farmer, but as a salesman, he excelled.

  He sold anything and everything, and he was good at it; he could really turn on the charm for lonely housewives. He had even let Edmund come along with him a few times, until the women seemed to be paying more attention to the boy than to him. After that, he went
alone, leaving Edmund and his sister at home alone.

  Flashlight in hand, Edmund crept down the steps to his special place and carefully pulled out the wood flap he had carved out of the stair. When it was pushed back into place, you could barely see where he had sawed the wood. He reached in and pulled out his treasures: tattered copies of Playboy, Penthouse, and a Marks & Spencer clothing catalogue for good measure. Sometimes seeing the girls in dresses was just as good as seeing them without any clothes. He turned around to find the corner of the basement where he usually sat with his magazines and flashlight, but he stubbed his toe on something, and the pain caused him to drop his flashlight. It clattered to the floor with a terrible sound and rolled under the stairs.

  Everything after that seemed to take place in slow motion, like one of those dreams where you can’t move or make any sound. He bent down to fetch his flashlight, but he heard his father’s bare feet thundering down the steps from the upstairs bedrooms, and in a flash he was at the top of the basement stairs, the light shining behind him, the bulb bare and harsh, so that Edmund couldn’t make out his face, only his scraggly hair sticking up in all directions.

  He didn’t need to see his father’s face, though: he knew what it looked like, contorted by rage and meanness and evil intent. He had seen it enough times; there was no need to look now. There was no need to try to explain or beg for mercy or escape either; he submitted to his fate dumbly, passive as a cow going to slaughter.

  His father might have said something; later he couldn’t remember. All he could remember was the feeling of those rough fingers as his father grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, pulling him out to the branding shed as if he were one of the sheep. He remembered the smell of his own burning flesh, and the sound of it: a hissing, as if his father had planted a snake on his cheek. He didn’t remember feeling any pain. He supposed it hurt, or maybe he was in the kind of fugue state that his father’s violence sometimes caused, where he detached from his body, surrendering to a welcome numbness.