by Daniel Cole
It had been a painfully slow journey into Manhattan from the airport. The city’s traffic had been reduced to trundling through its streets at walking pace as vehicles slid and spun over a week’s worth of compacted ice and filthy slush.
Baxter had visited New York twice in her youth. She had ticked off all the usual tourist traps, marveled at the movie-set skyline surrounded by water, and experienced that feeling of being at the very center of the world as people from every corner of the earth jostled for position on a two-mile-wide island. Now, she just felt tired and wanted to go home.
Rouche sat quietly beside her. He had suggested that their driver take them in via the Brooklyn Bridge. As they approached the second enormous stone tower, he pointed to where the Banker’s body had been strung up:
“His wrists and ankles had been bound, suspending him between these two cables either side of the road, watching the people passing beneath. It was like a premonition hung over the gateway to the city for the entire world to see, an example of the horrors to befall those who dare step beyond that point.”
The car flickered into shadow as they passed through the archway.
“Could we just stick to the facts that we know for certain, please?” asked Curtis from the passenger seat. “You’re creeping me out.”
“Anyway, as you know, he didn’t get to finish. The killer was just attaching the left arm on to the outer cable when he lost his footing, plummeted through the ice, and drowned,” Rouche explained. “Which must have been annoying for him.”
The irreverence with which Rouche had trivialized the killer’s death-inducing fall caught her by surprise and, despite her foul mood, Baxter smirked.
Rouche couldn’t help but smile back: “What?”
“It’s nothing,” she told him, turning to stare out the window as they descended into the frozen city. “You just reminded me of someone, that’s all.”
The condition of the roads had gradually deteriorated the farther they traveled from Midtown. By the time they entered Washington Heights, huge snow banks bordered the roads, functioning like bumpers at a bowling alley as they nudged vehicles back on course.
Baxter had never been north of Central Park. The same wide roads crisscrossed at regular intervals, but the ordered buildings stood modestly beside one another, allowing the low winter sun to spill over the streets rather than having to jab between eclipsing skyscrapers. She was reminded of a model village that her parents had taken her to as a child: a toy version of New York City.
Within moments of their driver parking up/sliding gently up to a parking meter, that nostalgic comparison had been shattered.
A large white tent had been erected over the entrance to the 33rd Precinct, where a snowy-haired officer was performing the dual role of security and traffic management. As they climbed out, he was inanely directing the drivers of undirectable cars away from the cordon that extended out into one of the city’s uncommonly curved sections of road.
“As I mentioned when we first met, due to the location we’ve been able to keep this one under wraps,” Curtis explained to Baxter as they entered through the building’s new tented porch.
Just below the top of the tent, the blue New York Police Department sign adorned the front wall above a set of double doors. A few meters to the right of the entrance, the rear half of a Dodge four-by-four protruded from the building. Six inches of concrete pillar jutted up out of the ground behind it like a broken tooth. Even without approaching the vehicle, Baxter could see the dried, dark blood that had been flicked generously across the cream upholstery.
Two police officers came out through the double doors, walked past the scene of destruction embedded in their workplace as though it were no more than an unwelcome choice of decoration that they had not been consulted about, and exited through the slit in the canvas.
“Let me take you through what we know,” said Curtis, pulling down the bright yellow tape encircling the vehicle.
“Mind if I make a call?” asked Rouche.
She looked a little surprised.
“I know all this,” Rouche pointed out.
Curtis gave him a dismissive wave and he stepped outside, leaving the two women alone.
“Hey, before we get too into this, I wanted to ask: Are you doing all right?”
“All right?” asked Baxter guardedly.
“Yeah. After yesterday.”
“I’m fine.” Baxter shrugged, as if she couldn’t even remember to which incident Curtis was referring. “So . . . the truck in the wall . . .” she prompted, steering the conversation away from personal questions.
“Our victim was Robert Kennedy, thirty-two, married. Been in the force nine years, detective for four.”
“And the killer?”
“Eduardo Medina. Mexican immigrant. Worked in the kitchens of the Park-Stamford Hotel in the Upper East Side. And before you ask, no. We’ve found no link between him and Kennedy, the other killers, or the other victims.”
Baxter went to ask something.
“Or the Ragdoll murders . . . yet.” Curtis sighed.
Rouche put his phone back into his jacket pocket as he returned from outside. He joined Baxter as Curtis stepped into the middle of the covered road.
“We’ve got security-camera footage—”
“From the school opposite,” spat Rouche, interrupting her. “Sorry. Carry on.”
“So we’ve got security-camera footage of Medina parking up on West 168th and dragging Kennedy’s unconscious body out from the backseat. The camera angle wasn’t favorable, but we can confidently ascertain that during this five-minute period, he carried an already-branded Kennedy around to the hood of the vehicle under a sheet and splayed him out across it. One rope to one limb, just like the body on the bridge.”
Baxter glanced back at the wrecked vehicle. A length of thick rope trailed out over the rubble, ending level with the back tire.
“Medina strips naked, the word ‘Puppet’ carved into his chest, and pulls the sheet off Kennedy. He floors it up Jumel Place, and this is where we’ve got to be grateful for the weather, because he takes the corner too fast”—Curtis walked the path of the car’s trajectory—“and loses control, and instead of careering straight through the main entrance, he plows into this wall, killing them both on impact.”
“Nobody else was hurt,” Rouche added.
They followed Curtis inside, squeezing past the truck and stepping over a section of the broken wall into an office.
The front end of the vehicle had crumpled back as far as the smashed windscreen. Debris and dust had been thrown ten meters across the room in every direction, but beyond that, the rest of the office appeared relatively unaffected by the tidy area of destruction in the corner.
Baxter stared down at the masking-taped outline of a body.
“Are you kidding me?” she whispered in disbelief. “Well, that’s one way to contaminate a crime scene. We’re not in a Naked Gun movie.”
The legs and torso had been stuck flat to the floor; however, the arms and head climbed up onto the truck’s flattened front grille.
“Give them a break,” said Rouche. “They did this under exceptional circumstances.”
“We probably shouldn’t put too much stock into the positioning of the body,” said Curtis. “As I’m sure you can appreciate, Kennedy was one of them, so they got him off this thing as quickly as possible and commenced CPR. One of the rookies did this while they were working on him.”
“And we’re sure neither Medina nor any of his family had a vendetta against the police?” asked Baxter, skeptically.
“Not that we’ve found,” replied Curtis. “I know. It doesn’t make any sense when he has so obviously gone all out to rile up the entire NYPD. Everybody knows when you kill a cop, the entire police force is gonna come down on you like a ton of bricks. Whether this is some sort of cult, online group chasing fame, or Ragdoll appreciation society, targeting a cop was probably the stupidest move they could have made, and what
ever they’re trying to achieve, they’ve just gone and made it ten times harder for themselves.”
Baxter was reminded of something Edmunds had said to her the previous night:
“Somebody’s holding the strings,” she said, “coordinating these murders, using these Puppets for their own gain. We know the victims aren’t chosen at random because the other two are both Ragdoll-related. We’re now three murders in. We have absolutely no idea who they are, where they are, or even what they want. The last thing these people are is stupid.”
“So why declare war on the police?” asked Rouche, fascinated.
“Why indeed?”
Several loud voices filled the tent.
“Special Agent Curtis?” someone called.
Baxter and Rouche followed Curtis back through the hole in the wall. A news crew was setting up their equipment, eyeing the scene greedily every time they looked up. Curtis went off to speak to a group of black-suited people.
“Looks like you’re up,” Rouche whispered to Baxter. He removed an emergency tie from his pocket and looped it around his neck. “How does it feel to be the official face of a propaganda campaign?”
“Shut up. They can film me doing my job but can piss right off if they—”
“Rouche?” an overweight man called as he abandoned Curtis’s group. He wore a huge padded winter jacket, which did not complement his already top-heavy silhouette. “Damien Rouche?” he said, smiling broadly and holding out a sausage-fingered hand.
Rouche hastily finished the untidy knot he was tying and spun around, looking unusually presentable:
“George McFarlen.” He smiled, glancing down accusingly at the FBI badge dangling around the man’s neck. “You bloody turncoat!”
“Says the British CIA agent!” He laughed. “So it was you who got caught up in all that unpleasantness at the prison, was it?”
“Afraid so. But someone up there must have been looking out for me.”
“Amen to that.” McFarlen nodded.
Baxter rolled her eyes.
“Hey, are you still shooting?” the man asked Rouche.
“Not really, no.”
“No! Well, that’s a damn shame.” McFarlen appeared genuinely disappointed as he turned to address Baxter. “This guy here still holds the agency record at fifty yards to this day!”
Baxter nodded and followed it up with a noncommittal noise.
Picking up on her feigned interest, McFarlen turned his attention back to Rouche:
“Family still out in England?” The domineering man did not even wait for an answer. “How old’s that daughter of yours now? Same as my Clara: sixteen?”
Rouche opened his mouth.
“What an age.” McFarlen shook his head. “It’s all just boys and bitching. I’d suggest you lay low here and head back when she’s twenty!”
An inappropriately booming laugh filled the crime scene as the man somehow unearthed the hidden hilarity of his comment. Rouche smiled politely, then received a well-meaning but eye-watering slap to the back before McFarlen ambled away.
Baxter winced as Rouche held his painful chest.
“I’m pretty sure that qualifies as assault,” she joked.
Curtis came to fetch her. She introduced Baxter to Special Agent in Charge Rose-Marie Lennox. The haggard woman appeared to be the FBI equivalent of Vanita: a bureaucrat masquerading as an operational agent, complete with token sidearm just in case anyone ever attempted to steal the photocopier from her office.
“We are all so grateful for your assistance,” Lennox told her sycophantically.
“OK,” said the reporter, taking position in front of the camera. “We’re on in three, two, one . . .”
“Wait. What?” asked Baxter. She made to walk off, but Lennox lightly took hold of her arm as the reporter described a press-appropriate version of events.
Finally, the reporter introduced Lennox, who began reciting her well-rehearsed responses.
“. . . a sick and cruel attack on one of our own. I believe I speak for all of my colleagues when I say that we will not rest until . . . I can confirm that we are looking into links between this murder, the incident on the Brooklyn Bridge a week ago, and the death of Lethaniel Masse yesterday . . . We will be working alongside the Metropolitan Police in England, who have graciously provided us with the expertise of Chief Inspector Emily Baxter, who of course captured . . .”
Baxter lost interest and looked back at Rouche and Curtis as they assessed the wreckage. She watched Curtis call Rouche over to look at something on the driver’s door, completely missing the reporter’s question:
“What?”
“Chief Inspector,” the woman repeated through the most insincere smile Baxter had ever had the misfortune to witness. “What can you tell us about the scene behind us? What are you working on right now?” She gestured toward the devastation with a sad face even more unconvincing than the smile-scowl.
The cameraman turned to Baxter.
“Well,” she sighed, making no effort at all to disguise her disdain, “I was investigating the death of a police officer, but now, for reasons unknown to me, I’m stood here like an idiot talking to you.”
There was an uncomfortable pause.
Lennox looked insanely angry, and the abrupt response appeared to trip up the reporter, who had not had time to form her follow-up question.
“Why don’t we let you get back to work, Chief Inspector? Thank you.” Lennox smiled reassuringly, placing a gentle hand on Baxter’s arm as she shrugged and walked away. “As you can see,” the special agent in charge told the reporter, “we’ve all taken this loss to heart and just want to get on with finding whoever is responsible.”
Lennox saw the news team off and then called Curtis outside. They crossed the road and perched against the fence to Highbridge Park, the border where the compacted ice on the sidewalk became unspoiled powdery snow. Lennox lit up a cigarette.
“I heard about what happened at the prison,” she said. “Are you all right? Your father would have my head if anything happened to you.”
“Thank you for your concern, but I’m fine,” lied Curtis. She was irritated that despite all she had done to prove herself in her own right, she was still receiving preferential treatment because of her family connections.
Lennox had apparently picked up on her tone because she decided to move on:
“That Baxter’s an irritable bitch, isn’t she?”
“She just doesn’t suffer fools gladly,” replied Curtis, before realizing that she had just inadvertently insulted her superior. “Not that you’re a fool, of course. I just meant . . .”
Lennox waved off the comment with a waft of smoke.
“She’s strong and she’s smart,” said Curtis.
“Yes . . . That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Curtis wasn’t sure what she meant by that.
Although she had never touched a cigarette in her life, the warming glow of the burning tobacco dancing through the freezing air suddenly looked more tempting than it ever had before.
Lennox turned to face the baseball field at the top of the snowy hill.
“She’s a tourist here,” she told Curtis. “No more. We’ll shove her in front of the cameras a few more times, take a few photos to appease the public, and then we’ll stick her on a plane home.”
“I really think she might be able to help us.”
“I know you do, but there’s always a lot more going on than there seems. Just as Officer Kennedy’s murder is a direct insult to the NYPD, a taunt intended to make the public question the omnipresent authority that governs them, Baxter’s presence here poses a similar threat to us.”
“I’m sorry—I don’t follow,” said Curtis.
“We’ve got the NYPD, FBI, and CIA working on this and getting nowhere. We need Baxter here to show that we’re doing all we can, but at the same time, we need to get her out before the Metropolitan Police can claim any of the credit for its resolution. When we’re under
attack, a show of strength is required. We need to prove to the world that we can deal with our own problems. Make sense?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.”
A group of schoolchildren began traipsing deep footprints through the park. Another set started a snowball fight a little too close for comfort.
“Carry on as normal,” instructed Lennox. “Let Baxter tag along wherever you go, but should you come across any significant leads, I want you to keep her out of the loop.”
“That might be difficult.”
“Orders sometimes are.” Lennox shrugged. “But it’ll only be for a few more days. We’ll send her packing after the weekend.”
One of the police officers had brought Baxter and Rouche cups of coffee while they waited for Curtis to return. Along with the chipped mugs, he’d handed them a brief but nonetheless unsolicited pep talk:
“You are gonna get the bastards behind this.”
Baxter and Rouche simply nodded until the angry man appeared satisfied and wandered off. Even though the tent was shielding them from the wind, it was still below freezing and they were beginning to feel it.
“If we have time, want to grab some dinner with me and Curtis tonight?” asked Rouche.
“I . . . um . . . I don’t know. I’ve got some calls to make.”
“I know this great, quirky little pizzeria in the West Village. I always go when I’m in New York. It’s tradition.”
“I . . .”
“Come on. All three of us are going to be exhausted and starving by this evening. You’ve got to eat something.” Rouche smiled.
“Fine.”
“Great. I’ll book us a table.”
He took out his phone and scrolled through his contacts.
“Oh, I forgot to ask,” said Baxter. “What did you and Curtis find on the driver’s door?”
“Huh?”
Rouche had the phone to his ear.
“When I was screwing up that interview, it looked like you had found something.”
