American Devil

by Oliver Stark

  ‘Is the suspect in the apartment?’ asked Williamson.

  ‘Yes. He’s on the ground, sir. Victim is unharmed, Detective.’

  Williamson felt a surge of pride. He ran to the stairwell and started up the stairs. His heart was beating with joy. He had come good. Harper was wrong. Williamson had backed the right horse for once.

  Five floors up, Harper and Eddie arrived at the door to Elizabeth Seale’s apartment. Harper put his head to the door. ‘We’ve got no choice.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How do we get in?’

  ‘Lucky I thought ahead,’ said Eddie. He held up his shotgun.

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’

  Eddie crouched in front of Elizabeth Seale’s apartment door. He swung the shotgun butt to and fro and then let the full force smash against the lock. It split and shattered at once and the door yawned open. Harper and Kasper threw themselves to the floor and looked into the apartment. The first room was clear. They looked to the bedroom. The door was ajar and a light was on. The muzzles of a Glock 19 and a SIG pointed towards the door.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ said Eddie.

  Harper breathed in deeply. ‘Wait a moment.’

  ‘Why, you see something?’ said Eddie.

  Harper shook his head. ‘Breathe in.’

  Eddie sniffed and turned back to Harper. ‘What is it? I got nothing.’

  ‘I can smell blossom,’ said Harper. ‘We’re too late.’

  Williamson’s voice came through on the radio. ‘We’ve got the bastard, boys, we’ve got him. And Elizabeth is alive.’

  Eddie looked at Harper. They stood up and walked slowly to the door of the bedroom. The whooping continued on the shortwave as the cops below congratulated each other. Harper pushed open the bedroom door with the muzzle of his Glock. The door swung open and they stared at the body of Elizabeth Seale, who was propped up on some pillows, staring right back at them with cold dead eyes. Harper rushed across and put his fingers to her pulse.

  ‘She’s dead,’ he said, turning to Kasper, ‘but she’s warm. The killer might still be in the building.’ He went out on the shortwave. ‘Nate, this is Detective Harper. We’ve got a dead woman in Apartment 146. Elizabeth Seale. She’s only just died, Nate. He could still be in the building.’

  ‘There was no Elizabeth Seale,’ said Williamson. ‘There was no such girl.’

  ‘Thing is, she wasn’t registered. It was her father’s apartment. He fucked us, Nate. We need to get the CSU crew here soon as we can and get the whole area sealed. We need to search this building. He could still be here.’

  There was no response from Nate Williamson, just the crackle of static.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The Laker Building

  November 21, 1.47 a.m.

  The proud, glass-fronted lobby of the Laker Building reflected a massive light show of flashing red and blues. It looked like carnival time, but it wasn’t. Not even close.

  The small crowd that had started to form a couple of hours earlier as seventeen patrol cars swooped, full of authority and optimism, had swollen to a great sea of wide-eyed gawping faces, all flickering with the dancing lights of the NYPD.

  Harper looked out at the crowd. He knew that the killer may well be out there watching them all, enjoying the scene he’d created. They liked to do that sometimes. Watch their own show. They couldn’t resist. Harper scanned left to right. It could’ve been any of them.

  Harper had just walked the perimeter. He had yet to figure out how the killer had left the building. He knew damn well that the killer had duped them, and that made him doubly dangerous. This killer had sidestepped a SWAT team and executed a young woman, then walked out of a murder scene. He would be walking tall, feeling supercharged and invulnerable.

  The two partners went across to the concierge, who was talking to a uniformed cop. Tom wanted to know one thing only. ‘How many ways can a guy get out of here?’

  ‘Two ways,’ said Marvin. ‘Out through the front, or through the service doors, but they’re electronically sealed. We don’t open them until seven a.m.’

  ‘So this is the only way out?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And no one saw a thing? Not one of the patrol? There were thirty to forty guys out there. How did he do it?’

  The concierge shook his head. ‘I ain’t the detective.’

  Elizabeth Seale’s apartment overlooked Central Park. It was a stunning apartment. Worth a fortune. At the door, two uniformed officers stepped aside. They knew Harper from the Romario case and nodded respectfully.

  There was something different about this crime scene and Harper was trying to pin it down. Two officers were still there hanging just inside the apartment talking to CSU detectives. The crime scene had been secured and no one had moved the body.

  The patrol supervisor nodded across to Eddie. The two detectives walked over.

  ‘You been in yet?’ the broad-backed, silver-haired supervisor asked. Both Eddie and Harper nodded. ‘We should’ve protected this girl better,’ the big guy sighed.

  Harper looked at him directly. ‘We tried, we were just too late this time. The truth is, he was probably watching us all arrive as he killed her. Bastard. He was torturing her as we were running around like headless chickens. That was his plan. Kill her with the cops in the building. Another buzz.’

  ‘We’ll know more later,’ said Eddie, ‘but as yet it’s as clear as Mississippi mud.’

  Harper shuffled past into the living room where Williamson was waiting. It was bad. He felt it. He wished he had something to say.

  The supervisor called out, ‘Williamson has the reins, Detective. We’re waiting on next steps.’

  Williamson was staring at Harper. ‘I messed this up, Harper. I should’ve listened.’

  Williamson was granite hard and chewed constantly, but his cold grey eyes were full of sadness. Harper shook his head. ‘He was playing us, Nate. It made no difference. He knew what he was doing. He knew that there was only one Elizabeth on that resident list. He knew what we would do, too.’

  ‘How did you know my guess wasn’t right?’

  ‘He’s an obsessive planner, Nate. He wouldn’t have dared to do this if she’d moved in two weeks ago. She had to be a phoney.’ Harper looked about him, embarrassed with Williamson’s awkwardness. Finally he walked away and opened the bedroom door. Garcia was already inside. ‘We’ve got a crime scene to get through. Let’s make like it matters.’

  The crime scene detectives were combing the scene, taking photographs, sketching and lifting prints. Detective Williamson called to Garcia.

  ‘Anything gives?’

  ‘No, sir, nothing.’

  Williamson lowered his head and slipped out the living room. The bureau chief, Ged Rainer, moved through to the bedroom. He was shaking his head as he passed Harper and Eddie at the door.

  The two detectives looked at each other. Whoever Elizabeth Seale was, she clearly mattered. The top guys were already there. That’s what felt so strange. A crime scene was usually a lonelier place.

  ‘Who is she?’ Harper asked Ged Rainer.

  ‘Patty Seale’s little girl. The evangelist preacher - Mr Moral Outrage. This is going to be bad. That’s all I know.’

  Harper felt nervy. The whine and flash of the cameras. The smell of death. Not good when you’re already about to puke your guts. And death scenes always smelled of shit. He didn’t feel ready for a lungful of putrid air and an eyeful of the grotesque. The things you never forget about a crime scene. Reluctantly, he led Eddie back into the bedroom. It felt harder second time round.

  Elizabeth Seale was lying on her side on the bed, facing the door. It was like a film set in the perfect little room, like some sick fairy tale gone wrong. Her body was full of knife cuts. Harper felt the emotion but he went cold, like you have to. You either go cold or you lose your focus.

  He stared at the vision of death. Except it was strange. From the door, her naked body was p
osed in a carefully arranged S-shape, upper torso upright, her arm modestly over her pudenda. Her mouth was closed in a smile and a black ribbon was tied around her neck. She had a scarf around her hair. It was crimson with a gold design. She looked like she was posing for a painting.

  The body shocked you with its nakedness and direct stare. Harper felt as though he was looking at an exhibit in some sinister museum. On the white carpet beside the bed, the girl’s clothes were laid out, the dress, the brassiere, the panties, the nylons, the jewellery and the shoes. Each item was perfectly spaced.

  Harper couldn’t do any more. He needed air. He walked out of the building. On the street, the crowds and the press had all come out. It was a mass of lights and cameras and perverts and people, all there to soak up the gruesome glamour of murder. Harper knew what this killer was doing, all right. He was showing off and this was just the beginning. He had started his show, the lights were bright, the audience was set.

  The circus animals were all in town.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The Bronx

  November 21, 3.31 a.m.

  After the main work was over, Nate Williamson left the scene. He was depressed by the whole thing and wanted to go home and hang his head. The truth was, he had nothing. There was a looming fear in his mind. He’d worked the Romario case dry and left the way open for a slick-looking hero to come in and clean up. If he came up with nothing on this one, with the city in a state of fear and the eyes of the nation on his back, then his whole career would have meant nothing. Retirement was getting closer and closer. Maybe it felt like this to everyone: time came calling and you weren’t the man you once were.

  Maybe that’s all it was, the progression of time. Even so, Nate didn’t like it. Every day, the investigation grew more complex and he felt he was failing. He wasn’t just failing himself, though - that wasn’t the thing that shot him that look of hate he saw in the mirror each morning. He was failing the city. His city. He’d loved her his whole life long. He’d never once moved from the Bronx or wanted to. But now his city was turning her back. He felt it like a personal slight, like a lover saying no, like your own child pushing you away.

  That’s what was eating Nate Williamson.

  It was dark in the drive when he got home. Lillian, his wife, was out in Michigan visiting their daughter so the house was dark and unwelcoming. Nate thought of his daughter, Rose, a large girl with red hair. She always made him smile. She was just like him. Except she was six months pregnant. He was going to be a grandfather. Maybe that new role would save him. Maybe he should throw in the towel before the final round. He would’ve loved to drive through the night to see them both. He was smiling as he searched his pocket for his keys. The outside porch light had been broken for months. Williamson fumbled for the right key, but he couldn’t find it. He took out a small flashlight from his hip pocket and shone it into his hand.

  The light hit the ground just by his feet. There was a line of small droplets on the stone. Williamson crouched and looked closer. The droplets were a dark red colour. He dipped his forefinger in one of the drops and then smoothed the liquid between his thumb and forefinger. He held his finger under the light. Blood.

  Nate stood up straight and listened. The night was still. The rumble of traffic continued in the background, but closer to home he could hear nothing. He shone the torch to the left and right. The droplets continued to the right along the path that led to the side gate to the back yard. Nate moved towards the gate. Whatever it was, it was hurt. Probably a small animal, by the look of the droplets. There was a small copse behind the houses and sometimes small rodents or cats got injured on the road. But Nate feared something more. His wife’s precious cat. The droplets went directly to his front door, suggesting that the animal had tried to get in.

  His wife’s cat, Emerald, was an eighteen-year-old Exotic Shorthair. She was the laziest cat you ever did see and rarely moved, but she had the kindest nature and a small grumpy face that everyone seemed to love. Lillian doted on the cat and the cat doted on Lillian. If something had happened to Emerald, it was real bad news.

  The torchlight shone up towards the wooden gate. It was ajar, which was unusual, and the drops of blood continued on through the gate and beyond.

  The backyard was dark, lit only by a bright, cold moon. The light wind was shaking the tops of the trees. Williamson shone the light across the lawn. At the centre was a small apple tree. The drops of blood carried on across the grass but were harder to detect. Williamson shone his light into the trees at the back of the garden. He felt suddenly alone in his own yard. Then the bright green eyes of a cat lit up in the torchlight.

  ‘Emerald,’ he called. He felt his heart warm to the small pudgy face of his wife’s pet. She was sitting close to the tree trembling and looking terrified, but she was alive. That’s what mattered. Nate strode across the lawn towards her. She might have been in a fight with some local cat who had no idea that Emerald wouldn’t raise a paw for a treat let alone to defend herself. She was real class. You even had to take the food out of her bowl to feed her. A true Williamson.

  The grass by the tree was thick with leaves. They crunched under his feet. That was another of Nate’s failures. He hadn’t swept up the fall leaves and now they were heaped all over the yard. ‘Come here, baby,’ Nate called out but the cat didn’t move.

  Nate padded round towards the tree trunk. It was very silent, but Nate could hear some creature noises and shuffling in the trees.

  He took the final step to reach Emerald. His foot landed on a soft bedding of leaves, almost a small mound - not flattened like the rest. His head had just sensed this as his foot came down through the soft leaves and on to something hard. Not earth, but metal. His foot touched a wide plate.

  A low creak rose from the ground followed by a horrifying clash of metal and a sudden snap as a great iron jaw sprang up and butchered his right calf like a shark bite - two huge tooth-filled jaws and a massive force.

  The pain was explosive. It sent splinters into every part of his brain - horrific pain as the flesh split and the bone crushed and cracked. Nate buckled, his great weight thrown forward, and his fibula snapped at the weakest point. As his weight was falling, the bone ripped through the front of his shin. Williamson’s wild scream echoed along the back yards.

  Williamson grabbed onto the tree. Against the pain, he lifted himself and looked up. He was panting. He gazed down at his leg, but was near to passing out.

  What the fuck was it? Two great iron jaws clamped fast to his leg. A mantrap? A bear trap? Was this left here by accident? Surely not.

  And if not, then what? Against the flood of pain from the injury and his body’s own pain-relieving releases, he managed to take out his gun. He searched around. Emerald was a foot away. He scooped her up in his arms and pointed his gun at the trees. In the corner of his eyes he saw lights flicker on in the adjacent houses. His scream had woken them.

  ‘Call the police!’ shouted Williamson. ‘Call 911!’ He turned back to the woods. ‘Come out and face me, you coward bastard, whoever you are!’ His courage had not faltered. He hid Emerald in the crook of his arm and stared ahead, feeling the surges of pain hit him in sudden waves, over and over.

  ‘Ready to die?’ a voice called from the copse.

  ‘Who are you? What the hell do you want?’

  ‘You’re a detective. Work it out.’

  Williamson had heard enough. He raised his pistol and unleashed two rounds towards the voice. There was silence. Maybe he’d hit the bastard. He looked up. There was a long pause.

  Then Williamson heard a strange noise. It was hardly a sound at all. Like a piece of wood twanging on a desktop. A wooden thrum. A moment later, an aluminium bolt thumped into Williamson’s chest. He cried out again. The guy had a crossbow. Williamson managed to lift his gun hand and let off another two rounds.

  Then he heard a swish of air again and felt the thud of something landing in his thigh. He looked down, shocked. Another
bolt was lodged deep in his leg.

  ‘You’re a fucking dead man!’ Nate screamed. ‘You’re fucking dead. They know I’m here, so screw you! This place will be crawling with cops.’ Williamson fired until his gun was empty, but the rounds zipped into the trees and no one screamed.

  Again, the deep thrum of wood and an arrow hit him hard in the stomach. Then another hit his shoulder and threw his upper body backwards. Williamson was almost out. The pain and blood loss were taking his mind away. He was going to die.

  Vvv-dumm, sounded the crossbow. The thrumming of the shot echoed across the backs of the houses and the bolt ripped hard into Williamson’s arm. He hardly felt it. Then he heard something moving towards him and another bolt hit him in the stomach.

  The killer emerged from the shadows, his face illuminated by the white light of the moon. Williamson focused his eyes and furrowed his brow in confusion. He saw the face of his killer silhouetted against a beautiful spread of stars. He opened his mouth to speak, to plead, to talk to this man, but before he could utter a word an arrow entered his brain through the roof of his open mouth.

  The American Devil smiled down at his victim. ‘You’re just not good enough, Detective Williamson. I want a better challenge. I want Tom Harper.’

  PART TWO

  November 21-24

  ‘In each human heart terror survives The ravin it has gorged’

  P. B. Shelley, Prometheus Unbound

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  East 71st Street

  November 21, 10.00 a.m.

  Marty Fox wore plaid suits and still smoked, which almost no one else in the world did. He was forty-one, chronically unfaithful to his wife and wanted life just as it was - comfortable. Why he slept around was because he liked it. Why else do people do things? And he liked the sensation of new flesh better than flesh he knew. What was so odd about that? It was a proven fact that new experiences produced more serotonin than habitual ones. Man was hard-wired to go somewhere new for his fun and games, and the truth was Marty was just not strong enough to override the temptation.