Kathryn Dance Ebook Boxed Set : Roadside Crosses, Sleeping Doll, Cold Moon (9781451674217)

by Deaver, Jeffery

  “And Interpol,” Rhyme said. Then to Vincent: “How did you meet?”

  The man gave a rambling account about a coincidental, innocent meeting. Kathryn Dance listened and in her calm voice asked a few questions and announced that he was being deceptive. “The deal is you play straight with us,” she said, leaning forward. Her gaze was cool through her predator glasses.

  “Okay, I was just, like, summarizing, you know.”

  “We don’t want summaries,” Rhyme growled. “We want to know how the fuck you met him.”

  The rapist admitted while it was a coincidence, the meeting wasn’t so innocent. He gave the details of their initial contact at a restaurant near where Vincent worked. Duncan was checking out one of the men who’d been killed the previous day and Vincent had his eye on a waitress.

  What a pair, these two, Rhyme reflected.

  Mel Cooper looked up from the computer screen. “Getting some hits here . . . We’ve got sixty-eight Gerald Duncans in fifteen midwestern states. I’m running warrants and VICAP first then cross-referencing approximate ages and professions. You can’t narrow down the location any more?”

  “I would if I could. He never talked about himself.”

  Dance nodded. She believed him.

  Lon Sellitto asked the question that Rhyme had been about to. “We know he’s targeting specific victims, checking ’em out ahead of time. Why? What’s he up to?”

  The rapist answered, “His wife.”

  “He’s married?”

  “Was.”

  “Tell us.”

  “His wife and him came to New York on vacation a couple years ago. He was at a business dinner somewhere and his wife went to a concert by herself. She was walking back to the hotel on this deserted street and she got hit by a car or truck. The driver took off. She screamed for help but nobody came to save her, nobody even called the police or fire department. The doctor said that she probably lived for ten, fifteen minutes after she was hit. And even somebody who wasn’t a doctor could’ve stopped the bleeding, he said. Just a pressure point or something like that. But nobody helped.”

  “Run all the hospitals for admissions under the name Duncan, eighteen to thirty-six months ago,” Rhyme ordered.

  But Vincent said, “Don’t bother. Last year he broke into the hospital and stole her chart. The police report too. Bribed a clerk or something. He’s been planning this ever since.”

  “But why’s he picking these victims?”

  “When the police investigated they got the names of ten people who were nearby when she died. Whether they could have saved her or not, I don’t know. But Gerald, he convinced himself they could have. He’s spent the past year finding out where they live and what their schedules are. He needed to get them alone so they could die slowly. That’s the important thing to him. Like his wife died slowly.”

  “The man on the pier Tuesday? Is he dead?”

  “He’s gotta be. Duncan made him hold on and then cut his arms and just stood there watching him until he fell into the river. He said he tried to swim for a while but then he just stopped moving and floated under the pier.”

  “What was his name?”

  “I don’t remember. Walter somebody. I didn’t help him with the first two. I didn’t, really.” He glanced at Dance with fear in his eyes.

  “What else do you know about Duncan?” she asked.

  “That’s about it. The only thing he really liked to talk about was time.”

  “Time? What about it?”

  “Anything, everything. The history of time, how clocks work, about calendars, how people sense time differently. He’d tell me, like, the term ‘speed up’ comes from pendulum clocks. You’d move the weight up on the pendulum to make the clock run faster. ‘Slow down’—you moved the weight down to slow it. . . . With anybody else it would’ve been just boring. But the way he talked about it, well, you kind of got caught up in what he was saying.”

  Cooper looked up from his computer screen. “We’ve got a couple of replies from the watchmaker associations. No record of a Gerald Duncan . . . Wait, here’s Interpol . . . Nothing there either. And I can’t find anything in VICAP.”

  Sellitto’s phone rang. He took the call and spoke for a few minutes. He eyed the rapist coolly as he talked. Then he disconnected.

  “That was your sister’s husband,” he said to Vincent.

  The man frowned. “Who?”

  “Your sister’s husband.”

  Vincent shook his head. “No, you must’ve talked to the wrong person. My sister’s not married.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  The rapist’s eyes were wide. “Sally Anne’s married?”

  With a disgusted glance at Vincent, Sellitto said to Rhyme and Dance, “She was too upset to return the call herself. Her husband did. Thirteen years ago he locked her in the basement of their house for a week while their mother and stepfather were on their honeymoon. His own sister. . . . He tied her down and sexually assaulted her repeatedly. He was fifteen, she was thirteen. He did juvie time and was released after counseling. Records were sealed. That’s why we had no hits on IAFIS.”

  “Married,” Vincent whispered, ashen-faced.

  “She’s been treated for depression and eating disorders ever since. He was caught stalking her a dozen times, so she got a restraining order. The only contact between them in the past three years is letters he’s been sending.”

  “He’s been threatening her?” Dance asked.

  Sellitto muttered, “Nope. They’re love letters. He wanted her to move here and live with him.”

  “Oh, man,” muttered the unflappable Mel Cooper.

  “Sometimes he’d write recipes in the margins. Sometimes he’d draw porn cartoons. The brother-in-law said if there’s anything they can do to make sure he stays in jail forever, they’ll do it.” Sellitto looked at the two patrol officers standing behind Vincent. “Get him out of here.”

  The officers helped the big man to his feet and they started out the door. Vincent Reynolds could hardly walk, he was so shaken. “How could Sally Anne get married? How could she do this to me? We were going to be together forever. . . . How could she?”

  Chapter 28

  Like assaulting a medieval castle.

  Sachs, Baker and Pulaski joined Bo Haumann around the corner from the church in the nondescript Chelsea section of town. The ESU troops had deployed quietly up and down the streets surrounding the place, keeping a low profile.

  The church had only enough doors to satisfy the fire code, and steel bars on most of the windows. This would make it difficult for Gerald Duncan to escape, of course, but it also meant that ESU had few options for access. That, in turn, increased the likelihood that the killer had booby-trapped the entrances or would wait for them with a weapon. And the stone walls, two feet thick, also made the risk greater than it might otherwise have been because the Search and Surveillance team’s thermal- and sound-sensing equipment was largely useless; they simply couldn’t tell if he was inside.

  “What’s the plan?” asked Amelia Sachs, standing next to Bo Haumann in the alley behind the church. Dennis Baker was beside her, his hand close to his pistol. His eyes danced around the streets and sidewalk, which told Sachs that he hadn’t been on a tactical entry for a long time—if ever. She was still pissed about the spying; she wasn’t very sympathetic that he was sweating.

  Ron Pulaski was nearby, his hand resting on the grip of his Glock. He too rocked nervously on his feet as he gazed at the imposing, sooty structure.

  Haumann explained that the teams would do a simple dynamic entry through all doors, after taking them out with explosive charges. There was no choice—the doors were too thick for a battering ram—but charges would clearly announce their presence and give Duncan a chance to prepare at least some defense within the building. What would he do when he heard the explosions and the footsteps of the cops charging inside?

  Give up?

  A lot of perps do.

  But some
don’t. They either panic or cling to some crazy idea that they can fight their way though a dozen armed officers. Rhyme had told her about Duncan’s mission of revenge; she didn’t figure somebody that obsessed would be the surrendering type.

  Sachs took her position with a side-door entry team while Baker and Pulaski remained at the command post with Haumann.

  Through her headset she heard the ESU commander say, “Entry devices are armed. . . . Teams, report, K.”

  The A, B and C teams called in that they were ready.

  In his raspy voice, Haumann called, “On my count . . . Five, four, three, two, one.”

  Three sharp cracks resounded as the doors blew open simultaneously, setting off car alarms and shaking nearby windows. Officers poured inside.

  It turned out that their concern about fortified positions and booby traps had been unfounded. The bad news, though, was that a search of the place made it clear that the Watchmaker was either one of the luckiest men on earth or had anticipated them yet again. He wasn’t here.

  “Check this out, Ron.”

  Amelia Sachs stood in a doorway of a small, upstairs storeroom in the church.

  “Freaky,” the young officer offered.

  That worked.

  They were looking at a number of moon-faced clocks stacked against a stone wall. The faces stared out with their cryptic look, not quite a smile, not quite a leer, as if they knew exactly how much time was allotted for your life and were pleased to be counting down to the final second.

  All of them were ticking, a sound that Sachs found unnerving.

  She counted five of them. Which meant he had one with him.

  Burn her to death . . .

  Pulaski was zipping up his Tyvek crime scene suit and strapping his Glock outside the overalls. Sachs told him that she’d walk the grid up here, where Vincent had said the men had been staying. The rookie would take the ground floor of the church.

  He nodded, looking uneasily at the dark corridors, the shadows. The blow to his skull the previous year had been severe and a supervisor had wanted to sideline him, put him behind a desk. He’d struggled to come back from the head injury and simply would not let the brass take him off the street. She knew he got spooked sometimes. She could see in his eyes that he was constantly making the decision whether or not to step up to the task in front of him. Even though he always chose to do so, there were some cops, she knew, who wouldn’t want to work with him because of this. Sachs, though, would far rather work with somebody who confronted his ghosts every time he went out on the street. That was guts.

  She’d never hesitate to have him as a partner.

  Then she realized what she’d thought and qualified it: If I were going to stay on the force.

  Pulaski wiped his palms, which Sachs could see were sweaty, despite the chill, and pulled on latex gloves.

  As they divided up the evidence collection equipment she said, “Hey, heard you got jumped in the garage, running the Explorer scene.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hate it when that happens.”

  He gave a laugh that meant he understood this was her way of saying it’s okay to be nervous. He started for the door.

  “Hey, Ron.”

  He stopped.

  “By the way, Rhyme said you did a great job.”

  “He did?”

  Not in so many words. But that was Rhyme. Sachs said, “He sure did. Now, go search the shit out of that scene. I want to nail this bastard.”

  He gave a grin. “You bet.”

  Sachs said, “It’s not a Christmas present. It’s a job.”

  And nodded him downstairs.

  She found nothing that suggested who the next victim was but at least there was a significant amount of evidence in the church.

  From Vincent Reynolds’s room Sachs recovered samples of a dozen different junk foods and sodas, as well as proof of his darker appetites: condoms, duct tape and rags, presumably to use as gags. The place was a mess. It smelled of unwashed clothes.

  In Duncan’s room Sachs found horological magazines (without subscription labels), watchmaker’s and other tools (including the wire cutters that were probably used to cut the chain link fence at the first scene) and clothes. Unlike Vincent’s this room was eerily pristine and ordered. The bed was so tautly made that a drill instructor would have approved. The clothes hung perfectly in the closet (all the labels removed, she noticed), the space between the hangers exactly the same. Items on the desk were aligned at exact angles to one another. He was careful to leave next to nothing about himself personally; two museum programs, from Boston and Tampa, were hidden up under a trash container, but while they suggested he’d been to those cities, they weren’t, of course, where Vincent said he lived, the Midwest. There was also a pet hair roller.

  It’s like he’s wearing a Tyvek suit of his own. . . .

  She also found some clues that were possibly from the prior crime scenes—a roll of duct tape that would probably match the tape at the alley and that, presumably, was used to gag the victim on the pier. She found an old broom with dirt, fine sand and bits of salt on it. She guessed it was what he’d used to sweep the scene around where Teddy Adams had been killed.

  There was also evidence that she hoped might reveal his present location or that related in some way to the next victims. In a small plastic Tupperware container were some coins, three Bic pens, receipts from a parking garage downtown and a drugstore on the Upper West Side, and a book of matches (missing three of them) from a restaurant on the Upper East Side. There were no fingerprints on any of these items. She also found a pair of shoes whose treads were dotted with gaudy green paint, and an empty gallon jug that had contained wood alcohol.

  There were no fingerprints but she did find plenty of cotton fibers the same color of those in the Explorer. She then found a plastic bag containing a dozen pairs of the gloves themselves, no store labels or receipts. The bag had no prints on it.

  In his search downstairs Ron Pulaski didn’t find much but he made a curious discovery: a coating of white powder in a toilet. Tests would tell for certain but he believed it was from a fire extinguisher since he also found a trash bag near the back door, inside of which was the empty carton an extinguisher had been sold in. The rookie had looked over the box carefully but there were no store labels to indicate where it had been purchased.

  Why the extinguisher had been discharged was unclear. There was no evidence that anything in the bathroom had been burning.

  She had a call patched through to Vincent Reynolds, in the lockup, and he told her that Duncan had recently bought a fire extinguisher. He didn’t know why it had been discharged.

  After chain-of-custody cards were filled out, Sachs and Pulaski joined Baker, Haumann and the others just inside the front door of the church, where they’d been waiting while the two officers walked the grid. Sachs called Rhyme on the radio and told him and Sellitto what they’d found.

  As she recited the evidence, she could hear Rhyme instructing Thom to include it on the charts.

  “Boston and Tampa?” the criminalist asked, referring to the museum programs. “Vincent might be wrong. Hold on.” He had Cooper check with Vital Statistics and DMV for any Gerald Duncans in those cities but, while there were residents with that name, their ages didn’t match the perp’s.

  The criminalist was silent for a moment. Then he said, “The fire extinguisher . . . I’m betting he made an incendiary device out of it. He used alcohol as the accelerant. There was some on the clock at Lucy Richter’s apartment too. That’s how he’s going to burn the next victim to death. And what’s the one thing about fire extinguishers?”

  “Give up,” Sachs replied.

  “They’re invisible. One could be sitting right next to somebody and they’d never think twice about it.”

  Baker said, “I say we take whatever clues we’ve found here and divide them up, hope one of them leads us to the next victim. We’ve got receipts, those matches, the shoes.”


  Rhyme’s voice crackled over the radio, “Whatever you do, make it fast. According to Vincent, if he’s not at the church, he’s on his way to the next victim. He might already be there by now.”

  THE WATCHMAKER

  * * *

  CRIME SCENE ONE

  Location:

  • Repair pier in Hudson River, 22nd Street.

  Victim:

  • Identity unknown.

  • Male.

  • Possibly middle-aged or older, and may have coronary condition (presence of anticoagulants in blood).

  • No other drugs, infection or disease in blood.

  • Coast Guard and ESU divers checking for body and evidence in New York Harbor.

  • Checking missing persons reports.

  • Recovered jacket in New York Harbor. Bloody sleeves. Macy’s, size 44. No other clues, no sign of body.

  Perp:

  • See below.

  M.O.:

  • Perp forced victim to hold on to deck, over water, cut fingers or wrists until he fell.

  • Time of attack: between 6 P.M. Monday and 6 A.M. Tuesday.

  Evidence:

  • Blood type AB positive.

  • Fingernail torn, unpolished, wide.

  • Portion of chain link fence cut with common wire cutters, untraceable.

  • Clock. See below.

  • Poem. See below.

  • Fingernail markings on deck.

  • No discernible trace, no fingerprints, no footprints, no tire tread marks.

  CRIME SCENE TWO

  Location:

  • Alley off Cedar Street, near Broadway, behind three commercial buildings (back doors closed at 8:30 to 10 P.M.) and one government administration building (back door closed at 6 P.M.).

  • Alley is a cul-de-sac. Fifteen feet wide by one hundred and four feet long, surfaced in cobblestones, body was fifteen feet from Cedar Street.

  Victim:

  • Theodore Adams.

  • Lived in Battery Park.

  • Freelance copywriter.

  • No known enemies.

  • No warrants, state or federal.