“Don’t worry. We don’t have to put him in a hockey mask or anything,” Gaffney said with a small grin. “In the six years I’ve been here, he’s been nothing but a model prisoner. Runs a prayer group now. He even helps blind inmates back to their cells.”
“I heard about his religious conversion. Do you believe it?” I said.
“I limit my belief to things outside these walls, Mike, but who knows?” he said, lifting a radio out of the charger behind him. “If you’re ready, I’ll walk you over.”
Chapter 38
I MET BERKOWITZ IN A BRIGHT and airy secure visitors’ room in a cell block across the concrete yard behind Gaffney’s office.
What struck me first was how surprisingly unthreatening he was. Short, paunchy, and middle-aged, with white hair, he reminded me of the singer Paul Simon. He was clean-shaven and his hair was freshly cut. Even his green prison clothes seemed excessively neat, as if he had had them dry-cleaned. He bore little resemblance to the wild-eyed sloppy young man on the front cover of all the newspapers when he had been apprehended in 1977.
He actually smiled and made eye contact as he sat on the opposite side of the room’s worn linoleum table.
“Hi, David. My name’s Detective Bennett from the NYPD,” I said, smiling back. “Thank you for agreeing to speak with me this morning.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said, taking a small Bible from his pocket. He placed it directly on the table before him. “How can I help you, sir?”
“Well, I was wondering if you might be able to give me a little insight into a case I’m investigating right now,” I said.
Berkowitz’s eyes narrowed as he cocked his head.
“It must be some case for you to come all the way up here from the city.”
“It is, David. It seems a person is committing crimes similar to the ones you were involved with back in the seventies.”
I reluctantly used the term “involved with” instead of “viciously and cowardly committed” because I needed his cooperation.
“A girl in Co-op City was stabbed, and two people were shot in a lover’s lane in Queens with a forty-four-caliber weapon,” I continued. “We even received a letter from someone claiming to be you.”
Berkowitz stared at me wide-eyed. He looked genuinely shaken.
“That’s terrible,” he said.
“Do you know anyone who might want to do these things?”
“Not a soul,” he said immediately.
“C’mon, David. I know in the past you’ve made reference to other people who might have been involved in your case. Other satanic cult members, wasn’t it? Have you had any contact with any of those people lately?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, Detective, I don’t know how helpful I can be in that area,” he said, staring at the Bible. “You see, what I remember of that tragic time is really all a blur now.”
How convenient for you, I thought.
He began to fan the Bible pages with his thumb as he continued.
“I was deep into the occult back then and not really in my right mind. In fact, ever since giving myself over to Jesus Christ, more and more of those memories seem to fade every day, thankfully. That’s the incredible power of Jesus. His forgiveness can cleanse even a man like me.”
I looked across the table for a beat. Berkowitz had his eyes closed and hands clasped in silent prayer. He seemed pretty convinced that Jesus Christ was now his personal savior.
I wasn’t so sure. I knew that one of the things serial killers tended to crave was manipulation. They exulted in their superiority over people and liked to lie for the sheer pleasure of it.
“You said you weren’t in your right mind,” I continued in order to keep the conversation flowing. “Do you think I should look for a person with mental instability? Talk to some psychiatrists maybe?”
Berkowitz nodded, opening his eyes.
“Sure, sure,” he said. “Though, like myself, there are a lot of lost individuals out there who never receive any formal psychiatric help.”
That’s when I dropped my payload, the thing I was truly interested in.
“Does the name Lawrence mean anything to you?” I said, staring into his eyes. “Think hard, David. Someone from your past or maybe someone you met in jail?”
He cocked his head again and squinted up at the ceiling.
“No,” he said slowly after a few seconds. “Should it?”
“Have you ever received any correspondence from anyone named Lawrence? An admirer perhaps?”
I kept staring into his eyes.
“Not that I remember,” he said, looking back at me serenely. “It is possible though. I do receive a lot of mail.”
I nodded as I let out a sigh. That was about it. Either Berkowitz wasn’t aware of anything or he wasn’t going to tell me. There was no connection, no lead. I’d arrived at yet another dead end.
“Thanks, David,” I said, frustrated as I stood and nodded at the guard outside. “I appreciate your time.”
“Good luck and God bless you, Detective Bennett. I hope you catch the poor soul who’s out there hurting people,” Berkowitz said as the guard led him away.
Poor soul? I thought, rolling my eyes as Gaffney came in. Yeah, I couldn’t wait to catch the poor, tragic, homicidal wayward lamb myself.
“Does he get a lot of mail?” I asked Gaffney.
“It’s amazing,” Gaffney nodded. “From all over the world.”
“I know you guys read the mail, but you wouldn’t happen to have a record of Berkowitz’s correspondence, would you?”
“That we do. For Diamond Dave, we read and make a copy of everything coming and going. Even the stuff we won’t let him have.”
Maybe my trip wasn’t such a bust after all.
“Do you think I could see it?”
“Confidentially?” Gaffney asked with a wink.
“But of course,” I said.
“We actually scan everything now. I’ll e-mail you the whole ball of wax. Hope you have a big hard drive. Anything else?”
“Just one thing,” I said, hurrying behind him toward the block’s electric gate and the free world. “Where do I get my gun back?”
Chapter 39
TO THE CLACK OF KITCHEN PLATES, the pale, elegant brunette weaved her way around the dim room’s empty linen-covered tables and climbed the little corner stage to reach the ebony Steinway Concert Grand. After a moment, a slow and pretty impressionistic piece began to drift out over the room, Debussy or maybe Ravel.
At the opposite end of the wood-paneled room, Berger nodded with approval. Then he carefully tucked his damask napkin into his shirt, closed his eyes, and inhaled.
Invisible ribbons of hunger-inflaming scents from the vicinity of the swinging kitchen door behind him invaded his quivering nostrils. He detected nutty sizzling butters, meat smoke, soups redolent of mushrooms and leeks, decanted vintage wine. His palate was so sensitive, he felt he could actually distinguish the separate odors dissolving against the postage stamp–size tissue called the olfactory epithelium, high in his nasal cavity.
“Now, sir?” whispered the bug-eyed tuxedo-clad maître d’ at his back.
The arrangement was that only the maître d’ could serve or speak to him. Berger never spoke back, but rather indicated his wishes with a series of predetermined head and facial gestures. He had even asked that the shades be drawn to keep the dining space as dark as possible.
Berger waited a moment longer, holding in the glorious aromas, a junkie with a hit of crack smoke. Then he gave a subtle nod.
The maître d’s finger snap was like a starter pistol, and in came the white-jacketed waiters with the plates. They were actually more like platters. There were mounds of brioche, caviar, quiche, a roast duck, a crème brûlée, oysters, a gravy boat filled with a saffron-colored sauce, and more. It was hard to tell which meal was being served.
It was actually all of them, a montage of breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Berger immediate
ly tucked in. The first thing within his grasp was a still-warm baguette. He ripped off a hunk in a detonation of flaky crumbs, stabbed it into a tub of white truffle butter, and slammed it into his waiting mouth. More crumbs went flying as he chewed with his mouth open. He loudly slurped at a glass of Cabernet, spilling much of it. Arterial-red rivulets dripped unnoticed off his chin as he reached for the plate of oysters.
He was well aware that he was breaking every rule of table etiquette. No doubt about it, he had a soft spot for food. When it came to meals, he literally became overwhelmed, almost drugged, with all the smells and tastes and, lately, even textures. He was so unabashedly gluttonous, he didn’t even use silverware anymore but went at it with his bare hands like a savage in order to heighten his obsessive pleasure. The consumption of food had become something shameless, almost horrifying, and yet in a very real sense, somehow divine.
Like the famous killers Berger so admired, he possessed an intensity of desire for certain things that other people either couldn’t understand or were afraid to even consider.
The maître d’ cleared his throat.
“More wine, sir?” he whispered beside his ear.
Berger nodded as he ripped into the duck with his bare hands, fingernails tearing deliciously at the crispy, greasy skin.
More, Berger thought, filling his mouth until his cheeks bulged. My favorite word.
Chapter 40
IT WAS TWO IN THE AFTERNOON when Berger got out of a taxi in Brooklyn’s Grand Army Plaza. Dapper as can be in a chalk-pinstripe Alexander McQueen power suit, he carried a brown paper bag in his right hand, and in his left his lucky cane. The razor-sharp saber inside it had a grinning pewter skull for a handle that he kept hidden under his palm as he strolled.
He arrived at Sixth Avenue and made a right. A block up the leafy, brownstone-lined street, he paused by the steps of a church. He made the sign of the cross as he glanced at himself in the window of a parked Prius. He unbuttoned his jacket to show off his Hermès tie and handmade single-stitched Turnbull & Asser shirt. Now was not the time for Christian modesty.
He counted the addresses until he came to 485. He stepped up the stoop and rang the doorbell with the cane.
The forty-something redheaded man who opened the door was wearing a Fordham T-shirt and shiny black basketball shorts, both speckled with primer.
“Mr. Howard?” the man said, patting at his carrot-colored hair as he opened the door. “What brings you here?”
“I was in the neighborhood, Kenneth,” Berger said, smiling. “I remembered you lived around here and thought I’d give you a buzz.”
The man’s name was Kenneth Cavuto. He’d been a real-estate financial analyst working for Lehman Brothers until the investment bank went belly-up in the financial meltdown. Berger had interviewed the man two weeks ago after contacting him from the Classifieds section of Craigs-list. On the Monday following, at $200,000 to start plus bonuses, Kenneth was supposed to begin running the capital market team of Berger’s fictitious new investment start-up, Red Lion Investments.
“Here, I brought you a gift,” Berger said, handing him the paper sack. “My mother always said when you go for a visit, ring the bell with your elbow.”
“Hey, wow, thanks. You didn’t have to do that,” Cavuto said as he accepted the bag. “What is it?”
“Fresh strawberries and pot cheese,” Berger said.
“What kind of cheese?” Cavuto said, looking into the bag.
“Pot. Though it’s not the kind you’re thinking of, you rascal. It’s the latest thing at Whole Foods.”
“Is that right?” Cavuto said with a shrug. “Please come in. Let me wash up, and I’ll put on some coffee.”
“Don’t bother yourself,” Berger said with a wave. “I just wanted to make sure we were buttoned down on your position. No one else has come in with a higher bid, I hope. You’ll be there on Monday?”
“Of course, Mr. Howard. Nine a.m. sharp,” the redhead assured him with a pathetic earnestness.
Berger smiled immediately as a three- or four-year-old blond girl appeared in the hall behind Cavuto.
“Hey, who’s that?” Berger called to her. “Angela? Am I right?”
“That’s right. You remembered,” Cavuto said with happy surprise. “Angela, come here, baby.”
Berger got down on one knee as she arrived next to her father. He looked at the funny-looking doll she was holding. It was Boots the Monkey from Dora the Explorer.
“Knock, knock,” Berger said to her.
“Who’s there?” Angela said, peering suspiciously at him.
“Nunya.”
“Nunya who?” Angela said, smiling a little.
“Nunya business,” Berger said, standing.
The little girl laughed. He always had a way with kids.
“Won’t you come in?” Kenneth offered again.
“No, no. I’m off,” Berger said. “I have to head over to the zoo in the park now, where my ex is waiting to get my little angel Bethany’s fourth-birthday party started and—”
Berger snapped his finger.
“Where are my manners? Why don’t you come? A couple of vice presidents from the firm will be there as well. It’ll give you a chance to get acquainted before Monday.”
“Really?” Cavuto said. “Sounds great. Give me five minutes to get ready.”
Berger checked his flashy white-gold Rolex and made a face.
“Ah, but I’m already late, and it starts off with a guided tour for the kids. The ex-wife will lay into me if I’m not right there video-recording every millisecond of it.”
Berger fished into his pocket and handed Cavuto his Red Lion Investments business card.
“How’s this?” Berger said. “You and Angela can skip the animals and meet us for cake.”
“But, Daddy! Animals! The monkeys! I want to see the monkeys,” Angela said, tugging at her father’s shirt and on the verge of tears.
“There I go again. Me and my big mouth,” Berger said sheepishly as the girl actually started crying.
Berger snapped his fingers.
“I feel terrible, Ken. If you want, Angela and I can start ahead so she doesn’t miss the tour. Then when you’re ready, call us and we’ll tell you what animal we’re up to.”
This was the do-or-die moment, Berger knew. Hang with the boss versus parental paranoia. Berger was banking on the fact that the unemployed analyst wasn’t that used to being a stay-at-home dad, was still unsure of himself, still unsure of his instincts. And of course, if he said no, Berger would quickly switch to Plan B. Stun-gun the father, chloroform the girl, and get out of there.
“Yeah?” Cavuto finally said.
Berger held his breath. The fish was on the hook. Time to reel it in slowly.
“You know, on second thought,” Berger said, checking his watch as he retreated a step down the stairs. The girl, sensing his departure, broke into full-fledged sobs.
“It’s not too much of a pain?” Cavuto said.
“Of course not,” Berger said, reaching out for the little girl’s hand with a smile. “Bethany will be so happy to make yet another brand-new best friend.”
“I won’t be long,” Cavuto called, fingering the fake business card as they started down the sidewalk.
Oh, yes, you will, Daddy, Berger thought as he waved good-bye. Longer than you’ll ever know.
He turned around when they got to the corner. Cavuto had already gone inside. Instead of heading straight for the park and the zoo, he made a left, searching for a taxi.
“Hey, Angela. You thirsty? Want a juice box?” Berger said, taking out the Elmo apple juice that he’d laced with liquid Valium.
“Is it ’ganic?” the white-blond-haired tot wanted to know. “Mom only likes when I drink ’ganic.”
“Oh, it’s ’ganic, all right, Angela,” Berger said as a taxi pulled to the curb. “It’s as ’ganic as ’ganic can be.”
Chapter 41
THAT AFTERNOON BACK IN THE CITY, I glued
my butt to my squad room office chair and did nothing but go through Berkowitz’s fan mail.
It was unbelievable. There were curiosity seekers, people who wanted autographs, softhearted and softheaded religious people wanting to save the serial killer’s soul. Some old cat lady from England had sent him a feline family picture along with a check for $300 to buy himself “some gaspers,” whatever they were. I’d have to run it by the Geico lizard next chance I got.
I had just gotten through all the stuff from the 2000s and was tossing my desk for some aspirin when my boss called from a Bomb Squad meeting in the Bronx.
“Something nuts just came out of Brooklyn,” Miriam said. “A little girl was abducted from her dad in broad daylight. We got Brooklyn Major Case running over, but I need you to see what in the hell is going on. From the little I’ve heard, it’s completely bizarre, which makes it par for the course for our guy. But I mean, it can’t be our bastard, right? How could a child abduction have something to do with the Mad Bomber or the Son of Sam?”
The address was in a pricey part of Brooklyn not too far from the art museum and Prospect Park. Blue-and-whites blocked both sides of the brownstone-lined street as I double-parked and headed toward an elaborately refurbished town house. A funereal-faced female lieutenant from the Seventy-eighth Precinct met me in the bright front hallway.
“How we doing here, boss?” I said.
“We’ve activated an AMBER Alert and sent Angela’s picture to all the media outlets, but so far nothing,” she said, lowering the static on her radio. “The missing girl is four. Four. The father was totally out of it when the first unit showed, just glassy-eyed. They’ve got him in the back bedroom now with the mother and a doctor and a priest. A Brooklyn DT went in about five minutes ago.”
Another ten long minutes passed before Hank Schaller, a veteran Brooklyn North detective who sometimes taught at the Academy, came out from the back of the house.
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