by Ty Patterson
‘I’m making a wild guess here, a lot?’
‘Yeah.’ If he detected the sarcasm in Broker’s voice, he didn’t show it.
‘Some of those thefts get solved quickly because the bats weren’t stolen. The owners just misplaced them and remembered later. But those that do get stolen,’ he shrugged. ‘Very few of those get solved. If we started throwing all our resources at finding such perps.’ His voice trailed off.
‘Yeah.’ He answered Zeb’s question. ‘Our shrinks also think he bought at a store. Buying over the internet doesn’t have the same sense of occasion. Shrinks being shrinks, they hedged their bets and said the internet was a possibility too.’
‘You know what’s occupying my time now?’
Zeb and Broker looked at him expectantly. They didn’t, but they were sure he would enlighten them.
‘Weeding out the crank calls.’ Pizaka growled in frustration. ‘Ever since we went public with the serial killer angle – fucking media have started calling him Baseball Bat Killer – we’re receiving hundreds of calls of sightings, confessions, you name it. Grannies walking their dogs saying they’ve spotted the killer. Kids messing about. Overzealous citizens trying to be helpful. We got one call from a guy saying his boss must be the killer because all he did was swing a bat at work. There was one probable call yesterday and I followed it up. I found a middle aged guy who’s bashed his wife with a baseball bat. Just because she put too much salt in his chicken.’
He took a long breath. ‘We’re running our asses ragged in trying to find the cop killer. On top of that, we’ve this bat killer. We need clones of ourselves.’
Zeb looked at him as he patted his hair down using a window as a mirror. Pizaka’s clones? The world will collapse from their weight.
Broker winked at him. He knew what Zeb was thinking.
Pizaka swung around suddenly and narrowed his eyes at Zeb. ‘What do you know of a naked gangster in a dumpster in a car park?’
Zeb stared at him blankly.
He flung his hands up and walked away, the picture of an overworked detective who still dressed like a model.
They met Chang on the way out, carrying a box of doughnuts. Broker declined the offer, jerked his head back at Pizaka who was with a bunch of other cops.
‘Your friend’s grumpy.’
Chang’s sleepy eyes regarded his partner, turned back to Broker and Zeb. ‘His hair’s not staying down. Always sends him on a tear.’
The killer was in Pete’s Sporting Emporium looking over a selection of bats. He breathed deeply the smell of wood, the polish, closed his eyes as he ran his fingers on a bat. He picked it up, felt its heft and weight and practiced a swing. He tried a few other bats, rejected them and turned back to his first choice. It was a premium bat but well worth the money.
The sound when it hits the face.
Pete watched his swings. ‘You play?’
The killer shook his head.
Major League like you wouldn’t believe.
‘You have a natural swing.’
Comes with lot of practice.
He paid for the bat and headed back into the sunlight and the city. He breathed deeply and felt his blood sing in response. He pulled the bat out of its wrapper, dumped the plastic in a trashcan and watched the sun gleam on the wood.
Magic.
A New Yorker cursed as he dodged the bat, bringing him out of his worship.
A café in the distance beckoned him.
‘We need to come at this differently.’ Beth told Meghan. They came out of a sporting goods store where they had spent an hour examining bats.
‘Gomez’s list and his DVD haven’t yielded anything. The staff lists of the other victims’ employers have given us jack. It’s time we did some lateral thinking.’
Meghan watched a young man walk past, his trousers nearly around his ankles, his head bobbing to a beat on his headphones, his fingers moving on his phone.
‘You got the list?’
Beth nodded. The idea had hit her when she was updating her online profile. The killer might’ve commented on the profiles of his victims.
Broker nodded approvingly when she ran it past him and asked her to write a program, one that pulled out all males who commented on the victims’ online web pages. Another program looked at those males and determined if they had commented on more than one victim’s profiles. It came back empty.
Meghan steered her to a café where they ordered their drinks and as they headed out, she turned to Beth. ‘Our guy might also frequent baseball groups on the internet. Like bat fansites or message boards.’
She swung back to the exit, bumped into a man coming in and spilled her drink.
‘Woops. Sorry.’
She looked at the man who was staring at her. He seemed to be in his early thirties, had piercing black eyes that moved past her to Beth.
Green. Two pairs of green.
The thing in him retreated. Leave! Leave them alone. They’re women. Get your drink, walk out. Act natural.
Green. So green. I’m drowning.
Move. Go. Leave.
The words came at him from a distance. ‘Excuse me. Sir? I’m sorry. Are you okay? Sir?’
He stared dumbly at them.
Beth looked at Meghan and shrugged. They slipped around the man and walked out. Once outside, Beth turned back to look at the man, who was looking blankly at them. She swung round, rolled her eyes at Meghan and thrust her cup. ‘Have some of mine. Not all, mind you. If you weren’t so clumsy, you would have your own.’
Meghan took a long sip and handed the cup back to her.
‘Baseball bats are so common that they don’t attract attention. That guy inside, he was carrying a brand new one. Zeb told us that the guy likely buys a new bat every time at a store. So why don’t we try this?’
Beth interrupted her excitedly. ‘He might hang out on the manufacturer’s websites.’
Meghan put on a Bogart accent. ‘My brains are rubbing on you. Stick around with me kid and you’ll go places.’
His fog cleared, the killer watched one of them punch the other in the shoulder.
Imagine having two of them.
The thing in him moved uneasily. Don’t even think about it.
You’re the one who keeps warning about patterns. What better way to break a pattern
Your using a bat is pattern enough.
He ignored the thing’s warning. Those green eyes were so alive. How would they look, when glassy and dead?
He went to the counter, ordered his drink and smiled bashfully at the barista. ‘Sorry, I made a mess at the door.’
She looked in his dark eyes and smiled back. ‘That’s alright. Those two are cool.’
‘They come here often?’
‘Yeah. Pretty much every day.’
Patterns.
Zeb’s feet whispered on the pavement as he ran steadily, with his weighted backpack slung around his shoulder. It had his Glock, spare magazines, binoculars, satphone, a blade, and his comms headset. Zeb didn’t feel its weight. It just was there.
He eased past a drunk, ran sideways for a few feet as he observed the man sprawled out, swung back and continued in the night.
The night was his. Two a.m., when the good were asleep and the bad were finishing, Zeb was awake, alive and ready.
The city lay quiet, somnolent. It had monsters, it also had Zeb. There was balance. A shape darted ahead, paused; grey eyes caught the street light and flashed as they regarded the human approaching. The red fox darted across the street to the park.
Zeb’s nightly runs took him all over the city and in the last few weeks his routes had taken him past the kill sites. He’d never encountered anyone.
As he swept past Sunset Park, his eyes noted the cars parked on the street, assessed them for threats and discarded them all, an automatic, unconscious habit. He ran past the Koppels’ site, saw the bunch of flowers stuck to the lamppost, another wreath on the post ahead, petals scattered on the ground.
He co
ntinued for a mile ahead and his steps faltered.
Something.
He turned back to the site and there he saw it. A yellow cab was parked a hundred yards behind the kill site. A red light blinked inside, intruder alarm. Next to the red light was what had stayed in his mind.
A camera.
Many cab companies had cameras installed for the protection of their passengers as well as the drivers. Some of the cameras recorded perpetually to protect against theft and damage. And keep the insurance premiums down.
Was the cab parked that night?
He noted its number and resumed his run.
Three a.m., just as he swung in a wide circle and headed back to Jackson Heights, he saw them.
They were on the corner of a block, deserted but for them, shadowy figures that punctuated the darkness. Three men were huddled over a fourth, moving, gesticulating. Something gleaming in their hands.
His route would take him within a few feet of them.
He got closer and the gleam in their hands turned into clubs.
Fifty feet away and one shadow looked up at him, waved a club menacingly at him.
Fifteen feet away, a knife appeared.
He carried on, ignored them and ran past them.
Through the corner of his eyes he saw the fourth man writhing on the sidewalk, his head bleeding.
Twenty feet past them he heard pounding behind him.
They never learn.
He slowed, stopped, stood sideways and waited for them.
They came low and feral, two brandishing clubs, a third swinging his knife.
‘You blind, dipshit? You could’ve crossed the street and run.’ Knife snarled.
‘That bag looks heavy.’ One of the Clubs muttered.
Knife started at him, his knife raised.
Kill him?
Zeb glided under the knife arm, kicked his feet from under and kneed him in the groin.
The two Clubs stared. Knife ruled the block. No one had beaten him. Now he lay groaning.
Zeb looked at them.
Your turn?
They stepped back. He watched as they dragged Knife away and when they became one with the night, he continued his run.
The night was his. The city was his. Those who thought he was prey became his.
Chapter 9
Beth snatched the cab’s number from Zeb’s hand. ‘You’ve got your uses, Zeb. Now what do you think of this?’
She told him their idea of correlating baseball forum posters to the list she had. ‘We already have about a hundred profiles. We’re looking into those. Now, if only we could find a way to match those with baseball bat buyers.’
Meghan piped up. ‘Pizaka wasn’t very positive was he? About getting recent receipts from stores?’
Zeb crossed his arms behind his head, leaned back and closed his eyes. ‘Nope. But there’s a way.’
He let the silence build till the shoe dropped.
Broker started. ‘Of course. Must be getting old.’
‘You are old.’ Meghan yelled at him as he disappeared into the depths of his office, to the Bubble.
The Bubble was a room with some refinements. It was fully soundproofed with layers of sound damping and muffling foam on its walls, had no windows, had a device that emitted cyclical waves that thwarted any snooping devices or bugs. It was a room that guaranteed secure conversations.
Broker picked up the encrypted phone, punched a number and shouted, ‘Yuri.’
‘Yo, man.’ Yuri stifled a yawn. ‘I can hear you perfectly fine.’
Yuri was in Ukraine, was Broker’s lead hacker. He had an affectation for Hollywood movies and had picked a thick Texan drawl over the years.
He listened quietly and said doubtfully. ’Sure. All these retail stores use generic software at their point of sale and if it is software, it can be hacked. Most of them are chain stores and use the same make. But how will credit card details help you?’
Broker kept silent. Yuri would work it out.
‘Right, some guys on the list you have might have listed addresses which you can crosscheck. Got it.’
A grudging admiration crept in his voice. ‘Your girls are smart.’
Broker snorted. ‘Of course. They work with us! When can you get this done?’
‘Yesterday?’
Broker shook his head. Clowns. I am surrounded by them. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The killer hung around outside the café, watched the exit for a while, steeled his nerve and went in. He scanned it quickly and edged to the counter.
The barista smiled at him as she took his order and hustled away to make his drink. The killer moved down the serving counter and when he reached out for his drink, she grinned. ‘You’re looking for them? They usually come in about this time.’
He stammered his thanks and she grinned wider. ‘They’re something aren’t they? All male eyes are on them when they’re here. Good for our business.’
Fool. Now you’ve given her a reason to remember you.
And even if she does, so what? Millions of black-haired, dark-eyed young men in the city.
You’re losing your edge, your caution. The thing in him moved nervously.
The killer ignored it. He was tiring of it, tiring of being its slave.
Don’t go after them. Women are different, unpredictable, and dangerous. They’ll destroy you.
The killer stood abruptly, impatiently, and walked out of the café.
Those eyes haunt me. They make me powerless. I’ll not have that feeling again.
Women are evil.
Just the reason they should be put down.
Movement caught his eye. Brown hair bobbed in his vision, his heart beat soared. He sat down when the woman turned out to be someone else.
A dog came sniffing around him, looked at him and trotted away. Its owner followed. People went about their business ignoring him. He was easy to ignore, except when he wasn’t.
There are eight million people in the city. Why those two?
He shut the thing down.
He heard them first. A laugh floated in the air, reached him and burst over his head. Brown hair swayed on two heads and for a second, four green eyes looked his way.
Time froze. Noise faded. His heart stopped.
They went in the café and gradually the world came back.
He wiped his clammy hands against his jeans, dug his hands in his pocket and came out with a packet of tissues. His trembling fingers dropped one. He bent to pick it up just as he heard them exit. He froze and in the distance he watched their heels walk away.
He didn’t know how long he stood there frozen. A blaring horn from an irate New Yorker woke him from his trance, by then they were no longer in sight.
He raged. You see what they do to me.
You see how weak I become.
The thing kept quiet. It had given up.
He thought about going back into the café and asking about them. He shook his head. Too obvious. Dangerous.
Patterns. Just follow the patterns.
Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.
The office was electric when Zeb turned up the next day.
Beth’s eyes were shining. ‘That cab – it’s got a video. The cabbie didn’t come forward in the first instance since he’s illegal.’
She had embarked on a long tirade that had ended in grave threats to the company’s business. They capitulated and a fist pump later, she turned to Broker.
He was staring at her.
‘What?’
‘Were you a bill collector in a previous life?’
She gave him the finger.
Pizaka glanced approvingly at the twins when they convened at One Police Plaza. ‘Good work there, ladies.’ He waved away a technician and hooked up the projector himself.
‘Start from seven p.m.,’ Beth commanded.
Zeb grinned inside.
That won’t go down well with the detective. She’s come a long way.
; The video was grainy and blurred, but they could make the street out behind the cab as it reversed and parked. A row of other cars filled the camera, moved to the right edge of the frame as the driver straightened. The video trembled for a second. The driver thumping the door shut as he exited.
Pedestrians came and went, dog walkers, office workers. A dog walker paused at the cab, brushed her hair using the dark windows as a mirror. She looked briefly at the camera and walked away.
‘Good resolution,’ Chang murmured happily.
Long minutes of nothing filled the screen and Pizaka fidgeted. Shadows ran past the frame. A couple of kids racing on their bikes.
Night fell, it became darker, but the camera was helped by the streetlamp. A man walked briskly, carrying a briefcase. They straightened, slumped when it turned out to be an anonymous office worker.
A short man came trotting, bald, his head gleaming under the light.
They sat up.
Mark Koppels.
Koppels walked toward the cab, stopped a distance away and rubbed his belly.
‘He had bought a cheesesteak on the way home. His dinner.’ Pizaka commented.
The stockbroker resumed his walk and disappeared from the frame. He reappeared fifteen minutes later and grew smaller in the frame.
A shadow dressed in black, head covered in a black mask, blurred past, went to him, another shadow moved in the air, Koppels fell. A thin shadow moved a few times and everything stopped.
The killer looked down at the man, looked up and down the street, stooped over the body and disappeared from the frame. He reappeared seconds later, looked away from the camera, disappeared, and returned.
‘The plastic bag.’ Pizaka kept up his commentary.
He bent down again and when finished, walked back to the cab, past it, without a backward glance.
Pizaka paused the video, tracked back and froze on the frame as the killer filled it.
The baseball bat was clearly visible in his right hand. So were his eyes, through the black mask.
Dark eyes that looked straight ahead. His mouth pursed beneath the mask as if he was whistling.
Chang’s eyes sharpened as he glanced at Beth and gave her a salute. ‘Well done.’
Pizaka objected. ‘We still don’t have much to go on though. He’s covered by that mask, no feature is distinguishable.’
