by Ty Patterson
Zeb moved to speak, kept quiet when Beth piped up.
‘We’ve got eye color and height. Now we’ll match those against the lists we have and whittle those names down.’
‘It’s still iffy.’ Pizaka grumbled.
Chang thumped him on the shoulder as he stood up to lead the visitors out.
‘You want the killer to gift wrap and present himself? A congratulatory note on top? Lighten up, man.’
Beth glanced once again at the dark eyes on the screen and shivered.
The dark eyes were regarding the bat as his hands ran over its smoothness. The bat wasn’t in his mind though.
He had slept badly, green had filled his dreams, had made him thrash and perspire. Shadows had come at him in his sleep, shouting, waving a bat. That’ll teach you to pee in your bed.
He woke up, soaked in perspiration, drank water and stood by the window to cool himself down. Sleep wouldn’t come when he headed back to bed.
In frustration, he grabbed the bat, ripped the packaging off it. He glanced at Koppel’s profile tacked on the wall, a black cross on it. There were several other profiles along with it. All crossed out.
Those green eyes have brought the memories back.
They never went away. They keep quiet when you’ve taught someone a lesson, then come back again.
They’re coming back quicker.
The thing in him kept quiet.
He knew what had to be done.
He booted his computer and scrolled the names he’d listed. All possible victims. He had ten names on the list, and kept replenishing it whenever he finished one. He studied them, their location, their habits and then brought up their pictures.
He flicked through the images rapidly. Short men, bald men, dark eyes, blue eyes, brown eyes, green eyes.
Green eyes.
He forced himself to move on. Which one was closest? Or better, which one was farthest?
Green eyes.
He looked at his fingers trembling slightly on the keypad, sighed and clicked.
Green eyes came up.
Romeo Hilders. Thirty years old, single, a burger flipper in a fast food joint. An hour away from the killer. In Brooklyn.
Hilders lived alone in a squalid tenement, had no friends, no pastimes.
No life.
He grinned and looked at the man.
Green eyes.
The rage and the shivers returned.
He looked at the calendar next to his desk.
Tonight.
Romeo didn’t mind hard work. He’d come from Oklahoma ten years back, leaving behind a drunk father and no mother, she’d passed away when he was a kid.
He’d fled to New York with dreams and hopes of making it in the big city. The big city had ground away the dreams, layer by layer.
The hope didn’t die.
With just high school for qualifications, menial jobs were the only ones available to him. Luckily he’d stumbled on the diner in Clinton, where he worked. The manager was a fifty year old woman who had a son Romeo’s age.
‘Learn. Teach yourself. Don’t let this be the limit of your life.’ She had looked at him with warm eyes one night when the diner was empty. He washed the dishes and listened.
He didn’t mind hard work. The hope was still alive. He was still young, his life was ahead of him.
He started night school, taking accounting courses.
Mrs. Kramer, the manager, taught him to keep the books.
Night school. Books. Savings.
Bigger things in life. Better.
His mind soared high above the squalor around him.
Sound. The footstep behind him sounded too close.
He spun around.
He staggered as the blow felled him. The blow had hit his shoulder, hadn’t connected cleanly and bounced off the curve. It was still powerful enough to bring him down.
He gasped and reached a hand out to lever himself up. He looked in the dim light and saw a dark figure in front of him.
‘No money, man.’ He panted.
The figure moved and Hilders fell back as another blow landed on his temple.
His head swam, pain flooded him, his eyes fluttered.
Dimly he thought he heard someone shouting.
He tried moving a hand. To stop the man.
The man stomped on his hand and stood over him.
Blood on his face. Hilders knew it. It felt thick and wet. It crept in his mouth. The world spun crazily.
He raised his eyes slowly, looked at the figure above him.
Saw it move.
Darkness fell.
The killer panted as he stood back. The man lay still, his head crushed, his shoulder dislocated, his fingers broken.
He dared to speak.
Rage flooded through him and he swung his bat again.
Thwack.
The sound was wet, but felt unsatisfactory. The man was already dead.
He kicked the body. It jerked.
He walked around the body, kicked it again.
Calm down. He won’t talk again.
The trembling slowed, the blood stopped dancing.
He took deep breaths, looked up and felt a thin breeze across his mask.
Better now.
He felt in his pocket and drew out a plastic bag.
He wrapped it around his hand, bent over and dipped a finger in blood.
What do I draw?
Of course.
He finished one shape and started on another.
A bark. A dog’s bark.
He froze, and then whirled around.
At the end of the street a dog barked. Behind the dog came its owner. Faint shapes in the night, at the end of the street.
The dog barked again.
The killer fled.
Later, in the comfort of his apartment, he stripped himself and burned the mask. He rinsed his hands and took a long shower, letting the water beat down on him, washing everything away.
He patted his hair dry in front of the mirror and looked at himself.
Dark eyes stared back at him. They looked normal.
He smiled. His reflection smiled back.
Handsome.
He picked the bat up and hung it on the wall, next to the others.
The cool air through the small window bathed his face and brought with it the distant sound of a police car.
Any mistakes?
The thing thought for a moment. No.
It was the first time he’d left a site in a hurry.
Should’ve killed the dog and owner too.
No. No random victims.
Taught those eyes a lesson.
It was when he was sleeping that they came back to him.
Four eyes. Green.
They taunted him.
We’re still here.
Chapter 10
‘We know the killer is about five foot eight inches in height and has a lean build. We also know he’s got dark eyes. This is the first time we got a sighting.’
Zeb answered the questions easily.
He was sitting at a long table, flanked by Broker, Pizaka, and Chang, across from them was a horde of reporters. The press conference was packed, the media was unfriendly, and the hostile questions rained thick and fast.
Nine victims and the cops still didn’t have a clue.
‘This isn’t Hollywood. Investigations take time. We are pursuing several angles. We’ll get him.’ Zeb looked at the reporter who’d asked the question.
‘When? After ten more victims?’
Zeb didn’t move, but something in his eyes made the reporter sit. Broker squeezed his shoulder. Relax. He took over, smiled at the pack and began charming them.
An hour later, when the press room was empty and Chang and Pizaka had left them, he clapped Zeb on the shoulder.
‘I agree, it’s an eye.’
They had debated the sign that the killer had left behind. It was crudely drawn, was oval in shape and was incomplete since the killer had f
led when he’d heard the dog barking.
The dog walker had seen only a shadow bent on the sidewalk and then the shadow running as his dog alerted the killer. He had no helpful description other than the killer’s height. There were no security cameras in the neighborhood, there were no other witnesses.
Pizaka was convinced the oval was a baseball. ‘Obvious isn’t it? He uses a bat. He’s fixated on the game.’
Chang said nothing. His lazy eyes regarded his partner expressionlessly.
‘Obvious to you maybe,’ Beth snorted. ‘If he was obsessed with the game, why the question mark at Koppels’ site?
They argued back and forth, all of them but for Zeb. He looked out of the window, at the city below, at the Brownian motion of eight million people on the move.
‘It’s an eye,’ he said, with his back to them.
They turned around as one.
The incredulous silence was broken by Pizaka. ‘An eye? And what makes you think that, hotshot?’
‘Figure it out,’ Zeb replied carelessly. If Pizaka dropped the attitude and started thinking laterally, he would be a great cop.
Meghan snatched the glossy print, turned it around and the twins huddled around it.
Broker looked over their shoulders and grinned. ‘The thing with Zeb is that he comes with these left field ideas and they turn out to be true. But this time, I think you’re wrong, Zeb, I agree with Pizaka.’
Zeb didn’t turn round. ‘It’s not the killer who’s fixated on baseball. It’s you guys. He kills with a bat because that’s unnoticed. Someone would remember if he carried a pipe, or any other round weapon.’
His face was shadowed against the outside light when he finally turned to them. ‘Think outside the game. Why’s he targeting the face?’
Pizaka made to reply, but a tapping on the door stopped him.
Press conference time.
The killer watched the proceedings on his small television as he unwrapped another baseball bat. He had thought about changing brands, but liked the feel of this one.
The last kill hadn’t gone smoothly and he still broke out in a sweat when he thought about it. Hilders hadn’t gone down quickly and when those green eyes swung at him, something in him snapped. He’d started shouting as he swung the bat, a first for him. He’d wanted to gouge the eyes out when the man lay still, but the dog had interrupted him.
Shout. Spittle. DNA.
He went cold, closed his eyes and went back frame by frame.
No spittle left behind. Mask on mouth.
Are you sure?
Yeah.
He turned the mask inside out. It was wet with perspiration and spittle. He scrubbed it clean in the tiny bathroom and hung it out to dry.
‘Some killers are smart, some are on a power trip, some are plain stupid who get lucky.’ The shaggy haired man was speaking at the conference. ‘Many killers have had an abnormal childhood; have suffered abuse when growing up. That ends up corroding fundamental values.’ He was addressing a reporter’s question.
He looked straight at the camera. ‘The killer has a head start on us, which gives the impression to you folks and the citizens of New York that we are doing nothing. That’s far from the truth. We are bridging the gap. Somewhere out there, he’s probably listening and watching to this. I hope he is. Cause I have a message for him’
He paused a beat. ‘Time is running out. For you. We’re coming after you.’
The killer watched and listened, fascinated. The man had a polish to him not seen in cops. His partner, the quiet one, had something about him. The killer could feel it even through the television beams projected across airwaves.
He remembered the forum.
‘Any dope on those two? Carter and Broker?’ He typed furiously and waited for a response.
The reply came long minutes later. ‘Both are ex-army. Carter was some kind of Special Forces guy, he quit and became a mercenary. The other one was an analyst. He’s now running his own consulting business.’ The responder typed the name of the firm, and an address.
‘They’re both smart and dangerous, especially Carter. Why are you asking about them?’
The killer didn’t respond and logged off.
The forum hung in the dark parts of the internet and was populated by those like him. Or who had similar interests.
They’re both smart.
Let’s see just how smart these guys are. Time’s running out for me, that one said. How about if it was for him?
‘Mr. Carter is right.’ The speaker was a tall woman, dressed in a cream suit, her ash blonde hair tied neatly behind. She addressed all of them in a meeting room in One Police Plaza, a meeting hastily put together by Pizaka after the press conference, at Zeb’s urging.
Melanie Krause was a well-regarded criminology consultant to the NYPD, an array of degrees behind her and a sharp wit that she used on Pizaka and Chang.
‘It’s the eyes that our killer is out to extinguish. Bashing the face is the means. We’ll find that he’s got a long history of either parental or foster parent abuse and that rage is now coming out. It’s also possible that one or both of his parents had eyes that have significance for him.’
‘Of course, we’ll have to catch him first,’ she added drily.
Beth’s gaze took in the cops and the consultant. ‘Why can’t the killer be a woman?’
Krause replied. ‘Can, but isn’t. Some of those victims, Lester Benjamin for example, were well-built men and taking them down requires a strength that only the male body is capable of.’
Zeb addressed the sisters. ‘How many on that list?’
A list had mysteriously appeared on Pizaka and Chang’s desks a couple of days back. Yuri had mailed thousands of names to the twins who had then matched those names against the ones they had. The list was the outcome.
‘Five hundred or thereabouts.’ Meghan replied.
Zeb watched a bird dart past the window, no psychopathic serial killers in its universe.
‘These guys tend to have problems when growing up, don’t they? Juvenile records, issues at school.’ He had a faraway look in his eyes.
Krause nodded. ‘Yeah, most of them do.’
Beth stirred. She knew where Zeb was heading. ‘We need to check those names.’
‘That won’t be easy. Getting those records will be a bitch.’ Pizaka sighed. ‘There’s also no certainty that our killer is in that list.’
‘Forensics has anything?’ Broker ended his silence. ‘The witness thinks he heard the killer shouting.’
‘Nope, so far its killer, nine, cops, zero.’
The room was thick with frustration when they broke up.
‘Feels like we are running at the bottom of the ocean.’ Meghan said bitterly as they were driving away.
No one said anything. They knew how she felt. They had names to work with; those could be whittled down further to eliminate all those who didn’t match the physical description. But if the killer wasn’t on the list, then they were back to zero.
They needed more. They needed the killer to make a mistake.
Mistakes. Don’t make mistakes.
I won’t.
You shouldn’t be doing this.
I want to know who they are. They’re haunting me. Those eyes. You know.
It’s dangerous. You’re getting obsessed.
He screamed. Shut up. You’re not my father.
Father.
It felt like a blow. He doubled over and gasped, sweat poured out of him.
He lay on the floor, panting shallowly as the world twisted around him, slowed and stopped.
Half an hour later, he pushed himself off the floor, washed and stared at his face in the mirror.
I’m going to shadow them, he said defiantly.
The thing kept quiet.
He hung outside the café for a few days, got glimpses of the sisters twice, tried following them, and failed.
Are they onto me?
No. it’s busy and you’re crap a
t shadowing.
One day they didn’t show, he grew nervous, fidgety, screwed on his courage and entered the store.
‘Hiya, long time.’ The barista flashed a smile at him.
‘The same?’
He nodded mutely and looked around discreetly.
‘Beth and Meg aren’t here. They said they wouldn’t be coming today.’
Beth. Meg.
He stared at her dumbly. She misread his expression. ‘Beth and Meghan Petersen. That’s who you were looking for, weren’t you?’
He stammered and she laughed and leant forward. ‘They’re both hot aren’t they? Which one do you like? Should I pass a message? Our café is known to make love happen.’
He grabbed the drink and rushed out, ignoring her.
Beth and Meghan Petersen. That’s a start.
Beth and Meghan Petersen had completed their routine and were in the fifth lap in Central Park. It was early morning, a few runners and cyclists were beating the wind. A squirrel rushed out to watch them, sniffed and went back to his nuts.
Humans.
The sisters ran in companionable silence; born within seconds of each other, experiencing life’s challenges together made words redundant.
Till Beth broke it.
She fingered the slim band around her neck, pale gold in color, a delicate design on it.
‘You think it’s necessary?’
Meghan glanced at her and looked down at hers. ‘Zeb was insistent, else I would’ve dumped it a long time back.’
The necklaces had GPS transponders in them that fed into a tracking system on Werner, which tracked all members of Zeb’s team in real time. The twins also had GPS devices sewn in their jackets and inserted in their shoes. The necklaces were for insurance.
‘Can’t have enough redundancy,’ Broker said when he handed them over.
Meghan looked at him incredulously. ‘We don’t do jewelry. We aren’t wearing that. We’re walking GPS devices for Christ’s sakes.’
‘You might get nabbed, the jackets and shoes taken away from you. The necklace stays.’ Zeb backed up Broker.
Meghan looked at him and kept quiet. When Zeb spoke, they listened.
They completed another lap. At the start of the next one, Beth turned around and jogged backwards.
‘You got the feeling?’ Meghan asked her.
‘Not now, but a couple of times when we’ve been out of the office.’
