by Oliver Stark
The guys laughed aloud in the darkness. For a moment they forgot that they were on a city shore next to a murder victim. Then silence seemed to capture the small huddle again. Their conversations kept dying out like a match in the wind.
Harper watched from a distance, a shadow in a black coat. It wasn’t his case, he was still on charges that would no doubt end in a termination, but he already felt responsible. And being out in the cold sure beat sitting in his apartment and letting the emptiness swirl over and over in his head. He’d done enough of that. Maybe he had even let the self-pity take him over.
He couldn’t help but feel the crackle of his nerves at the sight of the crime scene. This was his territory. He felt the tingling at the tip of his fingers like he used to. He breathed deep and walked towards the officer guarding the yellow tape. Harper had a vague outline of the first kill in his mind, mainly from the secondary sources — no real facts yet, just the fragments of other people’s horror and a bit extra that the newspapers liked to sprinkle across the story by way of speculation and sensation.
The uniform read the name on the log when he signed in. ‘Nice to see you out here, Detective Harper. You taking the case?’
Harper looked at the young officer. ‘No.’
‘Wish you were. This guy’s bad news. I saw what he’d done.’
Harper nodded and moved towards the lights of the crime scene. He could hear the officers laughing as he approached and saw their little game of dead woman peek-a-boo with their flashlights. He wasn’t impressed. Whose investigation was this? It looked wide open — no structure, no urgency, just a forensic team and a bunch of patrolmen. The detectives from Blue Team had all left. Since when did Blue Team let things slip this far? The whole of the NYPD should be on top of this case. He walked directly towards the officers and stamped on the edge of a sheet of corrugated iron. It clattered violently.
The four men turned with a start and pointed their flashlights towards the noise. Harper stared right back at them, his granite face contorted by the torch beams. ‘Get your fucking lights out of my face, gentlemen.’
He moved slowly across to them, shining his own torch into the officers’ faces one by one, taking it all in. ‘This is a crime scene. Get away from the body. And have some damn respect for the dead.’ His light remained on Cob’s face.
‘Nice of you to turn up, Detective,’ said Cob. ‘All the big boys have come and gone already.’
Harper scowled and looked down at the corpse. He felt the anger rise in his knotted muscles and flap like a black flag inside his mind, wiping away all other thoughts. An intense concentration formed in his head.
He turned to the officers. ‘All right. Move back. Get out of my way. One of you get across the top on the right and shine a light from that side. Get a move on! Move! Now! You, down on to those rocks.’ He took Hernandez by the shoulder and marched him to the water. ‘Get down on that rock and shine a light for me from there.’
‘I’ll get my shoes and pants wet,’ said Hernandez.
‘Do I look like I care? Go.’
Hernandez looked down at his shiny shoes and pressed pants. His foot stepped down on to the black rock Harper had indicated and he watched his ankle submerge slowly beneath dark freezing water. The other two cops stared at Harper.
Harper started to pick his way towards the body. He reached the rock as Hernandez’s light flashed across her face. The light from the officer on the right spread out across her side. It was a horrific sight. She was a young woman in her early twenties. Her skin was white as alabaster. Her naked body lay flat on its back, her hands wired together on her chest as if in prayer, her legs raised and spread wide apart. Her feet and ankles had been jammed into two rock crevices. All over, wet petals stuck to her skin and the rock. Harper picked one up from the rock and turned it in his hand.
He looked closely at the body, careful not to touch or move anything that might be evidence. He was working out the sequence, trying to spot the small things that didn’t quite fit. The woman’s hair was short and scruffy, her face thin, with well-defined cheekbones. Harper leaned in and looked more closely. His flashlight moved slowly over the corpse. Ten minutes was all he gave himself. He knew he didn’t have long before the coroner arrived to take the body off the rocks, so he pulled himself back up to the bank. He stood and faced the two officers who hadn’t moved. ‘Why are you still hanging around here? Haven’t you got something to do?’
‘Before we take orders, let’s see your shield, Detective,’ said Cob with a sneer. ‘You ain’t got no ID showing. Maybe you ain’t a detective at all.’
Harper turned to the poor woman who’d been executed on the cold rock, probably screaming her lungs out where no one could hear. The killer didn’t have any human feelings at all and now Officer James Cob wanted to bust his balls.
Harper walked across to Cob and stood face to face. ‘You want to know who I am?’
‘Yeah, and what you’re doing here.’
‘And what I’m doing here, is that right?’
‘Yeah. You’re so quick, you should be a detective.’
‘I’m nobody but I’m here to find out why this woman was attacked.’ Harper felt his back teeth lock together.
‘Personally,’ said Cob, ‘I’d say she was asking for it, going out dressed like that. She ought to wear a little more, wouldn’t you say?’
‘You think, do you?’
‘She ain’t got much on,’ said Cob.
‘You want to know what it feels like to be down on those rocks, Officer?’ Harper reached, quick as a rattlesnake, and snapped his big hand round Cob’s wrist. His eyes stared hard.
‘Get the fuck off me!’ Cob shouted.
‘You think it’s funny that a woman’s been raped and executed?’
‘No. I was… Come on…’
Harper pulled Cob’s arm hard and shoved him down towards the corpse, flicking his leg across the officer’s weight. Cob fell hard on to the muddy bank, a look of stark panic on his face. He was badly winded and Harper still had his wrist in a vice-like grip.
‘Doesn’t feel like you’re sorry, Cob.’ Harper dragged Cob towards the edge of the bank.
‘What the fuck are you doing, you madman?’
‘Have a look at her face, Cob. Do you think it’s funny? Do you think it’s funny what he did? Look at her, you animal.’
Cob, with his face in the cold dirt, stared down at the result of hatred and violence jammed on the rock.
‘You think your girlfriend or mother would think this is so fucking amusing?’
‘Please, man.’
‘How fucking sorry are you, Cob?’
‘Very sorry. Very, very sorry.’
Harper released Cob. ‘Don’t ever talk like that about a victim, you asshole.’ He twitched and strode off over the grassy bank, taking huge strides, his black coat flapping behind him.
Cob rose from the mud, his back sodden, his wrist aching. He looked at the three officers, Hernandez ankle deep in water, Lees pale at the edge, Poulter back down from his vantage point.
‘You fucking nutcase, Cob,’ said Poulter.
‘What? Who the fuck was that guy?’
‘You don’t know? That was Tom Harper.’
‘What’s his problem?’
‘Oh, there ain’t just one. Everything’s his fucking problem,’ said Poulter.
Harper’s silhouette disappeared over the brow of the incline, leaving the rest to North Manhattan Homicide to clear up and assess. He had what he needed. There was a dead woman on his ground. A young woman raped and murdered for no reason. This was not a random strike — the killer had chosen a defenceless victim simply because she was weak. It wasn’t fear that was knocking against Harper’s heart now, it was cold determination.
As he walked, the trickle of images was already forming. Harper’s mind worked like a hundred cogs, assessing information and throwing out conclusions. He figured that the attacker had come at her from behind. A sign of his weakness. He’
d taken her out with a blackjack; it’d left a three-inch gash on the side of her head. He didn’t even have to struggle with any resistance. Then he’d somehow got her to his car and driven her out to Ward’s. From the road, he’d dragged her to the rocks, raped her while she was still out, then cut her open and watched her begin to die. Finally, he strangled her.
Harper reached the top of the hill. He turned and looked down. The body had been dragged across the ground. Harper followed the line in the grass. The girl was maybe 110 pounds, but the line wasn’t true or consistent. Maybe the killer was physically weak. He couldn’t even hump a 110-pound body across the ground without stopping every ten yards. Or he was carrying something and using only one arm to drag her. Harper looked again at the drag marks with his flashlight. Yeah, the killer was carrying something with one arm and dragging her with the other. Scrub weak, this killer was physically strong. Very.
Manhattan Psychiatric Center was only a hundred yards away. A possible link, he thought. Ward’s Island was home to two psychiatric hospitals. Most of New York’s criminally insane were within a mile of this spot.
Harper looked across to the grounds of MPC. Plenty of places to hide. He looked back at the officers on the shore. He let the thought about what he’d do if he found the guy flood his mind. The guy who’d attacked and forced himself on this woman — called her names, shouted at her, made her weep and wet herself and shudder with fear, and then, when she was most terrified, slashed at her with his knife. Slow and painful beyond description. Then there was an act that was strangely redemptive — he scattered petals on her body and put her hands together in prayer. Harper knew why Lafayette had wanted him personally on the case. Killers like this played by different rules.
Harper pulled open the door and got into the Impala. He was thinking, still working out the movements that had been this woman’s last.
‘What you got for me?’ said Lafayette.
‘Victim’s not from the hospital, she’s too high class — she’s got an expensive dye job, perfect nails and enough dental work to set you back twenty thousand. She’s in her early twenties and she’s been well looked after. Her hair’s been hacked off. My guess is that he’s taken her hair as his trophy. Looks like her right shoulder’s been dislocated. So he’s abducted her somewhere in the city and then driven her here. He’s dragged her across the ground by one arm. I’d say that the killer has probably been scoping this area for some time and possibly the victim too. She’s a type. Similar to Mary-Jane. Blonde, refined, wealthy. The killer might even have a reason to be here. I’d say that he’s probably been to and from this hospital many times. He might be a patient or even a nurse. That’s a good spot he’s picked. I think he worked the sightlines. The waterline on the rocks is invisible from beyond this hill. So he’s taken the trouble to get her out of sight so he can spend time with her. That’s some careful working out he’s done. Also, he probably drinks. I’d say he needs to drink before he does this. It’s just a hunch. Check traffic, see if they pulled over any drunk drivers in the last couple of months. He’s tried to make it look like a random attack, but I think this guy’s clever. I think he knew exactly who she was and where he was taking her.
‘If it’s the same killer, he clearly isn’t able to take the women home. That suggests he’s got someone at home that he needs to hide this from. Your unsub is probably in a long-term relationship, Captain. Not a good sign if he’s used to hiding his activities from a family and a job, because he’s going to be good at this. He’s in it for the long haul and wants to keep clean. He might have brought her here because of the water. The press reports mentioned fibres found on Mary-Jane’s body, so maybe he’s just making sure he doesn’t make the same mistake twice. Maybe he knows about police procedure.’
‘You think he’s cleaned her?’
‘I think it’s possible, yeah. Possibly more than that. I don’t know yet. He’s also carrying something. Not sure what, but my guess is that it’s a camera and tripod. He’s playing games, deep inside his head, and he’s working up to something. The posing is getting more explicit. I think the killer is getting to like this.’
‘You got more in fifteen minutes than Williamson had in a week.’
‘You’re trying all the tricks, aren’t you?’ said Harper. ‘I said I’d take a look, I took a look. Am I free to go now?’
‘Is that what you want? A dismissal, criminal charges and a job with a security firm?’ Harper stared out of the car in silence. ‘I can make the charges go away, Harper, but…’
‘But what?’
‘But, Harper, you’re also considered unstable. You agree to come back on the team, I’ll make it happen, but you gotta see someone to help you through the stuff in your head. Don’t be a tough guy: you need help. I can smell the drink on your breath and read the signs and it’s not a path you want to take. See someone — see a shrink, someone to talk to.’
Harper’s hand clenched involuntarily. He held his breath for a moment, looking down into the footwell of the car. ‘I don’t think I can, sorry. I’ll take my chances.’
Lafayette reached across and put his hand on Harper’s shoulder. ‘Don’t let her kill you, Tom. It’s her life, she made her choices — don’t be a fucking reaction the rest of your days.’
Harper got out of the car. He leaned down and looked in at the captain. ‘One more thing.’ He held up a small pink petal. ‘This is cherry blossom. Ask the question — where the hell did he get cherry blossom in November?’
Chapter Five
Barnard College
November 16, 2.59 p.m.
Dr Denise Levene walked up the steps to the small podium in Held Lecture Hall at Barnard College, right across the street from Columbia University. She didn’t often do public lectures since taking up a position with the NYPD, where she offered CBT to disturbed cops.
The audience of 150 was a mix of students and anyone who cared to drop in. They applauded the arrival of the research scientist with dutiful enthusiasm. Dr Levene looked out at the expectant faces. The glare of the stage lights blanked out their features. She never really enjoyed public speaking. She was happiest in the security of her lab working with her taciturn research students. Still, that didn’t mean she didn’t know how to put on a good show.
Denise smiled at her host, then raised her hand, and the audience hushed. ‘Thank you. Thanks for coming.’ Her hand moved to the control on her podium. She set her DVD in motion.
In the audience, a striking-looking man in a black suit and a beige mac, his neck low in his collar, was staring intently at Dr Levene. He was bored of waiting. He was often bored. He cursed under his breath and then, under the bench, he took a two-inch pocket knife and pushed it through his pocket lining and about a quarter of an inch into his thigh. Denise Levene was supposed to be an expert on the causes of violence. What would she make of him? He was eager to know.
All the man in the black suit wanted answered was why — he wasn’t after a cure, for Christ’s sake, just a little bit of an indication of what he was. An idea. A notion. He twisted the knife in his thigh, opening the wound. He watched his own body’s reaction to the pain. It was just a phenomenon in his head. No need to react, no need to give way to the urgency of biology. He had always felt more than that — more than merely human. He was sanctioned by his own pain to hurt anything and anyone.
What was pain, anyway? Just a neurological electro-chemical pulse, not a real thing at all. A chimera, like love, like happiness, like life. Like goodness. He looked across at the audience. Scientists were so slow. He yawned and tapped his fingers in agitation.
‘What you are about to see, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Dr Levene, ‘is a journey to the cause of human intraspecies violence.’
‘About time,’ murmured the man in the black suit.
The audience looked up at a large brain scan. The two great hemispheres of a single brain were projected on to a forty-foot-high screen.
‘The following sequence is a brain scan of
a child who is in the process of learning.’
On the screen, the brain danced with colour in different areas — reds, blues, golds. Connections sparking and fading at incredible speed. It was like a New Year light show.
‘The brain is a learning tool,’ she continued. ‘It is the one thing in which we excel over other species — the capacity to learn: we are the pre-eminent learning animal. For a long time, scientists presumed that the brain came pre-packaged at birth, like a computer preloaded with software that you just had to switch on. We now know that the brain comes pre-packed but very empty. No software installed, just the bare components. Life is our software, ladies and gentlemen; we write the code as we walk, eat and breathe. And each of us writes a different code.’
She clicked her mouse button and the next video streamed in. ‘What you can see here is the growth of a single brain neuron. At birth, we have all of our billions of neural cells. But the brain is not the function of these cells alone. The brain — what we know as our consciousness — is formed out of life’s experience, out of the experiences that make up every second of our life. Watch this single neuron get to work.’
The image of the small elongated cell began to shake slightly and small branches started to reach out from its sides and from both ends. Soon these branches were branching in their turn and suddenly, out of the darkness of the screen, they were connecting with branches from other nearby cells that became illuminated.
‘You are watching human thought in action, ladies and gentlemen. The single neuron has the capacity to make a million connections. You have a billion neurons. That’s a lot of connections. And these connections are made through experience and thought. But today I want to tell you about my research into “non-thought” — the experience of the “unlit” zone.’
She clicked again and the single neuron returned to its pre-thinking state, a single isolated cell in the middle of a field of darkness.
