by Oliver Stark
‘Eddie and me walked the crime scene again. I need to speak to the team, Nate.’
‘When I say so, Harper,’ said Williamson. ‘Now listen up, all of you. The street teams are still scratching around and nothing’s giving — a few witnesses with contradictory stories. There’s nothing on ViCAP. Forensics have nothing yet, but they reckon he’s been careful with his prints again. They’ll be able to confirm whether they’ve got any DNA samples in a couple of days. They found some microfibres in Amy Lloyd-Gardner’s hair and mouth and a half-print of the killer’s lips on her mouth, but nothing much to go on. He took her clothes. The autopsy will get under way soon, but the ME confirmed that Amy’s heart had been removed. Any luck on finding the silver Merc, Garcia?’
Garcia shook his head. ‘Nothing. No sighting at all. He maybe has it locked up.’
‘Unlikely,’ said Harper. ‘It’s full of evidence. Most likely scenario is he took it to a scrap yard and torched it. You should check all the yards.’
‘Will do,’ said Garcia.
Kasper nodded from the side. ‘I’ve been speaking to the FBI profile coordinator and we’ll put the package together for him if we want his help. Our own profiler is out of action.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘Long term sick. He’s probably the killer.’
‘Yeah, and I bet he wouldn’t even be able to work that one out,’ said Garcia. The guys laughed.
‘Nothing else?’ asked Williamson. There was nothing from the floor. Harper filled the silence.
‘I called the Medical Examiner this morning. She found a bite mark on Amy Lloyd-Gardner’s breast. Fairly deep, too. They’ll get a pretty good imprint from it. He’s growing already. Getting more aggressive. Getting to like the thrill, but he needs to do more each time to get the same buzz. I’ll work up the details to send off to the Feds, but my hunch is that this is a serial killer and he’s just beginning to express himself.’
‘Express himself? What do you mean?’ asked Garcia.
‘I mean, some take time to dare to do all the things they dream about, but this guy is getting there real quick. It’s not a good sign. And he’s professional — ambush, cosh, drag out of sight and then strip and cut. It looks like he’s recording his crimes, too. They like to replay the memories.’
Williamson turned to Lol Edwards, a balding red-haired cop from Maine. ‘How about anything from the stores? Anyone following Amy?’
Lol shook his heavy jowls. ‘Nothing to report. Can’t get anything from the stores in Madison and Park Avenue. We got a better photograph from Amy’s husband and it’s doing the rounds with the store owners, see if we can get someone to remember something. We should know where she went and what she bought by the end of the day. Her credit card records just came through, so we’ll have pieced it all together soon.’
Williamson nodded. ‘Garcia, the rest of your report. What you got?’
Mark Garcia stood up. ‘Got some good stuff from the eyewitnesses. Seems like there was a guy in a silver SUV next to a woman. We’ve got three separate sightings of a Caucasian male in a green uniform with grey hair. One saw him when he was in the car, two saw him sweeping the garage. He was wearing these orange shades that some of the gangbangers wear, so they can’t do much with his face. But we got this drawing finished. It’s only his lips, jaw and nose, but it’s pretty good as a likeness — it’s a mix of the three separate sightings. They all saw this guy in the underground lot.’
Garcia moved over to the board and tacked the drawing up. The team looked at it. The face was regular and symmetrical, but the eyes were hidden. ‘What doesn’t he want us or them to see?’ said Harper. ‘I think he’s hiding something that might identify him.’
‘What like?’ said Williamson.
‘Different coloured eyes, something like that. Something he wants hidden because if it went out on a profile, he’d be recognized.’
‘That’s not a bad piece of deduction, Harper, but he might just be trying to hide his identity like any criminal would. So let’s not go chasing guys with eye problems until we got some evidence.’
‘Oh, and they said he smiled,’ said Garcia.
‘When?’ asked Harper.
‘In the car. He gave this woman a smile and a wave.’ Garcia looked to his notes. ‘A big smile, she said. She also said the lady in the car was naked. Maybe they were having sex.’
‘How were they having sex?’ asked Harper.
‘It’s easy to do, Tom. We’ve got books and everything if you need them,’ said Eddie.
Garcia half smiled. ‘Maybe they weren’t, but what do you think they’re doing if she’s naked?’
Rick Swanson, all five foot and 180 pounds of him, sniffed. ‘So, there’s this couple in a silver SUV and they’re naked.’
Garcia interrupted. ‘She was, he wasn’t. He had a green uniform on.’
‘Okay, good,’ said Swanson. ‘So she’s naked. They make out and have a row. He pushes her out of the car, she runs for it. He is in a rage about something, gets out and pulls out her heart.’
‘You’re a real nice storyteller, Swanson,’ said Eddie.
‘Fuck my style, is that what we’re saying happened?’
Harper tapped the desk. ‘No. They weren’t making out. He was forcing her and threatening her life. This isn’t a trick or affair gone wrong, this is a whole life gone wrong.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Look, the statement says that he was in the passenger seat. It was her car. He’s got in beside her, threatened her and then hit her and dragged her across to the arch.’
Williamson stood. ‘No use all this speculating like we’re all still in the academy. We need more street work. Okay, guys, let’s keep up the hunt. This is a nasty piece of work. Let’s get out there.’
Harper stood. ‘One more thing — I think the killer is stalking the victims. I think he knows them inside out and exactly where they go.’ Harper took a foam cup and poured strong coffee from the pot.
‘How so?’
‘I took a look at Mary-Jane’s diary. She mentions someone following her on two occasions.’
‘Could be anyone,’ said Williamson.
‘Get this, too. On October 4 a guy stopped her in the street and told her she’s got lovely eyes. I called her parents: she didn’t say anything to them.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘That’s over a month ago. Could be this killer knows his victims very well. That’s why he’s so confident. He knows them and their movements intimately. You went to see Amy’s husband. I bet he wasn’t missing her at all, was he?’
Williamson looked up. ‘No. He was out with his buddies.’
‘The killer knew she wouldn’t be missed. I bet the same is true of Grace.’
‘Damn right,’ said Swanson. ‘She was on her way home and lived alone.’
‘It’s a maybe at the moment, but Mary-Jane was alone for about eight minutes each day as she walked to her apartment. If that was a random opportune strike, it was sure as hell unlucky for Mary-Jane. I think he knew exactly when she’d be vulnerable. I also looked up the police records. Grace Frazer had reported a man outside her apartment on six occasions. Patrol took a look but never found anyone. With Amy, my guess is he’s followed her many a time before and knows where she shops. He also knows her car and where she likes to park — right close to the entrance nearest to Madison Avenue. He found a place where the CCTV wouldn’t spot him, too. I might be wrong, but if he had a uniform it would be too dangerous to wear that disguise over and over again in a place with CCTV just waiting for the type of victim he wants. All three suggest he’s a careful, planned stalker who waits until the time is right. That’s what didn’t make sense. They look like risky kills, but he’s planned these so well they’re actually not.’
The team took it all on board. Harper had got to the heart of the case after a day’s work.
‘Press interest?’ asked Lol Edwards. His skin was pale but he had a red birthmark on his neck that was gettin
g redder by the minute with the excitement or the heat in the room. He looked like his face was going to explode.
‘They don’t know what’s happened exactly and there’s only so many tears they can extract from the paying public, so they’re holding out for now, but when they get the full horror they’ll splash this all over.’
Harper went up to the whiteboard. ‘I got one more thing. It’s not something that’s going to lead anywhere, but if you look at Amy’s body from above…’ Tom drew the outline of a body with wings and a halo. ‘See? The two flaps of skin are positioned like wings and she’s got a halo of blood round her head. She looks like an angel.’
‘Oh, that’s sweet, that is, Harper,’ said Williamson. ‘That’s so fucking poetic. You think she fell from heaven?’ Some of the other guys laughed. ‘You think she got sliced up by the overhead power lines? That’s good. You think someone pushed her out of heaven, or did she jump?’
Harper stood centre stage while the team shook with laughter. Finally he smiled and took out a note from the crime lab. ‘You remember that chalk writing on the wall by Amy’s corpse? We just got it deciphered by the lab.’ He handed it to Nate Williamson. Williamson turned it over and read it out.
‘ Every angel is terrifying.’ Williamson looked up. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’
Harper raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. No need to gloat. Ah, hell, how often do you get to gloat? ‘Seems like someone wanted us to think about wings and angels, wouldn’t you say, Nate?’
‘Fuck you. That’s what I would say. We’re a team here, Harper, not a bunch of showoffs.’
‘The line is by a German poet called Rilke. I think he wanted us to see the wings and halo. He’s playing with symbols. He’s trying to say something. I think he’s trying to say he’s a clever bastard. My guess is, he’s not educated beyond high school and he hates that.’
‘So what does the quote mean?’
‘I haven’t got a clue.’
‘Well, find out,’ said Williamson. The team felt the tension and wanted to get back to work. They looked at the photograph of the woman from above and suddenly saw something more than mindless mutilation. Garcia spoke first. ‘You saying, Harps, that he posed her and ripped off her skin so she looked like an angel who’d been destroyed?’
‘Yeah, that’s just what I’m saying.’
‘It’s pretty stuff, Harper, and it’d make a nice little story, but how the hell does this help us find the sick bastard who cut her?’
‘It doesn’t — yet.’
‘Ex-fucking-actly!’ Nate Williamson slapped his hand on the desk as if to call the meeting to a close. ‘We got to try to get something more from the witnesses and this composite drawing. And if that fails, Harper, how about we’ll call up the Catholic Church and see if any angels are missing from heaven?’
Harper didn’t say anything. There was no need. He wasn’t playing Nate’s game — he saw straight through the old man’s bluff and anger. Williamson was afraid of losing his potency again, afraid of being found out for not being quite as good as people imagined he was. Well, thought Harper, who wasn’t?
As the team dispersed, Harper walked up to the photographs of the corpses. Each time, they blossomed to life afresh on the static image that was already in his mind. It was a strange sensation, as if the image was layering in his consciousness and becoming more and more detailed.
On the board were ten close-up shots of each of Amy’s toes. The nails were red, but underneath the polish on each there was a faint outline of some other design. The forensics boys had X-rayed the images. He looked closer. A spider and web on an orange background, a Playboy bunny on purple with a crystal eye, two yellow-eyed daisies, a tropical sunset, a set of hotrod flames.
He looked again at the nail art. ‘Williamson,’ he called. Williamson turned and gave him a long cold stare. ‘Maybe I got something here.’
Nate lumbered across and pinched his nose in a gesture of nonchalance. ‘More spirit guidance?’
Tom tapped the photographs of the girl’s toes. ‘Amy’s toes were painted with different designs. You need to find out which nail bar does these. It might be a point of contact for the killer. Maybe one of the places he scopes his victims.’
Nate Williamson was staring hard at Harper. He flicked a glance at the nail designs. Harper tried again. ‘Your investigation needs a lead. I’m throwing you a bone, Nate. Pick it up, for chrissake.’
Chapter Fourteen
The Lair
November 17, 4.34 p.m.
There was no doubting any longer that he was an artist. He could feel it more than anything else. It had become as real as the sky and the moon. He was the artist, the creator, the great artisan. The creative flow had just kept coming, bursting out of him like a fountain from a snapped hydrant. His masterpiece was finally coming together. Twenty-five years in the making. Twenty-five years of slow-burning these images and ideas inside his mind. He had waited and waited and now he was emerging from the close sweaty chrysalis of patience with great wings and enormous power.
He rested his arms either side of the table to steady himself and looked down at the evidence. Amy Lloyd-Gardner’s small dark heart rested in a shallow aluminium tray. It had all happened, every moment. It really had happened. The girl’s heart had been steeping in the formaldehyde solution for nearly sixteen hours. The killer wanted to preserve it just as it was, full of beauty and mystery, but it wasn’t easy. He’d already filled each of its chambers with wax to keep the full rounded shape of the muscle; then he’d injected the tissue itself with a concentrated formaldehyde solution. He was desperate for it to work, but he was still experimenting and couldn’t tell whether the heart would disintegrate or hold its shape.
He’d used small animals to test various ways of preserving specimens and thought he had his technique just about right: injecting the tissue with the right solution of formaldehyde, then steeping the organs in the chemical solution so that it entered every cell and stopped the process of decomposition. It sometimes worked well, but other times it didn’t. He didn’t know why. After all, he wasn’t a scientist, he was an artist.
Still, it was the overall effect of his sculpture that would make his name, not the small, less-than-perfect parts. He looked across to the small glass vitrine that contained Mary-Jane’s two eyeballs. They were less than perfect too. The dazzling blue that had drawn him to her in the first place had turned cloudy. That was what was so interesting about sculpting with real human remains: you couldn’t always get it the way it was in your head. You had to work harder and harder to bring off the things you had seen in your daydreams.
Still, when he looked into Mary-Jane’s dull eyes through the carefully made solution, he recalled the moment of her death with perfect clarity. Her look of fear, the slow, tormented cry and guttural pleas. He wanted to relive it all. He wanted every acknowledgement of his sick transgression locked into his little glass cages and preserved in formaldehyde. It was his museum of experiences: the artistic impression of his own dead heart.
After Amy, the killer had cleaned himself up, dumped the car, then gone home and crashed for twelve hours solid in a deep, dreamless sleep. The kills really took it out of him. He felt like a victim in the warm aftermath of a car crash when you sit there flooded with every chemical the body can throw at you, your pants warm from your own urine, your vision crystal clear and images racing at different speeds through your shocked mind. God, it felt good. And then, what’s even more thrilling is that you realize you’re still alive and the crash wasn’t an ending, but a beginning, and you can do it all again. It was like being reborn with more power than ever before.
After Mary-Jane, fear was something he knew about only from memory. He no longer felt it. The killer moved along his gallery to Grace’s long golden tresses. He passed his hand over the silky fine hairs, stroking them slowly and tenderly. He felt the moment of her capture with a shiver of excitement.
Early that day, he had scoped another of
his targets. He’d watched her for a while in Central Park, staring through his binoculars. She was sitting with her friends, chatting and laughing. A good student. A real grade-A brain. She was rich and well connected but slumming it with the real students out in Yorkville. He only ever wanted the best. She was a smart cookie, but even she didn’t know that he’d been watching her for eight months, ever since she’d caught his attention at one of the art history lectures he’d attended.
He’d been searching out and following his girls for years. He had seven of them now. Seven girls all with the same look, the same smell of money about them, the same wide blue eyes with their look of endless innocence.
He’d been scoping them for a long time. His little lair was plastered with their pictures. He liked to watch them grow up, he liked to see the way their hair changed over the years, their clothes too. He liked to know just about everything about them, even how they responded to threat. He tested them out with all kinds of little things. A dead rat on a car seat, a nasty grope on the subway, threatening graffiti, and sometimes just plain old-fashioned love letters. He liked to watch them as he interfered with their lives. They were his puppets. All along, he knew he was watching dead people. It was just a matter of time, and now the time had come. It was time to reap.
Three of the specimens were now dead. He had the evidence right there: eyes, hair, heart. Four more girls and he could construct the image that had been with him for so long.
He’d soon have every last one in his gallery. Seven body parts to shape his sculpture. The world would see his talent, his brilliance. They’d hate him, he knew that, but they’d have to admit his brilliance. The daring nature of his scheme.
He was going to complete his masterwork and then open his gallery to the world. He called it The Progression of Love. Each time he killed, he felt invigorated, and his sculpture was growing.
The killer looked over at the newspapers he’d bought. He needed the headlines and stories for his gallery. It showed how the world was already responding to his work. His reviews. He sat down and started clipping out the pictures and articles and pasting them on the cold stone walls of his lair. He was a little disappointed in the press coverage. They’d not really grasped the significance of what was happening to the city. They didn’t seem to get it. They even dared to suggest that Mary-Jane’s murder was a break-in gone wrong. How many thieves would take a girl’s eyeballs and pose her like that? It took inspiration to work a body like he did, inspiration and hours of mental preparation. It wasn’t a random strike, it wasn’t anger: it was a culmination of everything he’d ever felt.
