by Oliver Stark
‘You’ve got no scruples about that?’
‘I do what I got to do,’ she replied, her spoon about to enter the little bowl of Roquefort and asparagus soup.
‘You want to play a numbers game?’ asked Jed. His blue eyes were clear and attractive, but he was too old for Erin. And she’d never gone for the perma-tan look.
‘No harm playing,’ she replied.
Jed let his top lip crinkle up into a reptile smile and wrote six figures on the linen napkin in blue biro.
‘Want to wipe your mouth on that?’
Erin picked up the napkin and moved it to her mouth. She read the number. ‘My,’ she said. ‘That’s a big one.’
Jed laughed with an overexcited bullet-like rattle and nodded. ‘Is that a yes, Miss Nash?’
‘A yes to what?’ she replied. God, this was so easy.
She didn’t have time to hear his answer. Her cell phone lit up with a flash and she picked it up. She listened to the voice on the line, her face bright and animated as the caller revealed his story. As she listened, her face drained of colour. Jed watched with interest as she wrote down everything in her notebook and ended the call. She looked up at her host. She needed to get back to the office.
‘Sorry, Mr Brown. That was my friend in the NYPD. I’ve just had a real interesting breaking news story on this American Devil and I’ve got some urgent copy to file.’
‘What is it? Everyone’s waiting for confirmation that they’ve caught him.’
‘But I got something extra to offer our readers,’ said Erin.
‘I wish you were mine, Erin.’
She smiled and rose. ‘I’ll consider your offer very carefully.’
‘Which one?’ he asked and let his hand slide down over her dress as he kissed her cheek.
Erin raced back to the Daily Echo and started to write up the story. It was another terrific exclusive, and on the basis of her recent track record her editor took the decision to run it without further verification. It was too late for any detailed checks and Erin’s source had been reliable so far. It was too good to miss. The latest news would sell thousands of papers. Murder was big business.
Erin filed her copy at 9.30 p.m. and then took a moment to think about her future. This was the time she had to make a choice. It might not come again. Which way was she going to go? She smiled. It was nice to have a choice for once; she’d never really had that kind of luxury before.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Blue Team
November 24, 4.00 a.m.
Tom Harper was unshaved and smelled like he looked. He hadn’t washed since the arrest and didn’t intend to. He’d worked until midnight interrogating the suspect, reviewing the CCTV images, putting together the team report and briefing his senior and executive officers. He finally laid his head down on the grey blanket of the precinct bunk at 2 a.m. and slept in his clothes for two hours. He woke suddenly at four with a terrible premonition that the killer had escaped him and disappeared down the subway tunnel, laughing like a madman in a film.
He sat up on the edge of the bunk. His head ached and his big hands were still stinging. He looked down at the deep cuts running across both palms from the struggle in the subway and tried to close his fists, but the wounds had started to crack open. He could hear it now — the footsteps in the dark, his own heavy breathing. His hands were still dark with dust and soot. He could even smell the tunnel fumes in his hair and see the arch of light ahead and the silhouette of the killer moving towards it. He sighed long and hard. In the bunk room, four other officers lay flat out, snoring and stinking. Tom pushed himself to his feet and dragged his body towards the coffee pot.
There was no one around in the large investigation room. It glowed pale and ghostly with pre-dawn light. Tom’s eyes scanned the five blue boards with their photographs of pointless slaughter. There wouldn’t be another. Thank God for that. He felt the emotion rising from his thoughts and breathed in quickly. Hundreds of officers had slugged through these past days, working overtime and trying to do something about these killings in their muted, sarcastic, smart-assed but none the less caring way — enough to go home empty, with no energy or emotion for their own lives and families. He nodded his thanks and respect to the empty room. They’d nailed the bastard and now he was sitting in a cell some fifty feet below him, surrounded by cold steel and concrete.
In his right hand, Harper picked up the previous day’s New York Daily Echo. The headline was ‘Serial Killer Turns Cop Killer’. Harper had been right. Erin Nash had been told about the Williamson murder by someone on the team. One day he’d find out who it was and that person would be very sorry. Underneath the headline, there was a composite image of the five female victims with Detective Williamson in the middle, looking more like the killer than one of his victims. Erin Nash didn’t need to try to make this sensational; the grainy print of the photographs was enough of a headline — it gave the faces the aura of tragedy.
Tom walked up to his profile board. Denise Levene had constructed her vision of the killer. He read slowly, sipping scalding coffee slowly over his lips so it burned the tip of his tongue. She’d written seven single traits: High school educated, White, Mid-thirties, Self-controlled, Police/military background, Living with someone, Employed in sales.
Tom took up a blue marker pen and circled two words: White, Thirties. He looked at the rest and crossed a line through the other five traits. It was hard to get a profile right when the killer was as deranged as someone like Winston Carlisle. Even though Denise had been so sure and he’d been convinced himself, it wasn’t a perfect science. It was all guesswork really and profiles were often hit and miss. He took a cloth and scrubbed the profile off the board. No need for recriminations: they had their man.
Harper took the stairs down to the cells. His shoes tapped out a quick beat on the concrete steps.
He walked down the corridor, past the thick steel doors painted in cream enamel, as if this touch of softness could disguise the need to incarcerate untamed human evil. He stood outside the cell. His heart was beating hard in his chest. He read the board. Carlisle, W. He pulled back the bolt, which clinked loudly in the quiet of the cell. He lowered the flap. He felt like a man in a fairground who’d paid to see a monster. He put his eyes to the gap and stared in at the figure sitting on a bunk, staring silently at the floor. This was the Devil — this grey-haired snivelling piece of humanity was the American Devil, but it just didn’t feel right.
All of a sudden, out of the silence Harper heard Captain Lafayette shouting. He listened but couldn’t make out what was being said. He shut the steel flap and hurried upstairs.
Captain Lafayette was sitting in the investigation room. The rest of Blue Team were struggling in from the bunkroom. Lafayette looked deadly serious. He had been woken himself forty minutes earlier when the first copy hit the street. The mayor’s office had been in touch directly. Their words were to the point — ‘What the fuck is happening?’
The men looked at each other in the dark room. Lafayette looked at his men. All of them looked tired. Well, they were going to feel a lot worse in a minute or two. Lafayette threw down a copy of the New York Daily Echo.
‘Read it for yourself.’
Harper moved towards the table and turned the paper round so that the headline faced him. The byline name under the subheading was Erin Nash. He took up the paper and read the report out loud.
AMERICAN DEVIL STILL AT LARGE PSYCHO SLAUGHTERS BLONDE HEIRESS AS COPS CLAIM CAPTURE
Manhattan’s notoriously sadistic pattern killer, the ‘American Devil’, struck again on the Upper East Side yesterday evening as cops were interviewing the man they believed to be the killer, a source said.
The stripped and mutilated remains of the rubber heiress, Katrina Hunyardi, 23, were found in her apartment an hour after she had been released by the NYPD. She had been raped and stabbed repeatedly with a thin-bladed knife.
The American Devil, who poses his dead victims in macabre and artistic ways, again l
eft his horrifying signature. Kitty Hunyardi was posed like an angel and covered with cherry blossom. As with all his previous kills, the Devil took a trophy — this time, he removed the victim’s hands.
The NYPD yesterday were confident that they had the killer behind bars. So confident, in fact, that only hours after being identified as a target for the killer, Kitty Hunyardi was left without police protection. That mistake cost her life.
Lafayette stared at the team. ‘What the fuck’s going on? I thought we had Katrina Hunyardi? She was in the fucking station yesterday afternoon. Two cops took her home. She ID’d Winston Carlisle. What’s going on?’
Blue Team had no idea. They looked around at each other. ‘It’s got to be some prank,’ said Eddie. ‘Or maybe a copycat.’
‘Have we had any reports? Any homicides yesterday or last night?’ asked Harper. ‘Have we called Kitty? What do we know?’
Lafayette sat down. He was looking close to a coronary. ‘Nothing. No reports, no homicides, but we’ve been calling Kitty and there’s no reply. We’re sending someone over now. Jesus. If something’s happened to her!’
Harper was remembering Denise Levene’s words. All day, they hadn’t heard one fact directly from Winston Carlisle.
‘We’ve got to see this reporter, right now,’ he said.
‘If this is all bullshit, then she’s going to pay,’ said Eddie.
‘She’s been running this story from day one,’ said Harper. ‘Someone’s been leaking to her. We’ve interviewed everyone, but we got nothing.’
‘You sure this wasn’t a little bit of revenge?’ said Lol Edwards. ‘She maybe stopped giving her source what he wanted and he leaked her this false information?’
‘Could be,’ said Tom, ‘but I’d feel a whole lot better if we could get in touch with Kitty Hunyardi.’
‘I think someone’s playing games with Erin Nash,’ said Eddie. ‘It’s gotta be that.’
‘We got to go and see Erin Nash, Captain.’
‘That’s exactly where you’re all going, right now.’
The previous afternoon, Kitty Hunyardi had spent three hours at the precinct while her story was checked and she identified Winston Carlisle in a line-up as the man in the subway. Two officers took her back to her building. She didn’t want to spend any longer than she had to in the company of cops and dismissed them at the door. The whole dirty business was something she wanted to erase from her brain, including the acrid coffee breath that all cops seemed to have.
Inside her apartment Kitty crouched down under the hot stream of the shower and cried. It had been a hell of a couple of days. The worst she’d ever experienced. It was too much. She wanted to be strong and independent but she needed someone. It was hard, knowing a killer had been stalking you for weeks. That’s what the cops had said. That he tended to scope his victims and even take their clothes and shoes. The idea was terrifying. She felt violated and it dragged her out of the privilege and safety of her wealth and into a place she didn’t recognize.
Worse still, the killer had got close enough to her to kill her. He could have put a knife into her right there in the street. He had grabbed her crotch. All her life, she’d been safe and protected. Now she remembered his hand on her, her fear. She felt sickness starting to rise in her stomach and ran to the lavatory. Her wet blond hair flopped over the white bowl of the toilet as she retched up her guts.
Kitty walked out of the bathroom feeling weak and tired. She had promised herself that she’d never ask for her father’s help. She’d made it a point of honour that she would be able to cope in her own apartment. She wouldn’t ask for his help now, either. She had to get through this alone. It was over. She just had to sleep. She lay down on her bed and closed her eyes, feeling a little calmer. She hugged herself. In truth, she wanted to be eight years old again, far away from the present, back in a time when everything was safe and secure and men didn’t grab you on the street. The line-up had been horrible, but there he was, that face, that disturbed face. That horrible, ragged, miserable face.
Warmth. Forgetfulness. She drifted into sleep. Sleep was its own world. Soon enough, Kitty Hunyardi was finally dreaming peacefully again.
An hour ticked by. The still and regular sounds of the night slowly slipped through the apartment.
Just after 4 a.m., the door to the bedroom opened. A man stood there in the doorway, a silhouette in the darkness of a silent apartment. He was tall and wearing a black suit.
Sebastian was smiling. His plan had worked. He’d fooled the cops and now he was five steps away from girl number six. Winston had played his part like a professional. He’d get his fifteen minutes of fame, but the real fame would come to Sebastian. He was better than them all. In his hand he held the morning’s Daily Echo.
‘Kitty,’ he whispered. She didn’t stir. He looked around her room. It was very clean. There was a faint smell of perfume. It was all tastefully done. Homely. You know. In an artless and decadent way.
He shivered. He hated happiness. He had always hated it. Her arms and legs were splayed across the bed, enjoying the space. He wanted her now. Kitty Hunyardi. He took a seat and stared at her, his head tilted to one side. Nice lips, nice skin, nice low relaxed breathing.
These moments lived with him. They were the only moments of quiet he had ever known, the moments before his innocent women became his victims, when he felt a serene sense of power. He was a god now, looking down on his beautiful creations, blissfully unaware they were being watched. Blissfully unaware the devil had come to take away God’s gift.
He shook her shoulder. Her eyes opened. She screamed loud and high-pitched. Sebastian smiled and a gloved hand smacked hard against her mouth. ‘Shh, now, princess, shh and all will be well.’
He watched her eyes. He was waiting until she calmed, until reason returned. ‘I’ve just come to deliver the morning paper,’ he said. ‘But don’t scream. If you stay quiet, I’ll let you live. Do you understand?’
Kitty nodded. She didn’t understand anything at all. A newspaper was placed in front of her. The gloved hand slowly slipped from her mouth and the bedside light flicked on. ‘Read all about it,’ Sebastian said. ‘It’s not often we can see how we’re going to be remembered.’
Kitty’s eyes glanced over the headline.
AMERICAN DEVIL STILL AT LARGE PSYCHO SLAUGHTERS BLONDE HEIRESS AS COPS CLAIM CAPTURE
She started to read but tears were streaming from her eyes and the paper was shaking so hard, she couldn’t take in the words.
Sebastian smiled as he watched her. His right hand moved to his pocket and pulled out a neat little surgical bone saw. It was only about six inches long. He snapped the handle into place as he looked down at Kitty’s shaking hands. He loved her. He always had. She had such beautiful hands.
Chapter Fifty
Blue Team
November 24, 4.38 a.m.
Forty minutes later, a buzzer screeched in the darkness. Erin Nash’s hand had reached out to stop the alarm when she realized that it was the door. She was naked in her large pale pink bed, a leathery-skinned naked body asleep at her side. She’d chosen Jed Brown after all. Shit. Her head was barely functioning. It had been a late night. She’d filed the copy and then gone back to see Jed to celebrate. She had an exclusive on the sixth victim of a multiple killer — this was going to get her everything she wanted. Every other paper was screaming about the killer’s capture, but she knew better. He had killed again: her source had said so.
The paper was paying her well for the inside track on the serial murders. Very well. But Jed Brown had offered to double her salary, then he’d offered her a ride home in a limo, then he’d offered himself.
The buzzer screeched again and didn’t stop. Erin rose and pulled on a gown and then walked to the intercom.
‘Hey, what’s so fucking important?’
‘NYPD, open up. Is that Erin Nash? You’ve just reported a murder that no one knows about but you. Open your fucking door. NOW!’
Th
e news hit her like a wave of cold water and woke up her mind quicker than a double espresso. She buzzed the door and sat back in a lazy chair, her body fizzing with fear. Shit and fuck and fuck again! Had someone sold her a dud story? Was it her source following some weird agenda of his own? What the fuck was happening?
Tom Harper, Eddie Kasper, Lol Edwards and Mark Garcia appeared at the door of her apartment. All four faces were angry and tired.
Eddie Kasper moved closer to her. ‘Is your name Erin Nash?’ She nodded slowly and looked from man to man.
Harper moved in. ‘You remember me, I hope. My name is Detective Tom Harper, NYPD. Let me just make this clear for you. You’ve reported the death of a woman called Kitty Hunyardi. Is that true?’
‘I filed the story late last night. What’s happened?’
‘The murder you reported has not been notified to the NYPD. We know nothing about it. Not a thing, but you’re telling us Kitty Hunyardi is dead. What do you know? Someone’s screwed you. Who’s your source?’
‘I don’t reveal my sources,’ said Erin, defiant even though her limbs felt like jelly.
‘I know you claim that, but this is different.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we’re going to bust you for obstructing an investigation and Katrina Hunyardi’s family is going to sue your paper for so much money that it’ll have to shut down. Ms Hunyardi was in the station yesterday afternoon. Now you tell us she’s dead. You got any facts, Erin?’
She shook her head. Harper continued: ‘You just might be an accessory after the fact. Anyone who receives, relieves, comforts or assists an offender in order to hinder or prevent his apprehension, trial or punishment is an accessory after the fact. Do you understand? We’re going to arrest you, Erin. Now open your mouth. Who is it? Where did you get this? We need to know, Erin.’
‘Okay. I’ve been briefed by a cop in Homicide. One of your team, Detective Harper. One of your own fucking team.’
