“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t even start about how GQ I look. Just tell me why you’re trying to get me fired. Mad because I wouldn’t spill my guts?”
Her smile disappeared. “I’m not trying . . . to get you fired,” she stammered.
“I don’t care if you want to make up an unrevealed source. That’s a personal decision. But when you imply that the source is me, it becomes my business.”
“How dare you accuse me of making up something!”
I had to hand it to Calvin on one count—she knew that the best defense was a good offense.
“So you’re saying I did tell you about the killer?” I said. “When was that, exactly? Maybe you have a tape recording or notes to refresh my memory?”
“God, how conceited you are,” she said witheringly. “Did you ever consider just once that maybe there were other sources in the world besides you?”
“So who? Who else could have given you all that ‘it’s just one killer’ and ‘changing outfits to avoid capture’ crap?”
Her face suddenly took on an uncertain expression. “Look, I don’t know if I can talk about this,” she said, standing. “I need to clear it with my?—”
I put a hand on her shoulder and sat her back down again, not roughly but not too gently either. “I’m trying to catch a killer here,” I said. “You better tell me what you know. Everything. Right now.”
Calvin bit her lip, then closed her eyes. “It was him.”
“Him? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I gripped the arms of her chair and leaned my face close to hers. “Open up, Cathy. My patience has worn real thin these last couple of days.”
She was shaken now, I saw with grim satisfaction.
“The killer,” she whispered.
I stared at her in disbelief, feeling like I’d been punched in the face.
“He e-mailed me yesterday afternoon,” Calvin said. “Said he wanted to set the record straight, so there wouldn’t be any confusion. I thought he was just a kook, but then he started describing everything. The what, when, where, and even why.”
I stifled my outrage long enough to get some information. “Tell me the why,” I said. I already knew the what, when, and where.
“He pushed the girl under the train and killed the Polo clerk and the Twenty-one maître d’ because, quote, ‘He’s out to teach this goddamn hole some manners,’ unquote. He also said that regular, decent people didn’t have to worry, but if you were an asshole, your days were numbered.”
“Who the hell do you people think you are, withholding this from the NYPD?” I said. “You can’t possibly be this stupid.”
“Calm down, Mike. My editors have been meeting all day to decide whether we should bring it to you guys. Last I heard, they were leaning toward full disclosure. And here. This will sweeten the deal.” She took a printed sheet of paper off her desk and held it out to me. “It’s his ‘mission statement,’ as he called it. He wants us to publish it.”
I ripped the paper out of her hand.
Chapter 41
THE PROBLEM
Some people say the problem today is materialism. I disagree. There is nothing inherently wrong with things, nothing wrong with having money, or with being beautiful or appreciating beauty.
What is wrong is flaunting your things, your wealth, your beauty.
That is the disease.
I love our society, our country. Never before in the history of man has a nation been dedicated to human freedom. But human freedom requires dignity: respect for oneself and for those around them.
In that sense, we have grossly veered off course. Most of us know deep down that the way we behave is wrong. Yet because there are rarely any consequences, we go through with committing our daily acts of disgrace and disrespect.
That’s why I’ve decided to start providing the proper motivation.
The penalty for obnoxiousness is now death.
I can be anyone. That person next to you on the train as you turn up your iPod, the person behind you in the restaurant as you take out your cell phone.
Think twice before you try to pull something you know for a fact you shouldn’t be doing.
I am watching.
Best wishes,
The Teacher
I reread it three times before I put it back down.
It took me only another second to decide my next course of action—to give Cathy Calvin a shake-up that she’d remember for the rest of her life. I unhooked my handcuffs from my belt and chicken-winged her arm behind her back.
“What are you doing?” she cried, now in panic mode.
“Just what you think,” I said. “They’ll read you your rights at the station.”
Her squeals of protest continued, and as I pinched down the second cuff on her slender wrist, a bunch of middle-aged white guys in rolled-up shirt sleeves and bow ties came tromping down the hall.
“I’m the city desk editor,” one of them said. “What in the name of hell is going on here?”
“I’m the city cop,” I said, “and I’m arresting this person for obstruction of justice.”
“You can’t do that,” one of the younger Ivy Leaguers said, stepping in front of me. “Ever hear of something called the First Amendment?”
“Unfortunately, I have,” I said. “I hate that one. You ever hear of something called a paddy wagon? Because that’s where you’re going to be sitting if you don’t get out of my way. Hey, why don’t you all come and finish your editorial meeting at Central Booking?”
Shocked and angered though they were, the reality of the situation prevailed. They backed off, and I perp-walked Calvin past them.
“Shut up and don’t struggle, or I’ll add a resisting charge,” I told her. At least she was smart enough to know she’d better not push me any further. She sniffled and watched me with big tearful eyes, but she didn’t argue anymore.
When the security guy in the lobby saw us, he jumped to his feet, looking astounded.
“Found her. Thanks,” I said.
Outside, I bent Calvin over the hood of my Chevy and left her there while I stepped out of earshot and made a couple of phone calls. They were just to check up on the status of the case, but I wanted her to think that I was arranging her booking.
Only after that, very reluctantly, did I unlock the cuffs.
“You think this is all some kind of game, but it’s not,” I told her. “Your career decision probably cost some people their lives. Hope you get a promotion. Oh, yeah—and that you can live with yourself.”
As I drove away, I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw her still standing there on the curb, with her face in her hands.
Chapter 42
MY NEW OFFICE AT THE POLICE ACADEMY turned out to be a barely converted old locker room on the third floor, but who was complaining? Right off the top, I spotted two essential pieces of equipment, a folding table and a phone jack. There was even a touch of décor on the bulletin board—a hotel surveillance photo of the Teacher with sniper crosshairs drawn on his face.
We were in business.
After I called up McGinnis and apprised him of the latest developments, I rounded up my crew of detectives. I was pleased that Beth Peters was in the group. I asked her to make copies of the Teacher’s mission statement and pass them around.
“We need to get the airlines involved, Beth,” I told her. “Send them the surveillance photo and have them send us ID photos of their pilots for Mademoiselle Monchecourt to look through. Concentrate on the international carriers. British Airways in particular. Call up Tom Lamb at 26 Fed if you think you need some federal juice. And let’s try to track down the florist who sold that bouquet to our killer.”
“Oui, oui, boss man,” Beth said, batting her eyelashes teasingly.
I turned back to my group. “Now that it’s just cops here, maybe we can actually get something done,” I said, and started handing out specific tasks. I wasn’t used to being in charge and it felt weird, but they all hopped to it and
seemed eager to do so. What a concept—people were actually doing what I asked. I decided I should try it at home.
I sent Nineteenth Precinct detectives back up to the Polo store and the 21 Club, to recanvass the areas with the photo and to interview all the employees they could find, including those that hadn’t been working on the day of the murder. Maybe the Teacher had been to those places before, and someone could match a name to his face.
But they called back in to say they’d come up empty at both places. Both institutions had plenty of disgruntled employees and nasty customers. Just none that fit the shooter’s description.
In the meantime, I checked downtown with Ballistics to see if the medical examiner had sent them the rounds that killed Officer Tonya Griffith.
“We got them, all right,” the senior tech, Terry Miller, said. “The twenty-two-caliber was mushroomed, but I could still make out the five lands, five grooves, and the left-hand twist to the barrel. It has the same markings as the bullet that killed the Twenty-one maître d’. I can pretty much ID it in my sleep by now.”
That was a strong point in our favor. The second we nailed this guy, we’d have evidence lined up and ready to go.
During the lulls when I didn’t have anything pressing to do, I sat and reread the manifesto that Cathy Calvin had given me. The penalty for obnoxiousness was now death? And I’d thought the nuns in grammar school were harsh. This guy might think of himself as the Teacher, but in truth, he was more like a vigilante.
What was it exactly that had set him off? The fact that some people had more money than he did? No, I realized. He hadn’t just picked his victims out of a hat. He must have had some previous contact with them in order to be offended to such an enraged degree. He had to have money himself.
I spent a lot of time looking at his picture, too. He definitely didn’t look like a mentally unbalanced, reclusive, on-the-fringe type like Berkowitz or the shooters at Columbine and Virginia Tech. He was smiling and seemed confident—was actually a strapping, handsome man.
I scratched at my developing five o’clock shadow.
What the hell was up with this guy?
Chapter 43
AROUND SIX P.M. I was alone in the office, with a newly installed computer. All the detectives were out on the bricks. I heard a tap at the door.
Damned if it wasn’t Cathy Calvin standing there, practically wringing her hands with nervousness.
“Must have taken a lot of investigative skill to find me here,” I said. “I’m impressed.”
“Quit it, Mike. Please? I came to—I won’t even say apologize, I know that’s no good.”
She was right, and I started to tell her so. But she actually seemed sincere. I noticed, too, that she’d changed out of her usual businesswoman combat uniform into a light, summery dress. It made her look softer, more feminine—really quite pretty.
“Just because I didn’t run you in doesn’t mean it’s finished,” I said. “The department’s going to be all over your editors.”
“They deserve it. I mean, I’m not just blaming them. I knew how wrong I was. It’s just?—” She stepped into the room, closing the door most of the way behind her. I could smell her perfume in the warm, still air. “This job makes you crazy,” she said. “The competition’s unbelievable. It’s turned me into a monster. When I started thinking about what I’d done, I just came apart.”
She drifted closer. It was clear that she wanted comforting, and I admit I was tempted to let her slip inside my arms and nestle her face against my chest.
But that temptation was easy to brush aside.
“My job hasn’t made me a nicer guy, either, Cathy,” I said. “But you’ve got to know where to draw the line— it goes with the turf. I figure when the day comes that I can’t find that line anymore, that’s the day I hand in my badge.”
My tone was no more inviting than my words. She stopped her approach.
“I’m leaving you a peace offering,” she said. She took an envelope out of her purse and dropped it on the table, then retreated to the door.
“Go ahead and hate me, Mike,” she said. “I just want you to know I’m really not like that. I’m not.”
Then she was gone.
Of course she wasn’t really like that, I thought. Not until the next time she stood to gain by it.
Inside the envelope was a copy of the Teacher’s original e-mail to her.
And on the bottom, he’d left her a Yahoo Instant Messaging ID where he could be contacted: TEECH1.
Through my clenched teeth, I called Calvin a bitch for not giving me this right away. Peace offering, my ass. Then I sat at my desk and tried to decide what to do with it.
Setting up a trace was difficult and complicated. In order to get the Internet company to assist, court orders would first have to be procured, and even then it could turn out that the message could have come from a public library or a college.
I made up my mind that we didn’t have time for that, and took a stab in the dark. Quickly, I created a Yahoo Instant Messaging ID for myself.
Then I sent a message to the Teacher.
MIKE10: Got your mission statement.
What happened next blew me away. After only a brief pause, an answer came back.
TEECH1: What did U think?
It was him!
MIKE10: Very interesting. Could we meet?
TEECH1: U R a cop aren’t U?
I debated lying, then decided against it. Treating the guy like he was stupid wouldn’t get us anywhere.
MIKE10: Yes. I’m a detective with the NYPD.
TEECH1: I didn’t mean to kill those cops, Mike. I like cops. They R among the few left in this world who actually believe in good and evil. But I needed to escape. What I’m doing is bigger even than the lives of 2 good people.
MIKE10: Maybe I could help U get your message across.
TEECH1: I’m doing just fine, Mike. Death and murder get people’s rapt attention. Their ears R perking up BIGTIME.
Chapter 44
HOVERING TENSELY over my keyboard, I tried a different tack.
MIKE10: Maybe if U talked to someone U could work out your problem in a different way.
TEECH1: Don’t even go there. I don’t have problems. I solve them. People think they can keep on screwing others with impunity. Why? Because they have money. Money is scrap paper with a number written on it. It doesn’t make U immune to your human responsibilities.
MIKE10: The clerk and the maitre d and the stewardess didn’t have money. Something else about them must have bothered U. I really do want to understand U, so please tell me. Why did U murder them?
TEECH1: Murder?
MIKE10: U R the same person who shot those people?
TEECH1: Of course. I only object to the word. Murder implies that those animals I wiped out were human beings. Their families should say a prayer and thank me for emancipating those pathetic slugs from the ignoble slavery that was their existence.
Now we’re getting somewhere, I thought.
MIKE10: R U doing God’s work?
TEECH1: Sometimes I think so. I can’t claim to know how God intercedes in the world. But it could be through me. Why not?
Teacher? The only class this guy could teach was how 2B nuts.
MIKE10: I can’t believe that God would want U to kill people.
TEECH1: He works in mysterious ways.
MIKE10: What R U going to do next?
TEECH1: YR. IDTS. Wouldn’t U like to know. Now I said it to those cops, and I’ll say it to U. Stay out of my way. I know U think U need to catch me, but I’d take a real serious re-eval on that if I were U, Bennett. Because if U or NE1 else gets between me and what needs 2B done, I swear to Almighty God I’ll kill U B4 U get a chance to blink.
Christ on a bike, he knew who I was! He must have figured it out from the Times article. Why hadn’t Calvin just printed my home address while she was at it?
MIKE10: Guess I’ll have to take my chances.
TEECH1: T
hat’s a dangerous way to think, Bennett. That’s what those two in the train car thought. Right before I erased them from existence. When is my mission statement going out?
I passed my hands through my hair, forcing my distraught brain to think fast. Getting his message to the world was obviously very important to him. Maybe we could use that to gain some leverage or draw him out.
MIKE10: We can’t let that happen. Not until we get something in return.
TEECH1: How about I’ll let U live. That’s my final offer.
I’d been holding back my anger pretty well, but at last it jumped ahead of me. I was sick of this smug, cop-killing piece of crap. Before I could stop myself, I engaged in a slight episode of IM rage.
MIKE10: In that case instead of going on the front page, your manifesto of nonsense is going in my circular file. U catching my drift, U deluded freak?
TEECH1: U just cost another citizen his life, cop. I’ll kill two people a day if that message doesn’t go out. U don’t have the slightest conception of who U R messing with. My message will reach the world if it has to be written in your blood. TTYL. YFA!
I sat there staring at the screen. TTYL stood for “talk to you later,” I knew. I did have four preteens. But what was YFA? You something something.
Then I got it.
I turned and stared at the crosshairs over the Teacher’s face up on the wall, imagining my finger squeezing the trigger.
Yeah. Right back at you, Teech.
Part Three
LIFE LESSONS
Chapter 45
SITTING IN THE QUIET of his apartment’s shaded living room, the Teacher chucked his Treo across to the couch, and knocked back the last of the Daumas.
He grinned as a ball of sweet fire softly exploded in his stomach. He flipped on the TV set and channel surfed. Not only NY1, but the national networks were all over the hotel and subway shootings.
The people on the street looked solemn, downright paranoid. God, this was fun, he thought. Fucking with their heads was so addictive. He started laughing when a very concerned-looking cop was interviewed. Was that MIKE10? The asshole who just so lamely tried to get him to stop?
Run for Your Life Page 11
