Текст книги "American Devil"

Автор книги: Oliver Stark

Соавторы: Oliver Stark
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Chapter Twenty-Five

Blue Team Major Investigation Room

November 20, 2.23 p.m.

Harper took the script from the printer and held it up. He felt a sense of pride. He and Denise Levene had sent the draft backwards and forwards all morning, trying to get every word right on the button. And now it was ready. What’s more, it was going to be used, live on air. Harper and Levene’s long shot was nearly set up and ready to go.

It was going to be a difficult day. Harper had put his reputation on the line by insisting the department try this technique to lure the killer into speaking to them. It had taken every second of his time to make sure it happened. Everyone needed convincing.

The previous day, Harper had worked until midnight putting together the operation they were now calling ‘Janus’. The most difficult person to convince had been Williamson. He didn’t believe it was right to put out a false report. It wasn’t in the spirit of the homicide squad. It smacked of the kind of thing the Feds would do and boast about endlessly.

In the end, Lafayette overruled Williamson and sanctioned it at Homicide. He knew that even if it failed, it gave the executives down at headquarters a sense that something was happening. He gave Harper the green light and that gave Harper only a few hours to put together the operation, get it approved and set up a press conference.

The idea of putting the same thing out to the press via Erin Nash died at the first phone call. The Daily Echo wasn’t going to lie to its readers. End of story.

Everyone in the homicide bureau knew that they had to be quick. Since the murder of Grace Frazer, the killer had struck every second day; if he was consistent, he’d be planning to hit again.

Harper took the script across to Nate Williamson. ‘Do you want to see it, Nate?’

‘No.’

‘If it doesn’t work, we’ve lost nothing,’ said Harper.

‘I’m okay with it, Tom,’ said Williamson. ‘I’m just not the innovative type, but you’re right to try. I’ve been going over the autopsy protocols again, seeing if we’ve missed anything. Looking at what this guy did to these kids. He’s evil. You understood that straight away, didn’t you? You saw it.’

Tom reached out and put his arm on Williamson’s shoulder. The man was fifty-four. His own daughter must be in her mid-twenties. ‘We’ll screw this bastard into the ground, Nate.’

‘Yeah, well I hope I’m there to see it. I want to put my heel in.’

‘Listen, Nate, I think I ought to do the press conference.’

‘Fuck that, Tom.’

‘This is going to rile him. He might react. It’s dangerous. It was my idea, I’m happy to front it.’

‘I’m lead, Tom, I lead. No question. If he wants to come and get me, I’ll be ready for him.’

Harper worked until the press release was ready to go, then he sat down alone in the bunkhouse and tried to get a few minutes of sleep before the evening sitting by the phone lines.

In the cold, drab room, Harper felt a sudden loneliness. For three months, there hadn’t been anyone to open up to. Lisa had been the only person he’d confided in, and now he didn’t know where to turn. He pulled out his phone and scrolled down to her name. He looked at it for a moment, then pressed call. She picked up.

‘Lisa. It’s Tom, you got a moment?’

‘I’m on my way out, Tom.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Not your business, remember.’

‘I just . . .’

‘What, Tom? How is this going to help?’

Welcome to my life, he thought. He loved Lisa, sure. And he knew he’d messed the whole thing up. It had gone wrong so slowly, almost invisibly, and then suddenly they didn’t know each other.

‘I love you,’ Harper said. There was a pause. ‘Don’t be angry.’

Lisa’s voice came back all calm and slow: ‘Tom, I know you think you do, but you don’t. You just don’t like to lose, Tom, and that’s ego – not love.’

It didn’t matter what she was saying. For a moment, it was just good to hear the way she spoke in nice neat sentences.

‘I’ll prove it to you.’

‘No. Listen. I don’t want you to prove it to me. It’s not the point. Listen to me. It’s hard. I know it is, and we’ve been doing this the hard way. You know. Love you, love this – just wrong time, wrong place . . . whatever.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Tom, I don’t love you. This isn’t hard for me. This is good for me. I’m happy. I don’t have to go through it with you any more. I’m not in love with you. I don’t think about you. I’m not waiting. I’m not looking to move backwards. And another thing . . . I don’t think you can love ...’

There was a silence. Lisa knew she had hit out but she knew the big hit was to come. That was all just padding. He knew it too. He sensed what was coming. He’d known for some time now. But he wasn’t going to let it happen.

‘Right,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll get off. Sorry I called. I gotta—’

She interrupted. A second later and he’d have ended the call.

‘I’m seeing someone, Tom. I’m seeing a guy I met. He’s a nice guy.’

‘Don’t lie to me, Lisa. You’re not seeing anyone.’

‘It’s goodbye, Tom.’

She hung up. He threw his phone hard across the room.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Fullerton Lounge

November 20, 6.23 P.M.

The man in the black suit and white shirt was drinking a martini in the Fullerton Lounge. He was dog-tired. Like someone had drugged him or something. He needed a pick-me-up. Killing wasn’t as easy as some people contended. It had its costs as well as its benefits.

The Fullerton Lounge on Lexington was an over-expensive and self-important bar that aimed to extract as many dollars as possible from people too self-consciously rich to dare to ask the price of things.

The man in the black suit liked it because it was quiet and dark. He had three newspapers from the last few days spread out in front of him. He picked up the Daily Echo and started to read the account of Jessica’s murder.

It was front-page news in all of the papers. It was page one to five in the Post. The headline in the Daily Echo read: ‘Devil Kills Fourth Angel’. He liked that. He opened the other papers. They’d all caught on now. They understood. This was serious. He was the main attraction. The killer smiled. It was in the detail that the horror lay. None of them had the level of detail that the Daily Echo reporter had got. He read Erin Nash’s exclusive with particular glee. She even had the nice touch of his with the cherry blossom. The public would be terrified and secretly excited by it all.

It was good to be the only man in the world worthy of the media attention. At 6.25 p.m., he asked the bartender to put on the news. He watched as they trawled through the political nonsense and finally, towards the end, they got round to the latest on his story.

A cop from the old school was speaking at a press conference about Jessica’s murder, telling the city that it was all under control. He was lying. They had nothing under control. They just didn’t know it yet. The cop said little more than had already been in the majority of the papers: a student had been murdered by her date. He said that it was a vicious attack and that the police were doing everything they could.

The killer sneered. He didn’t like the cop’s attitude. It was disrespectful. He’d murdered an entirely innocent, moral young woman in an apartment block full of residents and they didn’t have a single lead. Give the American Devil his due. He looked at the cop’s name: Detective Williamson. He made a mental note. He had a head full of mental notes. Then the cop’s face came right up close and personal. He wanted to make a statement to the public. The killer watched and listened.

Williamson cleared his throat. The statement he was about to read out was designed to prick the killer’s pride. ‘We are seeking help in finding this killer. The following information will help us to identify major suspects. We are looking for a man too weak to control his own temper, a man who routinely sees himself as inadequate. He always preys on weakness and is a confused and random opportunist. We are looking for a frightened individual who has difficulty holding down relationships or speaking to women. He only picks on defenceless victims because he is weak himself, weak and afraid. Further to that, he attacks these bright young women from behind with lethal force so that they are absolutely no threat to him. These are all symptoms of a deranged and fearful psyche. He will be unable to have normal sexual relations and will rely on fantasy to fuel his own self-hatred. He is not careful. He leaves a great deal of evidence, both physical and behavioural, at the scene. However, he does work and drive. At the last crime scene the killer left behind a very telling clue to his identity. We also know he drives a blue car. A premium brand classic car. We have a number of sightings of his car and his face. We need the public to help identify this killer. But we’d prefer to speak to the American Devil himself. This is a direct appeal. We know you did not intend to kill these girls. We know what happened at the first murder scene and that it was a mistake. You need help. We need you to get in touch with the NYPD on the number below to discuss the case. If you don’t, we are close to homing in on you, and you will be brought to justice by force. Please call the number below if you want to talk to us.’

The killer’s jaw was wide open. He looked left and right to see if anyone else was shocked and confused. He wasn’t anything like the portrait they’d painted. They were fucking idiots. They were the fucking incompetents. He had not left evidence and his victims had all been wide awake. The killer downed his shot and ordered another. The indignant anger was rising in his chest. He had to put this right. He had to make sure people knew what he was really like. He felt a pulse throb in his temples. He looked into the mirror behind the bottles on the bar. He was handsome, wasn’t he? Not a snivelling incompetent. He was the American Devil. And he was strong and capable. He tried to calm himself but for some reason it wouldn’t stop circling in his mind. He was offended. He was also curious about the evidence left in Jessica’s apartment and how they knew what’d happened with Mary-Jane. He licked his lips. Maybe Williamson knew too much. He wanted to know. He wanted to know right now. He drank another shot and started to think.

At seven his next girl, Elizabeth, entered the bar. He knew she would: he had access to her electronic diary. She was meeting Kyra, a colleague and fellow intern. He stared at her. She was more beautiful in the flesh than in the photographs he kept of her. He’d come across her by chance at a city function three years earlier. She’d been standing by her old man, smiling and playing the pure, dutiful, all-American daughter. He’d liked her then. He liked her more now. But she’d not stayed pure, that was the problem, and now he had to act. She needed to be snuffed out. They all did.

He went up to the bar and stood next to Elizabeth. He ordered a Black Russian and turned to her. ‘Can I get you something?’

She smiled and shook her head. Polite but firm. He tried again.

‘You had a tough day?’

‘I’m just waiting for my friend. Thanks.’

He nodded as the barman put his drink in front of him, not taking his eyes from Elizabeth. She didn’t dare look up, but she knew he was staring.

‘Listen,’ he continued, ‘I’m sorry, I’m just a little nervous. I have to admit, I’ve seen you before. Your father’s the TV preacher, right? A real puritan. Just what this country needs.’

At the realization that he might be genuine, her lifelong training in good manners kicked in.

‘Hey, sorry, I just . . . I hope you didn’t think I was being rude.’

‘No, it must be hard – you walk into a bar and want a bit of peace and some asshole hits on you.’

‘It can be,’ she said and smiled sweetly.

His eye was watching her little silver crucifix oscillate in the beautiful dip of her neckline.

‘You wouldn’t mind . . . I mean, I know it’s odd, but you wouldn’t mind sharing a beer with an admirer?’

‘Of me or my dad?’ she said.

‘A little bit of both, maybe,’ he said and smiled broadly.

She was flattered. She couldn’t help it. ‘Maybe one beer until my friend arrives,’ she said.

He called the barman. ‘Can you get this woman a cool one?’ He smiled at her. It was a great smile, and she felt a little frisson of something in her stomach.

‘What do you do?’ she asked.

‘Me? I work in art. I buy and sell paintings.’ The man laughed. ‘Nothing as beautiful as you, though.’

Elizabeth smiled. ‘Please. You can cut the corny lines.’

The man in the black suit watched her take her beer and sip the white foam off the top. He leaned in slightly to catch her perfume. ‘You know which painting you remind me of? Manet’s Olympia.’

‘I don’t know it,’ she said.

‘Well, maybe I’ll show you sometime. But it’s in Paris. Or perhaps you wouldn’t mind a European adventure? The thing with Manet’s painting is that it’s a nude of a prostitute. It offended the public taste. I sometimes do that myself, you know, offend the public taste. All great artists do.’

She smiled. This guy was a little too intense. ‘You’re a great artist?’

‘I do a little sculpture,’ he said. ‘I’ve not been discovered yet. But who knows.’

She smiled again. He was just drinking her in, letting his imagination run away with him. He was starting to feel slightly delirious. He needed to get away from her. It was not the right time. More than that, her friend would be in soon and that would be the end of the chase. He had to keep the lines clean. No residues. He finished his drink and thanked her, leaning in and kissing her cheek. As he did so, his hand passed quickly into her handbag. He left quickly.

He would’ve liked it to rain now. He looked up to the autumn sky. It looked good for a shower.

And now he had her entrance card, he could begin his plan. She’d change her entrance card soon, sure, but would soon be soon enough? He didn’t think so – she was girl number five and tonight was her night.

She just didn’t know it yet.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Blue Team MIR

November 20, 10.30 p.m.

Down at Blue Team, the day turned into evening and everyone was waiting. Williamson had got the team to set up the big blue boards in the basement room. They had three photographs each of Mary-Jane, Grace Frazer and Amy Lloyd-Gardner, and now Jessica Pascal’s face stared out innocently alongside the others. Williamson wanted no mistakes. He wanted to hurt this guy.

Tom Harper and Eddie Kasper walked into the basement. The other detectives of Blue Team were all sitting around facing Nate Williamson, who was talking to them in low tones.

They’d been talking about the lead detective’s performance live on air. Everyone agreed that he’d done a good job. Williamson wasn’t happy with it, but that was his character. He was at least pleased that he’d fronted it. He’d insisted, he told his guys, even though Harper had offered to do it himself.

The team went quiet as Harper approached. Everyone was hoping this would work, but they all knew it was a hell of a long shot. Harper was looking tired and sat on the desk at the front. He nodded to the guys and wiped his nose with his forefinger. ‘That was a great job out there, Nate. If he’s listening, then that’s gotta sting.’

‘Yeah, well, I did what I said I would. Let’s just hope it pays off – administration want every report on these murders to go in triplicate right up to the deputy commissioner, so if this fucks up, then everyone in the fucking city knows it. How about that?’

‘High stakes,’ said Harper, ‘but I hope it pays off for you.’

‘He can only do two things, call or not call. That’s evens. This is a good bet. I’d back it myself, but I’m saving up for retirement.’

Harper felt a smile cross his lips. It was good to hear someone being less than cynical, a rare thing at Homicide.

Williamson moved off to the coffee pot at the back of the basement room, then came back with a steaming cup. He turned to the rest of Blue Team. ‘Let’s focus on our killer. How we doing out there?’

‘Still nothing on ViCAP,’ said Kasper. ‘I’ve been trying to get the FBI profile coordinator to give us something concrete, but they’re still reluctant to make a judgement.’

Lol Edwards chimed in from the soft seats at the back of the room. ‘My view, for what it’s worth, is that he’s from out of state.’

‘Opinions are fine, Lol, but we need evidence. Nothing else? What’s the autopsy report looking like, Garcia?’

‘Everyone’s got a copy. Details worthy of note are as follows: the cause of death in the case of Jessica Pascal was asphyxiation. Plastic bag was found at the scene. The wounds mostly occurred before death. The victim had recently had sexual intercourse. Traces of semen on the body. Impossible to tell whether it was rape or they had sex and then the killer went ape. Get this – there were sixty-four separate shallow knife wounds.’

Lol Edwards sniffed for attention. ‘ME called, she overlooked a bite mark on the left buttock. Pretty deep, too. We’ve got another teeth print. It’s the same mouth. And the lip print matches as much as they can tell.’

‘How did he get in?’

‘We’ve got sightings of Jessica in Joe’s Bar with a grey-haired man in his late thirties. We’ve also got an ID of the same guy at the girl’s Baptist church. We’re working them into sketches.’

‘What do you say, Tom? What are we looking at?’ said Eddie.

‘Well, don’t let the fake profile fool you. This is an aggressive sexual predator. Organized and ruthless. He enjoys hurting and humiliating. There’s a religious element that I don’t understand yet but he already likes to communicate. He left quotations with Amy and Jessica. The quotations are both poets, Rilke and John Milton. I’ve been up to Columbia University so we’ve got a little background. They were both visionary poets. Milton was also blind. Rilke was a radical. God knows what he’s getting at.’

‘Maybe he just likes poetry,’ said Eddie. ‘You know, hobbies – walking, poetry, serial killing.’

The guys laughed as Williamson edged away from the circle with his coffee and turned to Rick Swanson. ‘How about the progress on Amy, our angel?’

‘We got a hit on the nail art. There’s a salon up in Harlem. Quite a low rent affair, not the kind of place a banker’s wife would be in, except, in nail art circles, it’s got Harlem kudos. Anyway, they claim the designs are theirs, but they don’t recognize her photo. So we’re still digging. They say that sometimes these high society girls get their maids to come in for designs, get a one-off and then repeat them themselves in their more upmarket beauticians.’

‘So, what we can conclude is that we got nothing,’ said Mark Garcia. ‘You want me to do the press release? A guy goes out on a date with a church-going virgin, doesn’t get his way so he kills the poor kid.’

‘Garcia, fucking button it,’ said Eddie.

‘Fuck you! That’s all we got.’

The captain had entered the room during their intense conversation. No one had noticed him, but he was watching them all closely. He had some news.

‘Williamson, we had a caller wanting to speak to you.’ The room stopped dead.

Williamson stood up. ‘Was it our guy?’

‘He said he’s got a handful of cherry blossom that he wants to shove up your ass.’

There was a murmur of laughter throughout the room but the captain wasn’t smiling at all. The room went still for a moment.

‘He hung up real quick,’ said Lafayette. ‘He said he was busy, but he’d call back when he had a moment.’

‘Was it him?’ said Harper.

‘He said he’d cut Jessica sixty-four times. He said the career girl murderer only managed sixty-three. He wanted to see if he could go one better.’

‘No one knew that detail,’ said Harper. ‘It’s got to be him.’

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Blue Team Major Incident Room

November 20, 10.55 p.m.

The detectives from Blue Team were all crushed into the small interview room and had been ever since the news of the first call. At 10.55 p.m., the phone rang again. Williamson signalled through the big glass window into the observation room which was set up with the technical team. They patched through the call and started the trace.

‘Hello, this is Detective Williamson, lead detective on the American Devil murder case. How can I help?’

There was a crackle and a pause on the line. The seven police officers in the room all held their breath.

‘Hello? This is Detective Williamson. Are you the man we want to speak to? You want to talk about your mistakes? You want to know how we know all about you?’

Again there was silence. Williamson looked up at the window and shrugged. The technical guys rolled their fingers. Whoever it was, he was still on the line and Williamson needed to keep talking.

The silence from the other end continued. Williamson started up again. ‘If you want to keep me talking, let me know you’re not just another timewaster. I get a hundred calls a days claiming to be this guy and every one is a fake. So give me something or get back into your hole and stop wasting police time.’

The men waited. Taking a harsh position could go either way. Harper glanced at the clock. A minute had elapsed. It was good, but they hadn’t traced the call so Harper presumed it was a cell phone, probably unregistered. The only hope of getting anything was by triangulating the call. The technical guys had set it all up. They just needed to get the signal of the cell phone transmitter received by two or three base stations, then they could work out the location based on the time difference from each station. But it needed more time than tracing a traditional phone and it was fallible.

Keep going, mouthed Harper.

‘Okay, Mr Silent, let’s get one or two things straight: this is my investigation.’

‘Shut . . . the . . . fuck . . . up.’ Bingo. The killer had replied. The first time they’d heard the voice. It was deep, slow and considered. A frightening voice. A voice you didn’t want to find in your apartment after dark.

‘You’re talking to me, then,’ said Williamson.

‘First things first, you fucking loser. You make claims about me in public like that again and I’ll kill two a day. I can do it and you know it. I don’t need to do all the embellishments, I can just cut and go. You get me? So less of the disrespect and lies. I have got you boys pissing your pants and sucking your fucking thumbs because you don’t know who the hell you’re dealing with. Well, let me tell you who I am. I’m not no trailer park inadequate with a fucking speech impediment. I’m an artist. One day you’ll see my grand work, The Progression of Love. It’s taken years and years to put together. Some day soon I’m going to reveal it to you all. My name’s Sebastian, and I’m an artist. I’m the American Devil. I’m Abaddon – that’s where I am. But you’ll never find me. Open the door and I’ll be gone.’

The seven detectives stared at the small speaker. Williamson was not coming back. You could see that his head was empty. He drew some saliva back into his dry mouth. ‘Fuck you, you asshole,’ he said. It was his standard reply when he felt threatened. It was not a good move.

‘Okay, Detective, let’s be quite clear what we’re dealing with now. I’m in her apartment already. She is probably walking home as we speak. You can’t stop her, you can’t warn her, you can’t stop me, but you know it’s going to happen, as inevitable as the sun rising. I’ve got a blade here sitting on my lap and I’m going to dedicate this one to you boys. I’m going to give you a real show, but then again you only ever turn up after the show’s over. Like the cleaner in the movie house with your brush and scoop.’

‘Who is she?’ said Williamson.

‘I’m looking at her picture right now. Pretty girl, blue eyes, skin fine as silk. Her name, in case you’re interested, is Elizabeth. I’m going to pull her apart and put her back together again. When you see her, she’ll be transformed. It’s just the way of the world – angels become whores, whores become angels. It’s a damn shame you can’t save her. She’s going to be mine by the end of tonight. Sealed with a kiss. You know I like to do that, don’t you?’

Tom Harper was copying out every word into his small black notebook, under the previous note, which read: Connecticut warbler, Red-eyed vireo, long-eared owl.

It was bad news – the killer was active again. Every two days. He was in there. There was a woman returning home with no idea of what was waiting for her and there wasn’t anything they could do. Harper looked at the technical staff. One guy was holding up ten fingers. They had to keep him on the line.

Harper grabbed the phone from Williamson. ‘Sebastian, it’s Detective Harper here. Sorry for the lack of courtesy. Truth is, we haven’t got a clue who or what you are. You’ve stumped every one of us and we’re scratching our heads. We don’t know how in hell you do it. You’ve got to give us something, or you’re just pissing on us from a great height. Tell me something, you feel bad afterwards, don’t you? You pose them because you regret it and you feel bad about hurting these girls.’

‘Bad?’

‘You feel bad for hurting these girls, don’t you?’

‘A curious word, Detective, but no, I never feel bad. They feel bad, not me. They feel fucking terrible, in fact.’

Suddenly, the dialling tone cut in. He had gone. The four technical staff could be seen leaving their seats in the next room and rushing out into the corridor. In a moment they entered the small interview room.

‘Did you get it?’ shouted Harper.

The lead guy was nodding. They were all nodding.

‘Well, what the hell have you got?’

‘We’ve triangulated the signal. We’ve got an apartment block on the Upper East Side.’

‘Okay, let’s move,’ said Williamson.

‘Any more information?’ said Harper.

‘The trace takes us right to the Laker Building, but we can’t get any more definite. The phone’s unregistered.’

The lead technical officer passed the read-out and address to Williamson. ‘Right,’ the detective said. ‘We’ve got an address and no time, let’s make like it matters.’

The team bustled out of the interview room and down to the station house parking lot. The bait had worked. They had the killer on the end of their line.