Текст книги "American Devil"

Автор книги: Oliver Stark

Соавторы: Oliver Stark
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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

Chapter Fifty-Three

East Harlem, 7-Eleven

November 26, 11.55 p.m.

Outside, snow had started to fall. The thick white flakes turned black as soon as they hit the wet street, but the tops of cars were gathering a blanket of thick snow. Inside the one lit all-night shop on a narrow and dilapidated row, wet footprints trailed from the door to the counter. A path made of ripped-up brown boxes continued around the two aisles. In the back room of the 7-Eleven, Maurice Macy danced from one foot to the other like he was desperate for a leak. He picked up a large stack of boxes of tinned meat without breaking sweat.

Benny Marconi looked up from the old black leather La-Z-Boy in the corner of the back room and nodded his approval. Mo had only been with him a few weeks but he was the best worker Benny’d ever had – strong, silent and able to work fourteen-hour shifts, seven days a week for minimum wage without a single complaint. Mo, aka ‘Redtop’, was the perfect employee. Benny leaned out of his seat and slapped his back as he passed. ‘Way to go, Kong!’

Maurice placed the three boxes on the floor of the shop and took out a knife. He ripped open the first box. Tins of prime cooked mince. He more or less lived on tinned mince and tinned stew. He smiled and licked his lips. But his mind was a simple one and had very few avenues for thought. The idea of mince made him think of dinner, dinner made him think of home.

And home made him shiver and sweat.

It had been like that for days now. Half the time, he had too much to do and could forget all about it. Put it out of his mind. He was normal old reliable Mo. Smiling, forgetful, helpful Mo. Serving the coffee, sweeping the store, helping an old lady get something off the high shelves.

Then it’d come to mind like a sudden vision and he’d shake. He’d shake because he suddenly remembered. And it was hard to remember. Too hard. All his life he’d been cold. He didn’t want to be cold again. He didn’t want that. He wanted to be warm now. Good and warm.

He left the boxes of mince and walked over to the till. The only way to stop his anxiety was counting. He liked to count. Counting was his best thing. He opened the till.

‘Just counting up, Mr Marconi.’

Benny Marconi mouthed something under his breath, but let the big guy do his thing. Redtop cashed up about eight, nine times a day. He was compulsive like that. But in the short time he’d worked there, Maurice hadn’t lost a cent.

Now he was cashing up, but little Lottie was still coming to mind. She’d been strong. She’d cried all night long. Low horrible sobs. All night long. Even when he warned her. Even when he held his hand over her mouth and really pleaded with her to be quiet.

‘Don’t be making me do this. Please don’t be making me do this.’

He didn’t like it when they got emotional. He liked just talking to them and holding them sometimes. Looking after them was nice. His hands started trembling. He liked to pet them, that was all. A sweat formed on his brow. He knew there would be trouble if she didn’t shut up.

Now Lottie was gone and he missed her something terrible. His boss, Benny Marconi, was jabbering on from the back room. Something about cockroach suppliers and some whore he’d heard would give head for eighty-five cents. Benny’s truck was busted. When the truck was working, Mo would go up to the Bronx and get the good cheap supplies, but what they were getting delivered now was expensive shit. Benny moaned every day about it.

Mo counted the nickels and dimes slowly and methodically – he didn’t want to have to start again. He would cash up and leave. He wanted to be out on the street. Feel the night air in his lungs. He needed someone warm, that was all. He couldn’t live alone any longer. Not any more. For years he’d been alone, locked up in those small white cells on Ward’s Island. He’d told the psychiatrists that he didn’t want to touch the girls any more and he thought he would be all right. But once he was out again, he saw them on the street and the old feelings came back. He wanted one. He wanted one of his own to keep. Lottie was so nice and warm. But she had gone now and he needed more.

He wrote the total in the final column in pencil. He added across the columns. He added up thirty-five figures in each of seven rows and totalled them. It took him eight seconds. He checked the number against the till read-out.

Bingo. Not a cent out.

He liked it like that. Not a cent more or less. He worked all day making sure that not a mistake was made. All fourteen hours.

Benny emerged from the back. ‘You get that, Redtop? Eighty-five cents. She’ll take an IOU too, they tell me. It’s cheaper to get your dick sucked than get a cup of coffee in this city.’

Maurice looked up from the books. ‘It’s all correct, Mr Marconi. All exact.’

‘Just like always, Redtop. You’re a fucking marvel. You know that. A fucking counting machine. My big lump of the world’s stupidest genius!’

‘Just like to get it right for you, Mr Marconi.’

Redtop took off his blue apron and hat. He hung them carefully on a hook labelled Mo. He put on his jacket, over one of the bright red rollneck sweaters which had given him his nickname.

Maurice was one of life’s sad stories. The kind of guy that little guys like to take a pop at in the street. He was six foot one, clean-cut and strong. It was only the look in his eye that told you something inside wasn’t quite right.

As he got to the door he picked up the large brown suitcase that he used to carry laundry to and from the launderette.

‘You washing again, you dirty old dog? What’ve you been up to?’

‘Just like clean sheets, Mr Marconi.’

Maurice nodded his goodbye and opened the glass door. It was snowing.

‘Here,’ called Benny and flicked him a dollar as he was leaving. ‘Get your dick sucked on me.’

‘Sure will, Mr Marconi.’

‘You just make sure you bring me the change.’

Chapter Fifty-Four

Central Park

November 27, 12.40 a.m.

It was the perfect evening for young love to blossom – to explode even. The snow had started falling on the city again. New York City in the snow – the air chill on your face and hands and the tall buildings of the city rising up to the deep dark sky.

East Drive was so quiet you could hear owls from Central Park either side. It was almost deserted. Just a happy young couple weaving along the empty cycle path, laughing as they walked.

Lucy James was twenty years old with long dark hair and a playful smile. She was dressed in a short denim skirt with a big puffa jacket. Seth McAllister walked by her side listening to her glorious ramblings. She was such an extrovert, such a force of nature. An arts major to his love of the sciences. She jumped, skipped and turned as she walked and talked. He just loved to watch her like she was some effervescent experiment and she just loved to be watched.

They’d spent the last few hours drinking and flirting together in a bar looking out over the city – a romantic view, alcohol, mutual attraction . . . his hand brushing against her thigh, her hand touching his arm. It was going to happen tonight. They’d waited months to get this far. Oh, and didn’t the wait make it all so worthwhile. Christ, it was going to be good.

They were so obviously desperate that they could see it in each other’s eyes. They would enter his college room so full of pent-up passion that they would tear at each other’s clothes, kiss deeply and wrestle each other to the floor before they even reached the bed.

They entered the twisting path of the park. It was so beautiful to see the huge snowflakes falling over the trees. They passed a man in a red top sitting strangely still on a bench with a suitcase beside him.

‘On holiday?’ Lucy asked with a giggle. The man on the bench just looked at her. He looked at her short denim skirt. She was the type. She looked like a hooker. Hookers you could take. Hookers didn’t cause a fuss like those rich girls. No one missed a hooker. They all wore clothes like that. Lucy’s laughter floated by. There was no one else around. The couple walked further into the park. Lucy was a risk-taker and a romantic. Seth was getting nervous.

‘Where are you taking me, Lucy?’

‘Somewhere private!’ she called out. She’d got this idea in her head that it would be pretty fucking amazing to do it al fresco with snowflakes falling on your face, in your open mouth.

They came to some low evergreen shrubs and left the path. Seth heard something to the side. A crack. ‘What was that?’

‘An escaped lion!’ shouted Lucy. ‘Coming to get you!’

‘Listen,’ said Seth. ‘It’s getting closer.’ They both stayed silent. They could hear something, or someone, walking close by. But they couldn’t see through the dense shrubbery. Lucy pulled up close to Seth. Why not use it as an excuse? She held him firmly. Seth was keen to listen, though.

‘It’s moving away now. What do you think it is?’

‘Don’t know, don’t care,’ Lucy said and ran ahead. ‘Follow me, Seth!’

Seth laughed. She was so impetuous. He called after her. ‘Let’s get back to my place. I’ve got an old bottle of Amaretto and a Neil Diamond CD!’

She stopped, winked and flashed him a cheeky smile. ‘Why wait till we get back to your place?’

Now it was a different game she was playing. She darted into the bushes. ‘If you can catch me!’ she called out.

Seth saw her disappear and he felt a sudden surge of adrenalin as he imagined her body against his in the cool snow. He didn’t follow her, though. No, he would surprise her. He would come round behind her and make her jump.

Lucy ran a little distance and then stopped. She could hear Seth moving now, coming through a tree with low-hanging branches. He was only a few steps away from her, but the light from the paths had disappeared and the park was suddenly very dark.

Lucy could no longer hear his footsteps. She felt strangely excited by the secrecy of the darkness and didn’t want to wait any longer. Why not make their first time memorable. Right here – in the heart of the city they both loved. Under the city sky!

She was feeling pretty adventurous after several Malibu and Cokes. She rested against a tree. Her chest was heaving with excitement. She called out: ‘Oh, Seth! I’m here! Come and get me!’

He didn’t reply. She walked a few steps back through the shrubs. There was a thin sliver of pale light from the path. It seemed a long way away all of a sudden. The night seemed unnaturally quiet.

Out of the stillness, a shuffling noise. Then she heard the shrubs rustle. She jumped. ‘Seth, you bastard.’ A figure appeared in the clearing, covered in snow.

‘Is that you?’ she called out. Again no reply. Lucy suddenly felt fear tighten around her. She wanted to run, but she managed to calm herself.

It had to be Seth playing one of his jokes! She screamed out, ‘Seth! Stop it. Stop it now. I’m scared.’ He was approaching. She could see there was something wrong. His size, his movement, was all wrong.

The guy in the red top rushed at her and Lucy started to scream but the sound was quickly cut short as a heavy cosh landed on the side of her head. She fell on to the snow and Maurice quickly opened the suitcase and put her in it. He clipped the clasp shut and lifted the case with one hand.

Then he was gone. He was smiling now. A great big excited smile.

Chapter Fifty-Five

East Harlem

November 27, 1.20 a.m.

The suitcase had been light as a feather with this one. He reckoned that she could be no more than ninety-five pounds. He lugged the suitcase up the street and no one batted an eyelid. He was just simple old Mo and no one cared enough to get involved.

His small apartment was a stinking hole in a disused schoolhouse. At one time the whole building had been alive with people. But the school had shut down and now the building was in a state of progressive decay. Each day it seemed that more windows were broken and boarded.

Once in his apartment, he had a fixed routine. He used chloroform, which meant you could bathe them without having to restrain them.

He opened the case and the curled body of Lucy James lay inside like a little snail in a shell. Maurice stroked her cheek. She did look different from his previous girls. She looked younger, and clean too. Much more healthy than the others. Maybe she was new to the game. Still, it didn’t matter much to him. She’d be just as nice to take care of and hug up to.

He picked her up and put her on the bed. Lying flat out, she was probably only just five foot three inches tall. A real little ’un, he thought. He liked her, though. He liked her little button nose and her straight shiny hair. Her skin smelled of cream.

He was light as air as he tiptoed into the bathroom to run a bath. He put in some special nice bubbles that he bought from the store and opened his bathroom cabinet. It was stocked with things he thought his girls might like. Anything a girl could want.

He returned to the girl with a bottle of disinfectant and some cotton wool. He dabbed the dried blood from her head. There was an inch-long gash from the cosh, but it would heal real soon.

Then he undressed her, took her denim skirt off, her black pantyhose and black panties. Her jacket came next and a large pink woolly sweater and a T-shirt. No brassiere. That was new, but it was good if she didn’t wear one. Buying brassieres was not easy. The girl lay naked on his bed. Mo looked on, scared by his own trembling excitement.

Maurice took her clothes to his little desk and took out a notebook. He flicked through the pages. He came to the next blank page. He wrote her name real neat. It was Lucy. He liked that, too. Lucy with the button nose. Yes.

He took each item of clothes one at a time and wrote the details in his notebook. The size, the colour and anything else. He just liked to know so that when he went to the department store he could get something right for her. He wanted to keep her for a good long time.

He wrote down:

Skirt – blue, denim, short, petite

Sweater – pink, wool, small

T-shirt – orange, cotton, Jeff Beck logo, petite

Pantyhose – black, opaque

Panties – black, size six, polyester and cotton

Now he knew the girl liked different colours and was size small or petite. It felt good to know a little more about her.

The trickle of water from the hot faucet had filled the bath and Maurice lifted the girl into it. He liked the washing and cleaning and looking after. He soaped her all up with a sponge and got her all clean and soft. Then he put her in a nightdress and laid her back on the bed.

The restraints were not strictly necessary as the room had no window and the only door was locked with a single key Maurice kept on a string round his neck. But still, it was best at the start in case they went crazy at you.

He had a really good set of bed restraints straight from a mental hospital that a guy gave him for nothing. The bracelets were leather on the outside and a soft material inside so it didn’t hurt their wrists and ankles. There were four body restraints but he left these untied. She was only a little thing. He couldn’t imagine she’d need them.

When the job was finished, Maurice sat and turned on the TV. He liked TV. He liked to watch it with his girlfriends. It was like being married, sitting there together with the TV on, and it made him feel safe and happy.

He couldn’t wait to go to bed and hug up close to her and smell her hair. He reckoned she might be a stayer if only he could keep her alive. It was hard to keep them alive, just like the rabbits he used to be allowed to keep. Sometimes they just died on you. Maybe it was the cold, maybe they were scared or maybe Mo just wasn’t feeding them right.

Chapter Fifty-Six

Harper’s Apartment

November 27, 6.14 a.m.

The red display on the bedside clock in Tom’s apartment read 6.14 a.m. A crumpled cotton quilt lay half across his outstretched body. The room smelled of sweat and whisky. In the hour-before-dawn stillness, a sharp knock rang out. Four hard and fast raps on the apartment door.

Harper stirred slowly and listened. Again, he heard four short knocks. He flicked the lamp on. He certainly wasn’t expecting visitors. Whoever it was knocked again. Tom stood up and nearly reeled over on unsteady legs. The room was still coming together out of hazy grey dots. He didn’t like this. Who wanted him at this time of day? Perhaps it was just Eddie with a new story to tell him. He hoped.

In the living room, Harper quietly pulled on his jeans and stared out into the darkness. He could see the light in the hallway under his door. He could see the shadow of two feet. He edged round the room, keeping out of the line of the door, and took up a position low to the floor. The knocking continued. It was a careful, precise knock. He suddenly imagined it was Lisa standing in the corridor and felt his heart hammer in his chest.

‘Who is it?’ he called out.

‘It’s me,’ replied the voice quietly. It was Denise. Harper felt his anxiety begin to recede. He’d left Denise hours earlier. Plenty of time to get drunk. He remembered slow-dancing long into the early hours. He pulled on a T-shirt and opened the door.

She stood there in a long black coat. It had snowed again on her way over. Her hair was wet and she was holding a black and red notebook.

‘Denise.’

‘You can’t give up on this one, Tom. Not just yet. Not now. Listen, I went through my notes. I’ve been working on the profile. I know you say you’re not working the case, but we can still help. We’ve already done some good work, but there are some errors and our analysis doesn’t go far enough.’

‘Denise.’

‘If we use my earlier profile, we’re looking for a married salesman with a high school education. Too many people. We need to be more precise. Until we’re precise, no one’s going to recognize this guy.’

‘Denise,’ he said for the third time.

‘I know who I am, Tom. Now put some coffee on, we’ve got work to do here. You and I could get somewhere on this one. We can pass our profile to Blue Team and see if it helps. Then we leave it, all right? We can call it quits and walk away. But we’ve got to give them what we know.’

Harper smiled. She was sure determined and he liked it. And what’s more, she was right. He went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. He stood at the door and watched as she took off her coat. It sparkled with melting snowflakes.

He put the coffee on the table and she sat down. ‘I’ve been up all night, but we’re going to have to go through this line by line. I want a perfect picture of the killer. By the time we finish, we need to be able to determine where he buys his socks. You ready?’

‘I’m ready,’ Harper said. He had a sceptical smile on his face but Denise was more than ready for his attitude.

She opened her notebook. ‘My profile was all right, but it’s general. I’ve tried to add some specifics. Let’s see what you think.’

Tom nodded.

‘To begin with,’ she said, ‘we’re dealing with an SSSK: a sexually sadistic serial killer. That tells us one important thing – SSSKs don’t stop until they’re caught or killed. The ultimate fantasy for the SSSK is control. The collection of trophies is an example of possession and the expression of the fantasy. The taking of the body parts indicates a need to possess the dead as well as the living. The killer needs trophies because he does not feel adequate with women. And we’ll see this in his work and home life.’

Tom sat down next to her. She was a scientist, but she was homing in on the kind of person the killer might appear to be from the perspective of his wife or colleagues. It was promising.

‘These are my profile notes,’ said Denise, and handed him her notebook. Tom flicked over the pages.

‘He’s a man with two sides, a kind considerate man who has violent mood swings. He might even hit his wife, but be overly sentimental with children. He has a fixation with being loved because it’s the only way to fulfil his needs, but he will not be sexually active with his wife.’

Tom smiled. ‘You’re describing Average Joe, Denise. He’s a good guy who sometimes gets angry, he loves his wife but loses his temper, and they’ve lost touch with each other.’

‘It’s not Average Joe,’ said Denise. ‘Listen carefully. His mood swings are violent. He will be sentimental with his wife at times and then get angry. He will enjoy hurting her. Enjoy it because it allows him to control how she thinks and feels. That’s what he wants. He wants to own the narrative. He sees himself as a martyr who loves too much, too intensely, who is not loved enough in return. The unusual feature of this case is that he’s gone for sophisticated victim types – maybe prostitutes as well, but we’ll leave that for now. These high society girls are the unobtainable angels. Either this is because he’s got this whore/ Madonna thing going on or it’s something practical. My thinking is that he indulges himself with these girls to prove he’s not the loser he inwardly knows he is. He’s living out some fantasy life in which he is a part of these women’s lives. If Lottie Bixley is his, then it indicates that there is a strong need to feed the impulse to kill. He might have two modes – an organized mode and a disorganized mode. I’ve never seen that in the same killer before.’

‘Or he’s just trying to fuck with the profilers,’ said Tom, sipping coffee.

‘It’s not out of the question after what he did to set up Winston Carlisle. Or it could be more banal than that. If I’m right about Lottie Bixley, then he also had access to a house for four days in November when the family were away. He might have been alone at home and needed someone quick – so he took a hooker.’

Harper nodded. ‘The Lottie connection is very slight, but you might have something, Denise, so go on.’

‘Okay. He drives a car, possibly a blue car. He’s in his late thirties or early forties and is clean shaven with dark or greying hair. He has an interest in poetry and art, again because it makes him feel like less of a loser. He likes going to museums like the Frick and MoMA. They make him feel intelligent and sophisticated. He lives somewhere off the Triborough Bridge, possibly in the North Queens area, and works in and around North Manhattan, but he’s on the move. That’s why he’s less worried about being identified. I think he sees lots of different people all the time. He owns a garage or workshop of some sort and is often away from home for extended periods in the evening. He needs to be in East Harlem and on Ward’s Island more frequently than other locations. There’s a reason for that. I don’t know what it is, but it needs looking at. He buys expensive fashion gifts for his wife. Shoes, scarves, jewellery. She will not know where these items come from. His childhood was somewhere rural, but he will rarely speak about it. He also has a problem with the police. He wants to prove himself better than all of you, so I would suggest that at some point he will likely have applied for the police department, either in New York or elsewhere. He will have been rejected at the psychological assessment. He will sometimes come home in different clothes from the ones he was wearing in the morning. He may leave items of women’s jewellery or underwear in his car. In the last month his strange behaviour will have escalated rapidly. His family will have noticed his preoccupation. He will clean his car thoroughly at the weekend. He will vacuum the boot of the car and shampoo the interior. His shoes will sometimes have mud on them. There may be small scratches on his face, neck or hands. He may come home with a smell of unfamiliar perfume. He will have dirt under his fingernails. He has hunted and skinned and gutted animals before, so he’s not afraid of cutting. My guess, Tom, is that his wife will know who he is. She must know.’

Harper listened intently. Denise was wired. This was far beyond anything she’d done before. And it was compelling. ‘Where did it all come from, Denise?’

‘It takes a while to come together. It’s all based on evidence. Your evidence. All the stuff that came back from each team. I just painted a picture – the kind of picture that his wife would see. You were wrong about my interests, Tom. I don’t care about his psychology, I care that he gets caught. This might help. What do you think?’

‘It’s very good.’

‘Even though it’s written by a civilian?’

‘Even so. It reads good. Shit, Denise, it’s very good. You’ve brought him to life.’

‘You’re not going to call this a load of psychobabble?’

‘Not this time.’

‘You think they’ll use it?’

‘I guess that they will.’

‘So,’ said Denise, ‘do we know where he buy his socks?’

Tom looked at her. ‘Yeah, we know. He doesn’t buy them – his wife does.’