Текст книги "American Devil"

Автор книги: Oliver Stark

Соавторы: Oliver Stark
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Текущая страница: 31 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

Chapter One Hundred and Three

Blue Team

December 3, 11.20 p.m.

Harper was unshaven, sitting in front of a wall of sketches. He found it reassuring to sketch Denise’s face from memory and photographs. It kept her alive. There were sixteen of them now. He’d been sitting and waiting too long. Sixteen pencil sketches of a woman who was probably dead or a day away from dying. Finally, Mark Garcia brought his information across.

‘I’ve assembled everything I could get on Macy. It was a difficult history to plot. He’s got so many holes. After his arrest in 1998, he was in a variety of psychiatric units, mainly in New York.’

‘What about before 1998?’

‘His parents must’ve died or abandoned him when he was a kid. He was fostered all over. Twelve different homes is what it says on his record from the MPC and that’s not the lot.’

‘Where?’ said Harper.

‘It doesn’t say. It says he was born in West Virginia, so you got to presume he was all over the state,’ said Garcia.

Harper felt himself getting nearer. ‘If he was born in West Virginia, he would’ve been there in 1982?’

‘So?’

‘I’ve just been on the phone about a 1982 murder in West Virginia. Looks like Sebastian’s work.’

‘Shit. You think they knew each other back then?’

‘It’s possible. There’s a lot of similarities stacking up. What else have you got?’

‘There’s nothing. We haven’t even got addresses in West Virginia. If they’ve got records from the ’70s they’ll be on paper. We’d have to knock on doors to get them.’

‘Look into it, Garcia. We might need those addresses.’

‘All right. I’ll call around.’

Harper went back to his desk and took a call he’d been waiting for from the guys at the FBI New York field office. Harper wanted to know how long Denise could count on. The Feds had the file on screen. Tom could hear them tapping out details, cross-referencing cases. There were two of them at the other end of the line. He could discern their low, barely verbal communications – a sigh, a grunt, an uh-huh.

They came back on the phone. ‘Look, Detective, we’ve got bits and pieces to go on – nothing but surmise, you know.’

‘Just give me the time frame.’

Harper had asked them one question. What was the average length of time a kidnap victim stayed alive when the kidnapper was a known and lethal serial killer?

‘Okay,’ said one of the agents, ‘we’ve got three point four days. But listen, that isn’t an entirely accurate figure. I mean, eighty-four per cent of victims are dead within twenty-four hours, ninety-five per cent dead within forty-eight hours. If they survive forty-eight hours, then the story is a little different. It can go to weeks. You know. Some of these guys keep them for months.’

Denise had been missing for just over twenty-four hours. That gave him another day, tops. Tom felt hope try to scramble and leave, but he wouldn’t let it. He knew that Sebastian wanted games. Denise was his kind of girl, but was the game more important? He wanted someone to suffer. He wanted to punish Harper. He wouldn’t kill her until he had seen Harper suffer. Harper felt that strongly. He would have a game plan in mind. He’d keep her alive, but what for?

The Feds had taken the lead on the task force since the kidnapping, but the NYPD were still heavily involved in the case. Tom thanked them and put the phone down. He picked up the silver shield and looked at it. It was what he stood for – once. He put it in his jacket pocket and then picked up the Glock.

It felt good in his hand. He held it up, looked down the barrel out of his window to the windows opposite. He felt no twinge, only the need to find and face Sebastian. He lowered his gun and took the clip from his desk and pushed it in. It clicked. He holstered his pistol. He wanted to fight. More than anything else, he wanted a fair shot at this guy.

At 11.40 p.m. he took a call from a very disappointed Eddie, who had been looking through the old yearbooks of Meadow Trail High School, from Chloe’s year and upwards. He had found nothing at all. Not a single photograph that looked like Sebastian. Not a single name that triggered off his thinking. It drained him and he was on his way back to New York empty-handed.

In the investigation room, Tom and the team were going through the calls. The search for Denise Levene was in danger of getting lost under a sea of good intentions. Her kidnap had captured everyone’s attention nationwide, but in New York the feeling was tangible. They knew an innocent, beautiful woman was somewhere on the small outcrop of rock called Manhattan and they knew that a deranged sexual predator was with her. They were getting hundreds of tip-offs each hour.

Elaine Fittas crossed to Harper in the investigation room and put her hand on his shoulder.

‘She’ll be all right, Harper. She’s tough.’

‘She doesn’t look that tough,’ Harper replied, staring at her photograph.

‘She’s a woman. She’s made of strong stuff. You’ll get him. Keep the faith.’

Harper looked up at her. ‘Thanks, Elaine. You know what? Maurice Macy still doesn’t make sense to me. Why would he kill these girls if he just liked to pet them? And you know what else doesn’t make sense? Lucy James didn’t just die, she was killed – asphyxiated with a plastic bag. It’s Sebastian’s style. You think they could’ve been working together? If so, why would Sebastian kill Mo’s girls?’

Elaine looked up. ‘Maybe he loved him.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Tom.

‘I mean, maybe Sebastian killed the girls because he wanted to protect Maurice.’

Harper nodded. Just then, Sergeant Dan Webster appeared at the door. ‘Harper,’ he called. His voice couldn’t disguise his anxiety.

‘What is it?’ said Harper. He stared at Dan Webster’s face and felt the fear arrive in thick noxious waves. There was a silence around the room. Then the voice came back. ‘There’s a body in the basement of your building, Tom. Female. Blond hair. Wearing Denise’s suit.’

Chapter One Hundred and Four

East Harlem

December 3, 11.55 p.m.

The rush through the traffic with fear gripping his throat was something Tom would always remember. The happy energetic college students, out late and drunk, and the romantic couples in units, all living in their little bubbles away from the horror that everyone fears, seemed a world away from what he was experiencing.

Harper arrived at his apartment block out of breath. He had jumped the car two blocks away because of some red lights and just run. His limbs needed to do something. His mind had reached its own red line.

Then the building came in sight and it terrified him. He had been so quick to try to get there and now he wanted to hold back. An ambulance, two squad cars. Yellow crime scene tape across the entrance to his building.

Two cops stood at the entrance to the basement, lips compressed as they tried to brush off the awkwardness. Harper was lost inside his own head, preparing himself internally for what he might have to face. He walked past them and went down the steps into the basement and on into the laundry room.

Another cop was standing at the door, waiting for Crime Scene to seal the scene. Just three uniformed cops and a waiting ambulance.

Tom nodded at the cop and looked down to the floor. Dan Webster had told him all they knew. The body of a blonde woman had been found in Harper’s basement.

The upper body was wrapped in a white, heavily blood-stained sheet. Only the hair, the legs and Denise’s skirt were visible.

Harper shuddered. ‘Anyone taken a look?’ he asked.

The cop shook his head. ‘Just waiting for the Medical Examiner and Crime Scene. We can’t touch it.’

Tom needed to see beneath the white bloody shroud. He looked round the room. There was no blood anywhere else. So the killer had killed her somewhere else and then transported her to his basement. No easy thing to do – carry a bleeding corpse through the streets of New York. Harper looked down and saw the tracks of two wheels in the blood. Suitcase wheels. Sebastian.

‘I need to take a look,’ said Tom.

‘No can do,’ said the officer. ‘Got to keep it as we found it.’

‘I need to take a look,’ Harper repeated.

‘I’m sorry, man, I’m sorry, but you got to hold off,’ said the officer.

Harper moved towards the corpse. The officer was a big guy and he wasn’t smart either. He took a step forward.

‘No can do, Detective,’ he said and put his big arm out. Harper stood and looked at him. He could take him down and risk being thrown out of the NYPD, or he could wait.

Lafayette walked in and saw the two men squaring up to each other.

‘Tom. ME’s arrived, CSU are here. It won’t be long’

Harper moved away from the officer, crossed to the side of the room and waited, his eyes firmly fixed on the white sheet, his heart beating so fast that he was feeling high. He looked at the whitewashed wall, where something was written. A single word.

Abaddon.

‘What the hell does that mean?’ he said.

He watched for forty-five minutes as the Crime Scene detectives tagged and photographed and swept the scene, not knowing whether Denise was alive or dead. Not knowing what to feel. Limbo. His life was just in limbo all over again.

He watched as the Medical Examiner slowly moved in on the body and it was time.

Tom’s throat closed tightly as two assistants in white overalls each took an edge of the sheet and pulled it to one side.

The sheet was so wet with blood it stuck to the corpse’s face and chest. It made a low ripping sound as the material was lifted from the sticky wet flesh.

They all looked down. Lafayette stood behind Harper, his arm on his shoulder, squeezing hard.

‘Is it her?’ he asked.

‘Sick fucking bastard,’ Harper whispered.

Lafayette looked down at the body. The beautiful blond hair formed a halo around her head. Her body was dressed and covered in blood.

But the face had been completely removed.

Chapter One Hundred and Five

Mace Crindle Plant

December 4, 1.12 a.m.

The silence was more horrifying than anything else in the dungeon. Denise knew he was coming back and the hardness of the thick brick walls was hurting her fists as she beat against them, trying to find an escape.

Poor, poor girl. She thought it over and over again. Poor, poor girl. Please protect her from Sebastian.

She hadn’t prayed since she was fourteen years old but for hours Denise continued to pray and hope. She then lay on her side and wept for the girl whose life was in danger. And wept, a little, for herself.

It had gotten very cold all of a sudden. She had no food and her stomach and bones ached. She was in a state of half-sleep when she heard the noise of the metal bolt.

She sat upright. ‘Tell me she’s all right! Please.’

She heard footsteps coming towards the door of her prison. She saw him at the bars. The light above him clicked on and bathed him in shadow. He sat down on a small stool he had carried with him.

The silence was so tense she was sweating even in the cold of the cell.

‘Is she all right?’ Denise asked. ‘Is the girl all right?’

‘I think you’ll be pleased with Nick. I think he managed to save one of them.’ It was Sebastian’s voice. ‘I should think you will be famous for your techniques, Dr Levene.’

‘Well done, Nick! Well done! I’m amazed. Delighted. She’s okay? Well done.’

‘It was your doing.’

‘The band?’

‘My wrist hurts there was so much twanging. Nick must’ve been twanging like a lunatic. There’s a red mark all the way round.’

‘Tell me, please. Tell me.’

‘I wanted to possess her. Of course I did. She was perfect. Unique. Quite self-assured. I wanted just to grab her and take her, but Nick didn’t let me. He kept me inside. I couldn’t gain control.’

‘Jesus! She’s alive . . . Thank you.’

‘You know, Doctor, I am quite easy to upset. I seem to have a high degree of vulnerability, which is bizarre when you think I could kill these people without a second thought.’

‘That’s what the killing is for – to hide the vulnerability, to lock it away . . . to disguise it with the most potent thing there is, the power of life and death.’

‘I like killing. Like it like nothing else. It’s better than cocaine. It’s like cocaine but with all your faculties absolutely intact. It’s not false. It’s a perfect expression of human emotion. Killing, raping, ripping.’

She heard the band twang three times behind the door. Why was he twanging? She didn’t understand.

‘It feels good to twang. It keeps Nick away, too. Did it not occur to you that it might? Ha! I drove her home, Dr Levene. In my car. I was alone with her in my car. The opportunity was there, but I let her go. I felt so good, letting her go. I felt what virtue must feel like. It was quite a new sensation.’

‘Keep going. Keep working on the strategies. You can heal yourself. You must. You can.’

‘You have amazing faith, Doctor. I wonder what that feels like too. Denise, I have felt lost my entire life. Will it ever end?’ He slapped the elastic against his wrist again.

‘Why are you twanging? Is Nick there?’

‘He wants to be here. Oh, one more thing,’ he said as he stood up. ‘You will be pleased to know, Denise, that when I dropped her at her home and drove away, I felt proud of myself on your behalf, as if you were my mother or my father. It was a nice feeling.’

‘I’m pleased. You did well.’

‘Yes,’ he said. There was something in his voice.

‘What? What is it?’ she said sharply.

‘Oh, you know, Denise. You deny yourself something. You walk away. You feel satisfied, but then the urge just comes back stronger. Much, much stronger. You know.’

‘What do you mean?’

He took something out of his pocket and held it a moment. ‘I have something for you.’

He threw something through the bars. It splattered on the floor. She shivered at the cold red slime.

‘It’s Kimberly’s heart, Denise. She was a lovely, gentle girl. I have no complaints.’

Denise threw herself back against the wall and let out an agonized scream.

‘We worked on the first phase, Doctor, and that worked very well, but we did nothing on the second phase. I drove off, but I still wanted her. I needed to see her suffer. I had no strategies. None whatsoever. You left me quite unprepared.’

Denise was lying on her side, in pain. She started to cry as the monster stared at her through the bars.

‘When you do that, Dr Levene, that crying thing . . . what is it like? What does it feel like?’

Chapter One Hundred and Six

East Harlem

December 4, 1.30 a.m.

Harper didn’t wait around to watch the body being bagged, humped on to a gurney and rolled over bumpy ground to the waiting ambulance. He didn’t have the heart for anything. He wanted the world to swallow him up and make it all disappear. But he couldn’t say any of it. He snarled at Lafayette, walked away from his building and felt the nausea rising in his belly. He’d never be able to go in there again.

The killer had destroyed his home. Had Sebastian meant to do that? Why did Sebastian want to hurt him so badly?

The face of the corpse had been completely removed. How, they could only half imagine. All that was left was a thin layer of bloody flesh over the bone, and the dark holes of the eye sockets, nose and mouth.

Nothing from which they could identify her until they ran all the necessary tests. The agony was far from over. In fact, it was just beginning. I want you to feel pain, Tom Harper.

Harper took himself away to the East River and sat down to think. There was a riot of painful emotion going on in his head and he could hardly cut out the noise. He was at breaking point but he knew better than to give in to the chaos. He had to do the one thing he knew would keep him together. He had to go to work.

The East River was like black ink, tilting with bright streaks of moonlight. The odd picturesque boat chugged by and anyone might presume that the man sitting at the edge was just enjoying the scene.

In his head, the discipline was at work. Harper had a ferocious capacity for work and now was the time to draw upon it. Ignore the thump and throb of emotion, ignore his self-pity. Ignore everything except the forces of reason.

Only reason would catch the killer. Harper took a piece of chalk from his pocket and on the paving stones in front of him he started from day one. He wrote the names of the killer’s victims:

Chloe Mestella

Mary-Jane Samuelson

Grace Frazer

Amy Lloyd-Gardner

Jessica Pascal

Elizabeth Seale

Nate Williamson

Lottie Bixley

Kitty Hunyardi

Rose Stanhope

Senator Stanhope

Lucy James

Denise?

He took out his notebook and went through the notes he took of each scene. The poetry sprang from the page: Every angel is terrifying; Subtle he needs must be, who could seduce Angels.

Then he wrote: Abaddon. He looked at his list. What was this telling him? Sebastian had killed the Upper East Side girls. Had he also killed Lucy James and Lottie Bixley? Why did Sebastian want Tom to feel pain now? Why? What was the connection? The marks on the pavement were barely visible in the dark but Harper just kept staring. He wanted to know what connected these victims and he wanted to know why the killer was punishing him. A half-thought appeared in his mind. It caught his attention and then waited for him to consider the implications.

His mind had starting going there already, but with it all down in front of him it became crystal clear. It was about Mo, wasn’t it? It had to be. He had gone for Denise because Tom had gone for Mo. Sebastian had loved Mo. He was seeking revenge. What for and why didn’t matter, it just meant that the link was real.

But if he was punishing Harper, he was also playing games. He played a game with Elizabeth Seale. He’d said it was ‘sealed with a kiss’. Maybe Abaddon meant something? Maybe Abaddon meant something about Mo.

Detective Harper spoke the word slowly. ‘Abaddon.’ Abaddon. He recalled something from earlier in the investigation. What was it? The phone call after they released the fake profile. Sebastian had said something about Abaddon, but then he’d said something else. What was it?

Harper flicked through his notebook. He found the transcript of the phone call. There it was. That’s what he said. ‘I’m the American Devil. I’m Abaddon – that’s where I am. I’m a pure breed devil and I was raised in hell.’

Harper had looked up the word Abaddon – it was a name for the angel of destruction and he’d thought no more about it. Now he looked down more intently at the word.

I’m Abaddon, that’s where I am . . .

It was a curious phrase. Tom had taken Abaddon to be a person, an incarnation of the devil.

The cogs in Harper’s mind turned and clicked. A gear shifted.

He’d gone to Maurice’s room. Harper recalled it in slow motion, trying to picture it in his mind. Yes, he was sure. There was a photograph. Two boys. Obviously connected, maybe even family. The sign was obscured. Just the letter A was visible.

Abaddon, that’s where I am . . .

What did it mean? And now, again, he’d written it near the corpse of a woman whose identity he dared not think about. As a reminder, maybe? As a clue?

Abaddon, the name of the angel of destruction. Was that all it meant? What was Sebastian trying to tell him? Then it came all at once. Elaine’s voice. Elaine Fittas. Just before he heard the news about the body in his basement. What did she say?

‘Maybe he loved him.’

Abaddon wasn’t a name, was it? It was a place. It was the place where he and Mo started all this. They knew each other all right. They knew each other damn well!

Suddenly, the only sound on the vast dock was the heavy slap of Harper’s running footfalls.

Chapter One Hundred and Seven

Blue Team

December 4, 2.28 a.m.

Harper arrived back at Blue Team and ran up to Mark Garcia. ‘Garcia, how far have you got on Macy’s background?’

‘Nowhere beyond a few names,’ said Garcia. ‘No address as yet.’

‘Come on, I need to know where he lived in West Virginia.’

‘Why does it matter right now?’

‘Maybe Mo had a partner in crime back then, someone who also fucked up.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying that I think Sebastian and Mo knew each other back then. If I can get Mo’s details, then I can get closer to Sebastian’s, you understand?’

Garcia was nodding. He got it all right. ‘I’ll make the calls.’

‘What about these names? Is Macy his name? Is it his original name?’

‘No. He took the name of whatever family he was with, as far as I can tell. I’ve got six names in his file.’

‘Let me see them.’

Garcia handed over the file. Harper looked down the list of Mo’s surnames: Foster, Hummel, Dresden, Doberman, Quiller, Ash and Macy. ‘You got any details on any of these?’

‘Not yet, but I can ask. Thing is, no one’s going to be at work now. It’s the middle of the night.’

‘Call the local police, go county by county, see if you can get to the files that way,’ said Harper.

‘Okay, I’m on it.’

Harper paused for a half-second. ‘Any more on the girl in my building?’

‘Sorry, Harper, but they don’t know. Her prints are being checked against the database as we speak.’

Harper nodded and headed off back to his computer, trying not to think about the report from Latent Prints that would soon tell him the identity of the latest victim. He started to search again for Abaddon. Every web reference was to some thrash metal band or some images of the dark destroyer. He wanted something else: a meaning beyond the obvious. He knew this was a message from Sebastian. He found an original definition soon enough; Abaddon meant ‘a place of destruction’ not a person. That made sense. Sebastian was the American Devil and wherever he was was Abaddon. That’s what he meant. He was re-creating Abaddon again, collecting parts of his destruction in one place. But where was the original Abaddon?

Harper stared at the screen. Mo and Sebastian. If they had known each other and they were bad news, then there might be a quicker way to find them than calling every local sheriff’s office in West Virginia.

Harper called the West Virginia State Police. A gruff trooper answered and Harper explained who he was and what he was doing.

‘What’s the American Devil case got to do with us?’ said the trooper.

‘A girl called Chloe Mestella was murdered in West Virginia in 1982. That murder could have been the American Devil’s work. It might be his first kill, back when he was a kid. Listen, I’ve got a lead on a guy I’m trying to trace. He was arrested for attempted rape in New York but he grew up in West Virginia, and I’ve got no records for him. My guess is that he might have got in trouble a lot back then.’

‘Give me his name. I can see if our database can drag anything up for you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Harper. ‘Okay, his DOB is December 8, 1969. He was twelve at the time of the Chloe Mestella murder. His first name is Maurice or Mo, but I’ve got six possible surnames.’

‘We can run them all through,’ said the trooper.

‘He went under the following: Foster, Hummel, Dresden, Doberman, Quiller, Ash and Macy.’

‘I’ll try them all, Detective. Give me your number, I’ll call you back.’

Harper gave his number and thanked him. Like with everything in life, he’d have to wait. He sank back into his chair and started to trawl again through the details of the Chloe Mestella murder. The online archives gave the story he already knew. Another unsolved murder, a cold case.

Twenty minutes passed before the trooper called back. ‘Sorry, no arrest records for any of those names.’

‘None of them?’

‘Nothing. Sorry.’

Harper was about to hang up but he was desperate for a break and panicking at the thought that Denise might be dead. He looked at his notebook in front of him, the word Abaddon scrawled across the page. He threw out the line.

‘Does the word “Abaddon” mean anything to you?’

‘Can’t say it does. You want me to run that through our local database?’

‘That would be great.’

‘Okay, stay on the line, it’ll take a moment.’

Three minutes passed. Five. Then the trooper returned.

‘You still there, Detective Harper?’

‘I’m still here.’

‘We got nothing on record for Abaddon. It’s not a name or a place around here.’

‘Shit,’ said Harper.

‘Hold on, feller, listen up. The word threw up a link through to the local Cold Case Unit, but I can’t tell from this what it’s for. You want me to put you through?’

‘Yeah,’ said Harper.

The ringing tone went on and on. The trooper came back on the line. ‘Sorry, buddy, looks like you chose the wrong time of day, but you can take a look yourself.’

‘How?’

‘Well, the system’s showing a hit, Detective. Take a look on the cold case website and call me back. The details are up there. I’ll give you the link.’

Harper quickly typed in the link and the case came up before his eyes:

The Cold Case Unit of the West Virginia State Police is seeking information concerning the murder of Bethany Hummel, aged 14. The murder occurred on February 6, 1982. The victim was murdered in an abandoned fishing cabin on Abaddon farmstead in Pendleton County, West Virginia. Bethany was one of three sisters. The other two girls, the girls’ father, Mr Ned Hummel, and his two adopted sons were not hurt in the attack.

Mr Hummel became a farmer after retiring from business after the death of his wife. The Cold Case Unit is seeking anyone who may have information concerning Mr Hummel’s daughter and this investigation.

If you have information, please contact Sergeant John Eigen or contact your local State Police Detachment. If you wish to remain anonymous, you may submit a tip by clicking on Submit Online Tips on the main page.

Tom Harper’s head was spinning with the possibilities. Abaddon! Fucking Abaddon. It was the farmstead. It was a message and Harper had found it, right at its source. The American Devil had killed before Chloe Mestella. This was his first kill.

The whole case clicked together in his mind like a jigsaw puzzle that’d been keeping him at work all night. He saw it with crystal clarity. Harper called the state trooper right back. He wanted to know exactly what had happened to the girl. He wanted to know if the images in his head had any substance.

The trooper fetched up the full report. His gravelly voice came back on. ‘Bethany was hooded and taken to a fishing cabin by the river. She was kept there for a day and a half, they reckoned. Seemed the killer kept her and petted her. Then the murder was real violent.’

‘Thank you,’ said Harper. He was also thanking Elaine. Mo and Sebastian had killed together. Maybe Mo had taken this girl and Sebastian had just been unable to resist the temptation of a helpless victim. ‘Did they look at the Chloe Mestella case alongside this one?’ he asked.

‘Sure they did. There were reports of an itinerant farm hand. Both murders were close in date. They figured someone came through town, murdered these girls and moved on.’

‘The Hummel girl was held in a fishing hut, right?’

‘Yeah. All three girls went to bed and someone must’ve broke in and taken Bethany from her bed.’

‘Without raising the alarm?’

‘He probably threatened to kill her.’

Harper doubted it. The truth was harder to imagine than the story the cops had used to paper over the cracks. A crazed out-of-towner who blows in like a bad wind and takes your children. No, the truth was closer to home.

‘Do you have the names of the two Hummel boys?’

‘I can look them up. Hold for a moment.’

Harper waited on the line, listening to the sound of the officer clicking away on a keyboard. His heart was racing now. He tapped his fingers impatiently. Come on! Come on!

After a minute, the voice returned. ‘Here we are, Detective. Mr Hummel had delusions of grandeur, it seems. The two boys were called Maurice and Sebastian.’