Authors: Oliver Stark
88 Killer (33 page)
North Manhattan Homicide
March 14, 8.33 p.m.
T
he plan had been set. They didn’t even tell Lafayette the truth. They only wanted the three of them to know. Any more added extra layers of doubt. A single offhand word, the smallest indication that it was a fraud and they were dead in the water. And that meant Lucy and Abby were also dead.
The evidence was sealed in a brown paper evidence bag. Harper brought it into North Manhattan Homicide after a further visit to Lucy Steller’s apartment.
He threw it down on the table and called to Denise, ‘Hey, we’ve found something that might give up the clue to this boyfriend.’
‘What have you got?’ said Denise. The team listened in.
‘We’ve got a roll of film. Lucy used an old 35mm camera. She liked to take shots. This is dated the last week of May last year – anything in the journals?’
Denise nodded and moved towards her desk. The other members of Blue Team started to draw in.
‘What is it?’ asked Garcia.
‘Film from Lucy Steller’s place. Dated. Could have shots of the killer,’ said Harper.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Garcia, ‘and it’s just been sitting there all this time.’
‘Exactly.’
Denise rushed back over with an open journal. ‘That’s fantastic,’ she said. ‘Lucy spent the whole week with this guy in Yellowstone. This is dynamite.’
Harper banged the table. ‘We might just have him. Let’s get this down to the photographic lab, see if they can get us something.’
Harper made sure that the team spoke about the new evidence via email, radio and phone. He had no idea who the killer was or how and when he was listening, but things were getting increasingly tense so he presumed the killer had some direct line.
Harper, Kasper and Levene made their way down to the Forensic Unit’s photography labs. They checked in the evidence and walked through the corridors.
‘We need to stick with the evidence,’ said Harper. ‘If he comes, it has to be tonight. Tomorrow would be too late if we had the film.’
‘What about me?’ said Denise.
‘I want you to sit in the parking lot, keep an eye on who’s coming and going. Try to give us some warning.’
The three of them walked to the photographic lab and looked into the room. ‘That’s the in-tray over there,’ said Harper. ‘In thirty minutes that’s where our lure will be sitting.’
Lock-Up, Bedford-Stuyvesant
March 14, 9.15 p.m.
T
he killer threw open the door of the lock-up and went inside. Several dogs were around his feet. He stared into the cell where Lucy was lying and snarled, ‘You hid things from me!’
Lucy turned and shivered. ‘I didn’t do anything on purpose,’ she cried out.
The dogs ran into the room and darted up to the Plexiglass and the door of the cell. They could smell the new intruder and sense their master’s anger. The killer crossed to the cell and smashed the Plexiglass with his fist. ‘Think, Lucy, or I’ll cut your veins and let these dogs in.’
‘Think about what?’
‘
Me
, Lucy – images, pictures, videos of
me
.’
‘I . . . there weren’t . . . you made me destroy them.’
‘I thought I did, but you lied – you had more.’
‘No.’
‘Think, Lucy. You have three minutes to let me know what was on that film.’
‘What film?’
‘Yellowstone. Our trip. What was on that film.’
‘I . . .’
‘Three minutes.’
The killer left and the dogs continued to circle and bark and jump up against her cell.
A moment later, he returned with a large package. He heaved it into the corner. It was a white powder. A chemical with a big hazard sign emblazoned on the side.
‘This is going to end badly, Lucy,’ he shouted. ‘They think they’ve got me cornered, but I’ve got something in store for them.’
‘What is it?’
‘Ammonium nitrate, Lucy.’
‘What for?’
‘You’ll find out one way or another.’
The killer left again and returned with another sack of the same white granules. He hauled it across to the corner. Lucy was staring, petrified. He left again and returned with two bags of nails and threw them on the ground next to the sacks.
‘I didn’t take any pictures of you. You didn’t allow me.’
‘Secret pictures, Lucy. Did you take any secret pictures?’
‘Only pictures of the park, and the marmoset and the moose. Not you. I promise.’
‘Not good enough. One minute and they’ll eat you alive.’
The killer brought in two three-foot pipes that had been sawn down. He threw them to the side, then shut the door.
‘Things are changing quickly, Lucy. The world is changing quickly too. It’s not enough to live, you have to make a difference, leave a legacy. I could’ve gone on for years, but things change. They want this to end badly? Well, that’s what it’s going to do.’
‘I can’t help,’ she said.
The killer marched across to the door and grabbed a large German Shepherd by the scruff of its neck.
‘Let’s see how honest you’re being.’ He opened the bolt and entered the cell. The dog saw Lucy. She was weeping and crying and shaking. The German Shepherd barked and bared its teeth.
The killer kicked the door shut and moved across, holding the dog firmly. ‘Now, Lucy, what was on that film?’
He moved the dog’s snapping jaw close to Lucy’s face. The teeth flashed and the bark was high and persistent. She shook and held her hands to her ears.
‘You!’ she shouted. ‘A picture of you!’
The killer moved back. ‘You were always a liar and a coward. What faith did you ever show me? None. I loved you so much and you gave me nothing, and now this. You betray me to the cops.’
‘I didn’t do anything on purpose. I really don’t know. I really don’t.’
‘It’s over now,’ he said. ‘It’s all going to change. It’s going to be big. It’s going to change the world for good.’
Photography Labs, Manhattan
March 15, 2.15 a.m.
T
he CSU photography lab was built of slabs of cinder block which were painted black. Rows of computers ranged one wall, while the rest of the room was lined with different lenses, enlargers and projectors. To the right, a room with a red light held the developing lab.
The majority of photographic work undertaken by the team was digital. Fewer and fewer jobs involved film, and when they did, the team soon uploaded the pictures on to a screen to enlarge and manipulate.
Still, most cops liked big glossy prints and the unit processed hundreds of prints each day, collecting the vast array of disturbing images from crime scenes across the city and sending out prints for the files.
The analysis work was complicated too. Working out locations from the merest details or the time of day from the detail of a single shadow. It was a busy, round-the-clock office except for now.
The last of the team had clocked off at 11 p.m., leaving Harper and Kasper alone. As agreed, Denise was stationed outside in a car.
Inside the building, the corridors went quiet. The night lights flickered on, providing just enough light to allow the security guards to walk the long tour of duty through the facility. The security guards were still patrolling, but tonight they had been told to leave any lone intruder to Harper and Kasper.
Harper had placed the package on the counter by the far wall. He figured that the killer would see it from the corridor, through the big plate-glass window. But to put his hands on it, he would have to walk into the lab and past the three-tier shelving units.
Behind the first unit, Harper was sitting with his gun on the shelf. He had moved the boxes and books to give him a vantage point. Kasper was on the opposite side of the room. They could just about see each other to signal.
They waited, sitting on uncomfortable boxes, listening out and wondering if their plan would work.
Harper hunkered down, his eyes peering out through the shelves, his phone on vibrate.
He called Denise.
‘How’s it looking out there?’
‘It’s all dead quiet. There’s a beautiful moon in the sky.’
‘I’ve got a view of a dim corridor, want to swap?’
‘No, I’ve never much liked waiting for serial killers.’
‘It never improves,’ said Harper.
‘How’s Eddie?’
‘He’s fallen asleep twice.’
‘Nice to know he’s relaxed.’
‘He would sleep on Death Row.’
Denise stopped. She turned her head. ‘I can hear something.’
‘What is it?’
Denise listened. There was a faint sound. A car somewhere in the distance. Perhaps it was rolling towards her, perhaps it was a street further along. Then in the distance, she spotted headlights.
‘We’ve got a car heading our way.’
‘Type?’
‘Difficult to tell. Going slowly. Engine’s hardly audible.’
‘Okay, slip out of sight, we don’t want him to spot you.’
‘I’m way off the lot, so we should be fine,’ said Denise. She looked out at the car. ‘The car’s stopped quite a way up the drive.’
‘Can you make the car out or the plate?’
‘Can’t see any detail.’
Harper checked his gun automatically and called across to Eddie: ‘We’ve got a visitor.’
Denise watched closely. The car was parked along the dark driveway. She saw the door open and someone get out. They went around to the back of the car, opened the trunk and took something out.
‘What’s going on?’ said Harper.
‘One guy. He’s taken something from the trunk. He’s not coming my way. He’s walking across the lawn to the side of the building.’
‘He’s probably going for the back entrance,’ said Harper. ‘Let us know if you see anything else.’
Denise agreed and hung up. She stared out. The car was still, the lights out, and the figure disappeared around the side of the building.
Lock-Up, Bedford-Stuyvesant
March 15, 2.43 a.m.
F
orty minutes of silence. Lucy counted it by the minute. She had heard the door shut and the dogs yap around him, but she waited forty minutes until she dared stand up.
Her legs felt tired as she stood. She looked out through the Plexiglass at a small garage. She stared open-mouthed at the sight that met her eyes. A large Nazi flag against the wall and a desk with a typewriter and Nazi memorabilia all around. A map of Manhattan had been stuck to the wall. The madman had drawn thick lines around the Jewish areas as if creating his own twenty-first-century ghetto.
Lucy tried to think back to the man she’d met. He’d seemed so normal, so kind at the start. But it hadn’t lasted. He started to get possessive almost within the first week. Just the smallest sign, here and there. Not aggressive at that point, but he was just too interested in what she did when she wasn’t with him.
It took two months for it to flourish into an all-out obsession. He said he loved her and wanted to understand her. He was obsessed by Jews from the start, as if they possessed something he never could. What was it? Belonging? That’s why he wanted to possess her, body, mind and soul. Possess her and control her.
She stared at the tubes leading from the roof of the homemade cell to a structure on the other side of the room. She didn’t want to think about it any more. He had lost his mind. He had turned crazy when she rejected him. But she didn’t know what else to do. He had wanted her to never go out. He had wanted her to submit herself entirely to him. He had wanted her to clean his boots to prove her subservience.
She said no. And then he stalked her. She had been scared but thought it would just pass. Lucy’s eyes moved around the room. It hadn’t passed. His obsession had deepened. She wondered if he had been indulging in these fascist fantasies the whole time they were together. She thought back, remembered things they’d done. Her body convulsed with horror and disgust, as she began to realize that she had always been some puppet with which he was playing games of lust and disgust. To which he was as repulsed as he was attracted.
Lucy understood the Nazi images. The powerful confident black and red insignia was a way of controlling and dominating human fear and resentment, and trying to make the revulsion and attraction – the full neurosis – into something meaningful and ordered.
Her eyes moved across to another door. It was the door to a closet. Lucy remembered what he had said about a girl called Abby. She had read about the missing girl. She’d been missing for days already. Lucy’s eyes widened. It seemed so much worse to her that another human being was caught and imprisoned. Her heart welled up and her hand moved instinctively over her mouth. Abby might be there, a few yards away. Abby might already be dead.
Lucy moved as close as she could to the door; she scraped her mouth and teeth against the wall until the duct tape pulled away, then she called out, ‘Abby.’ And she kept calling over and over again, terrified by the silence that came from the closed door.
Photography Labs, Manhattan
March 15, 3.55 a.m.
F
or nearly two hours, Harper and Kasper had been sitting tense and ready, but no one came. Harper called Denise to ask for an update. ‘We’ve got nothing down here,’ he whispered. ‘Anything happening?’
‘No one’s come in or gone out.’
‘Maybe he’s waiting for the security guard’s shift to change.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Denise.
Eddie suddenly signaled across the counter. Harper looked across. Eddie’s gun pointed into the corridor. Harper turned. A single flashlight streaked across the hallway.
‘He’s here,’ whispered Harper. He lifted his gun to shoulder height. The beam flickered across the corridor from the ceiling to the floor. Someone was walking towards the room.
The plan was simple.
Catch the killer and don’t kill him
. If they killed him, it would mean they might never find Lucy and Abby. And if they felt it wasn’t safe to arrest him, they had to wound him.
Inside the room, they couldn’t hear footsteps from the corridor, but the beam of light grew until it stopped at the glass door to the photography lab. The light turned towards them and hovered over the shelves. Harper held his breath. The light moved slowly around the room, then disappeared and the sound of the handle turning seemed to slow time.
The door opened with a low squeak and the light beam returned. Harper stared across at Eddie.
The figure moved towards the counter, paused and scanned his flashlight across the room.