Compromised (21 page)

“Hell of a birthday present to give yourself,” Gus commented as we pulled up outside Mott Street Storage, a converted six-story building with the windows bricked up and some of the most original graffiti I’d seen in a great while. The graffiti artists had exhibited some wicked imagination. They’d drawn a couple of sistas twerking a brutha front and rear. To tell you the truth, I had no idea a woman’s butt could actually be that big.

“What do you think of the artwork?” I asked.

Gus smiled and then sang, “I like big butts, and I cannot lie.”

Less than an hour had passed since leaving Coffer’s basement apartment. We checked in at the front desk. We already had the key to the storage unit, but we needed to show ID before entering the main storage unit area. Gold badges are accepted everywhere—well, except as all-access passes at Disney World. We took the elevator to the top floor and held our noses as we marched past several units. Apparently there weren’t enough urinals in the facility.

We unlocked unit 611. It could’ve contained the bodies of the two women who hadn’t been found or worse, but it didn’t. It contained lumber and a table saw. The boards were pine, like the wood of the blanket trunk Serafina Ramirez had been bound to. Taped to the wall was a blueprint for the construction of a trunk that looked roughly identical to the one found at the Serafina Ramirez crime scene. A partially built trunk sat on the floor of the unit. It was obviously a multiday project and appeared to be about halfway complete. Fortunately the incomplete trunk was one that Coffer would never have the opportunity to use.

“What would drive someone to do this?” Gus asked.

“A badly messed-up childhood, trauma, abusive parents . . . Who knows what pushes someone this far over the edge. There are a lot of screwed-up people in the world. Fortunately they’re not all serial killers.”

“Ma said he had a terrible stutter and that the other kids picked on him mercilessly.”

“That’s a good start, but I’m sure there was more. All the ridicule he must’ve taken over his stuttering no doubt led to low self-esteem, but something traumatic must’ve happened to him that made him snap. There must’ve been a trigger, an incident that launched him into murder mode.”

Most serial killers approach their victims in a social situation and talk them into getting in their car or try some other ruse to get them alone. I wondered if Serafina had known Reggie. I’m sure she’d have been more trusting of someone she was familiar with—it only stood to reason. “Let’s look around to see if there’s anything here besides tools and lumber, something that will explain Coffer’s connection to his victims.”

“We’ll have to make it fast,” Gus said, holding his phone so that I could see the display. A text message indicated that Jack Burns was at the police station and that he was asking for me.

February 1, 2015

The smile on Reggie’s face told a lie.

His evil heart held the truth.

It was Super Bowl Sunday, and the streets were empty. More than 118 million people were watching the-game-to-end-all-games from the comfort and privacy of their homes—at least those who were lucky enough to have a home. Reggie was not so fortunate. He had been homeless for more than two months, living in his car and crashing with others when and where he could.

He sat in his car, silently watching a lone teenage girl cutting through the parking lot in great haste. On his lap rested a small empty bag and the syringe he had used to mainline cocaine. He’d felt hopeless only moments before as he faced the reality that his life had hit absolute rock bottom. He’d been caught smoking pot in the school basement where he worked as a custodian and had been let go that Friday afternoon.

A security guard had watched as he cleaned out his employee locker, not knowing that the duffel bag he removed contained the IDs of the four women he’d killed, along with straps, neckties, and scarves, the choices of bindings he’d used to lash his victims to wooden trunks. He enjoyed picking the appropriate paraphernalia for each of his victims—expensive silk scarves to mock the poorly paid Nina Stoffer and theatrical attire for pretty little Lara, the theater major with the big blue eyes.

It took just scant seconds for the wicked stimulant to reach his brain and tear down the black walls that surrounded him. He could feel his every inhibition being stripped away.

Her friends called her Sara, but he knew the name was short for Serafina. She was one of the more popular girls at school, a long-legged, raven-haired beauty who was also sweet and kind to everyone, including stuttering Reggie the custodian, who was often the butt of students’ cruel jokes. She had always acknowledged him with a pleasant smile when they passed in the school corridors, and he felt confident that she would do the same when she recognized him sitting in the car.

He assumed that she was still too far away to see his face clearly, but he knew who she was, not because his vision was better than hers, but from the way she moved, the unmistakable rhythm of her walk. He had watched her stroll down the school corridors many times and had memorized the ebb and flow of her provocative gait.

Happy birthday, Reggie,
he mused. He’d have preferred to have crossed paths with one of the nasty girls from school who’d belittled him in front of her friends, but Serafina . . . she was sweet and unassuming, naive, and trusting to a fault, and there was more. She was the adopted daughter of his old friend Jack, a kid he had never liked and would enjoy bringing sorrow to. He took a moment to envision her in his kill room in the abandoned loft where he had been squatting. He pictured her fine young body naked and fixed in position at the foot of the bed. His nerves sizzled with excitement.

He stashed his drug paraphernalia in the center console and checked his lap to ensure that it was not coated with fine cocaine powder. Taking precaution not to appear obvious, he continued to monitor her forward progress through the dark parking lot by stealing furtive glances he felt would go unnoticed. She seemed to be in a hurry as she traversed the cold, windswept lot.

She was no more than twenty feet away when he glanced up, his eyes locking on hers, a warm smile and a contrived look of surprise on his face. He waved to her in a casual manner, and she waved back. He assessed that she was not alarmed by their chance encounter and found the courage to roll down the window. He’d been let go after recess on Friday and was confident that the students hadn’t yet heard of his dismissal. “It’s freezing out here,” he said. “Where are you going, S-Sara?”

Serafina came to a stop beside the driver’s door and smiled, her cheeks rosy from the biting cold. Her hands were in the pockets of her short quilted jacket. She pressed her fists together to prevent the wind from rushing up her jacket. “Hi, Reg,” she said, greeting him with a smile.

It looked as if she were taking a moment to examine the badly weathered paint on the beat-up old Honda, and to scan the backseat, which was strewn with his clothes. He saw her eyes come to rest on the soft-sided bag that was next to him on the passenger seat.

“I’m going to my friend Ginger’s house.”

“Is this a short cut? I mean cutting through the p-parking lot?”

She nodded.

“Gonna watch the Super Bowl with G-Ginger and her family?”

“No.” She smiled. “Don’t think so.”

“Not so much a girl’s thing, is it?”

She shook her head and shivered. “Nope, but I’m sure Ginger’s father will be watching—he’s a big football fan. I want to see Katy Perry at halftime, though. She really rocks. So how come you’re not home watching the game?”

He shrugged. “I had to r-run an errand,” he said as Ginger’s face appeared in his mind. She was one of the uppity girls who treated him like dirt. “Say, doesn’t Ginger live a g-good ways from here?”

A more suspicious soul might’ve have given the question more thought. He saw her counting her fingers and realized that she was calculating the blocks remaining in her journey. “I guess so,” She replied.

Ha,
he mused.
She doesn’t suspect a thing.

He knew where all the girls lived, especially Ginger, who slept in her bra and panties and often neglected to pull down the shade before retiring for the night.

Serafina shivered visibly, and he responded to the inadvertent cue, “Christ, you’re f-freezing. Jump in, and I’ll run you over there.”

“Ah, that’s all right. I’m okay.”

“It’s on my way,” he volunteered “I d-don’t mind.”

She was naive but not stupid. She wrinkled her nose. “No. I don’t think so. Thanks anyway.” She turned and was about to leave when she heard the rumble of muscle car exhaust and glanced up to see a black Malibu lowrider filled with men entering the parking lot, each of them leering at her with intent. She tugged down on the bottom of her jacket to cover her rear end.

“I d-don’t think it’s safe for you out here,” Reggie said. “Maybe you’d better let me . . .”

She accepted on impulse. “Okay. Those guys are making me nervous.”

He reached over to unlock the passenger door, and Serafina leaped from the frying pan into the fire.

Reggie’s story had completely unfolded by the time we arrived at the station house.
Social Security records showed that he’d been a custodian in Serafina’s high school. A few calls helped us fill in the blanks. He’d been fired for using an illegal substance on school property, and the department of education had benevolently handled the repeat violation, terminating him without filing a police report so as not to prevent him from finding work outside the education system.

The Lara Eldridge connection had been made clear as well. Prior to working for the New York City Department of Education, he was a maintenance employee for a vendor who routinely did work for the Rutgers University theater department. He repaired stage riggings and had likely met or seen Lara several times and knew that she stayed late at the auditorium on a regular basis.

We’d originally thought that Nina Stoffer was his first victim, but the discovery of additional driver licenses indicated differently. He’d had several jobs over the years, holding onto each for no more than a few months at a time. He’d been fired from a job four years ago for stalking some of the female employees after work—Barbara Anne McGuire was one of the women he’d harassed. She’d disappeared just thirty days after Coffer had been let go. He was questioned by the police but not considered a viable suspect. We now knew how large a blunder that had been and that another four women had since died because of the mistake. There was a fifth victim, Joan Jenkins, but we hadn’t yet figured out her connection to Coffer. I was still wondering about the incident that had pushed him over the edge and transformed him from a disturbed individual to a killer.

Jack Burns had come in on his own and asked to speak with me but hadn’t disclosed the reason for his visit. Gus and I already considered him a primary suspect in Reggie Coffer’s homicide, but we hadn’t yet shared that info with anyone else on the force, despite believing wholeheartedly that he’d found those ID cards and licenses and killed Coffer for murdering Serafina. He had motive up the wazoo, but at the moment there was no forensic evidence and no witnesses to connect him with the crime.

I watched Jack Burns through the two-way mirror for some minutes before entering the interrogation room. I wanted to shake his hand and tell him that he was a hero, but I knew that I could never utter those words. I understood his motivation completely, yet when I sat down across the table from him, the first question I asked was, “Why?”

He looked tortured, more so than the last time I’d seen him. His eyes were red and strained, and I sensed that the weight of the world rested upon his shoulders.

“What do you mean why?”

I sensed that he was about to unburden himself, come clean as it were, and accept his punishment, but once he did . . .

“Just a minute.” I got up, pulled the blinds, and made sure that the video camera and microphone were switched off. “You know that you have the right to an attorney, don’t you, Jack? Maybe you ought to think about that before saying anything else.”

“There’s no point, Chalice.” He smiled sadly. “You know, that’s what I used to call your dad. Anyway, I’m too tired to play games. You and I both know what happened.”

By coming to the station, he’d saved us the trouble of picking him up for questioning, but that didn’t mean he’d made a smart decision. “I don’t think you want to tell me what you’re talking about.”

“What?”

“Once the words come out of your mouth, they’re on record. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“But . . .”

“As far as I know, you’ve never been to prison. And I can tell you unequivocally that you wouldn’t like it very much, Jack. It’s every terrible thing you’ve ever heard or imagined multiplied by a thousand. Do you hear what I’m telling you?”

His face was a study in puzzlement. “Why are you trying to help me?”

I had my reasons but couldn’t say. “Why don’t you tell me what happened to your arm first.”

“Why?”

“Because I asked.”

“But I told you, I—”

“I know what you told me. Now tell me the truth.”

“I—”

“I said tell me the truth, Jack.”

“We’re getting away from the point.”

“Humor me, okay?”

He pressed his lips together and seemed very uncertain. After a moment, I could see that he was weakening. “I was on my way home the other night, and I saw these two big kids pushing around another boy. I yelled at them, but they wouldn’t stop, and when I got closer, I could see that the kid they were pushing around . . .” He shook his head. “The third kid was kind of tall and very skinny. He reminded me of . . . damn it, he reminded me of what I looked like when I was a kid.”

“They had knives?”

“Yeah. Well, I know at least one of them did because he had it out. I’m not sure about the other. There are a lot of kids in the neighborhood who are hooked on drugs. I’m sure they were after money and figured they’d found an easy mark. I had a hammer in my tool belt, so I pulled it out and threatened them with it, but I was too slow. The one with the knife sliced my arm. I screamed bloody murder, and I guess they got shook and took off.”