At four-ten, just as Irving believed that he would never feel anything other than desperation and futility, a CSA came to the booth with a message for him. He was to call Karen Langley. It was urgent.
′John needs to speak to you,′ she told Irving. ′Where are you?′
Irving told her, gave her the number, and within minutes Costello was on the line.
′John . . . what′s up?′
′It′s a cop,′ he said.
′What?′ It was as if Irving had suddenly dropped off the edge of
something and was plummeting toward the ground.
′No, shit . . . I didn′t mean to say that,′ Costello replied. ′I guess you′ve been looking at the footage from the park, right?′
′Yes, I have . . . but the cop thing, John. What the—′
′Someone posing as a cop,′ Costello said. ′There were lots of cops down there. He was in amongst them. It′s the Bianchi killing, right? Apparently the Hillside Stranglers posed as cops. Remember what I told you? About the fact that people got so scared they wouldn′t even stop for the police? They posed as cops. That′s how they did it. I think he was there in the park. I think he was there and he was dressed as a cop. That′s how he got close, and that′s how he had the opportunity to take the picture.′
Turner was beside Irving, frowning.
′Jesus . . . Jesus . . .′ Irving was saying.
′I think that he was there, Ray, I really do.′
′Okay, okay . . . right . . . I′m back on it. I′ll call you. Hell, no . . . I can′t—′
′You got a pen?′
′A pen? Sure—′
′This is my number, Ray. It′s not in the book. I′m trusting you with it, okay?′
′Okay, yes . . . sure.′
Costello gave him the number. Irving wrote it down. Irving thanked him, hung up, looked at Turner.
′We have to find a cop with a camera,′ he said matter-of-factly, and started back toward the booth.
NBC were the ones who caught him. A motorcycle cop. The only one present. He never removed his helmet, and despite the lack of sunshine he didn′t remove his shades. He was in the frame for literally a handful of seconds, crossing the grass ten or fifteen yards from where Lynette Berry lay naked and cold. He held something in his hand which, at first, Irving assumed was his radio, but thanks to the quality of the digital system that NBC employed as standard they were able to enlarge the sequence frame by frame. A cellphone. Presumably a camera phone. And it was this with which he′d taken the picture of Irving and Costello. The clarity of image gave them the ID number on his jacket, they traced the number and found it was invalid.
Irving′s frustration was epic.
′Jesus Christ, Ray, how in fuck′s name were you ever supposed to know?′ Turner asked him.
′He was there, Jeff. He was right there. Twenty yards from where we were standing. The guy was right fucking there and—′
′And you didn′t know, and could never have known, and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it now. You have a guy in shades and a motorcycle helmet. All we can judge from this is his approximate height and weight—′
Irving rose from his chair. He paced the room, thumped the wall a couple of times near the door, and then stood with his eyes closed. He was trying to center himself, trying to find some way he could feel something other than futility and desperation.
′Maybe he stole the bike, Ray. Check on whether there have been any police bikes stolen—′
′I know, I know.′ Irving raised his hands and clenched his fists. ′I know where to go from here . . . it′s just we were within fucking shouting distance of the guy and—′ He gritted his teeth, stood there shaking his fists, his eyes closed, the muscles and veins visible in his neck.
After a while he lowered his arms, stood silently with his head bowed. ′Print me some hard copies of what we′ve got,′ he said quietly. ′Closeups of the side of his head, the jacket, the ID number . . . whatever you can make out, okay? Can you send them over to the Fourth soon as you′re done?′
′I′ll do them now. You can wait—′
′I gotta get out of here, Jeff. I gotta go get some air or something. I′m gonna . . . Jesus, I don′t what the fuck—′
′Go,′ Turner said. ′I′ll get this stuff over to you within the hour.′
Irving thanked him, opened the door and let it slam shut behind him. He walked out through the crime lab and up the stairs to the street. He went around the block twice and then made his way to the car.
It was close to six, the traffic was really bad; it took him nearly an hour to reach the Fourth.
Turner came back with the autopsy results and the crime scene report simultaneously. Forensics had cigarette butts, a size eleven Nike sneaker print, a discarded can of Coke with three unidentified partials, a single blond hair caught in Lynette Berry′s pubis. There was no sign of rape, no subcutaneous bruising, no tape residue from the wrists or ankles. She had been sedated with a strong barbiturate at some point within the twenty-four hours preceding her death. COD was asphyxiation; strangled with a piece of fabric, fibers from that fabric nowhere at the scene or on the body. Autopsy gave Irving nothing further. Central Park was the secondary, and from a series of small scratches on Lynette Berry′s right shoulder, those scratches carrying a residue of motor oil, she had more than likely struggled involuntarily, despite the sedative, in an area where a vehicle had been parked. A garage, an auto shop, there was no way to tell. Once again, as with Mia Grant and Carol-Anne Stowell, the primary was unknown.
At twenty past eight Ray Irving called Karen Langley′s desk and got her voicemail. He left no message; he wasn′t even sure what he would have said had she answered. He sat in the incident room staring at the boards on the wall. Lynette Berry′s face had been added to the group, and she looked back at him from a picture that had been taken very recently. She was a pretty girl, and from what he knew she had been a better-than-average student, no drug habit, nothing in the tox report but the barbiturates. Mother was alive, father was dead, three sisters, one brother, and she was the youngest of them all. Why she′d turned to hooking, all of nineteen years old and the world there ahead of her, Irving would never know. Casualties of war - that′s how they all seemed to him now. Which war and who was fighting it, he didn′t have a clue. An internal war, something that existed solely within the mind of one man, or a war against something, or someone, from the past - a hated sister, a cheating girlfriend, a sadistic mother. There was always a reason, however irrational, and knowing that reason served only one purpose: to prevent further loss of life. For Irving, the reason was just as unknown now as it had been when he walked toward the plastic-wrapped body of a teenager back at the beginning of June.
He typed his daily report for Farraday, the details of the photograph, the courier company, the information from The New York Times, and before completing it he called Jeff Turner.
′Nothing,′ Turner said. ′Only prints on the picture are those from your guy at The Times. The note that came with it . . . best I can do is that it was printed on a Hewlett Packard laser printer, an older model, maybe a 4M or a 4M Plus. Picture was printed on a generic brand of paper, available in a million different places. That′s as good as it gets I′m afraid.′
Irving thanked him, ended the call, added the frustrating last paragraph to his report. He instigated an action on any stolen police motorcycles, forwarded it to every police precinct in the city, marked URGENT, and then signed off.
He took his coat from the back of the door and left.
It was nine-eighteen, the sky was clear. He drove to Carnegie′s simply for the warmth, for the familiar sounds, for the presence of people who knew nothing of the Anniversary Man.
FORTY-FIVE
Morning of Friday 20th a report came in regarding a stolen police motorcycle, taken from an NYPD-approved auto shop in Bedford-Stuyvesant, not far from Tompkins Square Park. The bike had been logged in on Saturday 14
th, had remained uninspected until the afternoon of Tuesday 17th. According to the logbook, an initial inspection of the bike had occurred at three thirty-five on that Tuesday afternoon. It had been given a clean bill of health aside from the routine oil/brake-fluid/tire-pressure maintenance procedure, and nothing further had been done until the request came through from the Twelfth Precinct.
It was the desk sergeant who called Irving, relayed the report, and gave him the address of the shop. Irving went down there, arrived a little before noon, and spoke with the owner.
′I don′t know what to tell you,′ he told Irving. His name was Jack Brookes, seemed eager to assist in any way he could. ′We′ve been handling this business for years, never had a problem. Can′t believe this has happened. Gonna make it very difficult to keep the contract.′ He shook his head resignedly. ′It was logged in, inspected, a service was put on the schedule, and we would have gotten to it tomorrow. If the inventory request hadn′t come in we wouldn′t have known it was missing for another twenty-four hours.′
Irving had Brookes show him where the bikes were kept. They had a small secure warehouse facility, perhaps thirty or thirty-five bikes on site, and no CCTV.
′CCTV isn′t a requisite for the contract,′ Brookes said. ′Usually they′re in and out of here within a day or so, certainly those that just need a service, but we′ve had some damaged bikes come in and they′ve been priority. Couple of them should have been scrapped, but I think someone is tightening up the budget, you know?′
Irving thanked Brookes, let him go. He spent an hour walking around the compound. He asked questions of the crew, the mechanics, the admin staff. Ordinarily the motorcycle officers just came in to collect their own machines. Irving′s photographer could have walked right in, his uniform being the only identification needed, and just wheeled a bike right out of the warehouse. The auto-shop had a good working relationship with the police, they′d never had trouble, and operated on the basis that there was none on its way.
Irving left close to two with a heavy heart and a headache.
From the Fourth he called Costello at home.
′You were right,′ he said. ′Motorcycle cop. Took a bike from an auto shop anytime since last Tuesday. No-one remembers anything, no CCTV, nothing.′
′He knows what he′s doing,′ Costello said. ′Perfectionist.′
′But why . . .′ Irving was voicing a thought rather than intending a question.
′Cause he′s fucking nuts,′ Costello replied matter-of-factly. ′I don′t think you need to get any more complicated than that.′
Irving was silent for a moment, and then he said, ′So how are you doing?′
′I′m okay, you know? It shook me up, seeing my picture in the paper. It really shook me up. But today? Today I′m actually okay. I′m going to go in after lunch, go see Karen, see what needs doing.′
′And the weekend?′
′Whatever. I don′t make plans. I stay home usually, watch some movies, but you have my number now . . . if you need me.′
′Appreciated, John. I′ll call if this goes anyplace.′
′Best of luck, eh?′
′Overrated commodity,′ Irving said. ′Very fucking overrrated.′
Irving hung up the phone. He leaned forward and rested his forehead against the edge of his desk.
He was so tired, so unbearably exhausted that if the phone had not rung he might have fallen asleep.
FORTY-SIX
The letter had arrived with the regular mail. It was addressed URGENT RUSH PLEASE HURRY to Karen Langley. Karen opened it, read it, dropped it on her desk and called Ray Irving.
She had been out all morning, had arrived back minutes before to start through her mail, and there it was.
Irving put the light on his car and floored it to West 31st. He told her to stay put, do nothing, call no-one, not to touch the letter. His heart pounded in his chest all the way. His mouth was dry and bitter, though his hands sweated.
By the time Irving arrived John Costello was there, had already seen the letter.
′Plain white bond,′ he told Irving. ′I haven′t touched it. I know what it means.′
Written in a childlike print on a single sheet, the message was clear and disturbing:one killed in new
york
light Brown hair
Blue eyes
New York
Buffalo
would Have Been strangled
with white cord
gold ear
pins
had dress
inside apartment
white pretty teeth
with gap in front
Top Teeth
Blue eyes small pin
Ear
Hair below shoulders
through over
Bridge
with head and fingers
missing
Irving read it twice, standing ahead of Karen Langley′s desk, Langley to his right, Costello to his left.
′Henry Lee Lucas,′ Costello said. ′This is one of his confession letters from October 1982.′
′And the victim?′
′God, any one of dozens. He had a partner, a guy called Ottis Toole, and they went on a rampage along the I-35 in Texas.′
′MOs?′
′No one particular thing. They shot some people, beat them to death, strangled, set others on fire, crucified them. Usually they were sex killings. They raped and sodomised people. They had a couple of kids with them, a thirteen-year-old girl who they used as bait to get truck drivers to stop on the highway, and then they dragged them out and killed them.′
Irving took a deep breath. ′And the dates?′
′There′s a number of them throughout October and November if that′s what you′re asking.′
Irving nodded. ′That′s what I′m asking.′
′So what do you do with this?′ Karen asked, indicating the letter.
′You got a plastic bag, a folder or something, anything to put it in? It′ll go to forensics. I′ll take it down there, see if there′s anything on it. If earlier letters are anything to go by there won′t be.′
Irving looked up at Karen Langley. Her face was pale, drained of color, and her eyes were wide. ′He knows who we are,′ she said, her voice almost a whisper. ′He photographed John, and now he sent this to me—′
′It′s not a threat against you—′ Irving started.
′How do you know that, Ray? How do you know that it′s not a threat against me?′
He started to respond, and then realized he had nothing to say.
′You don′t know, do you?′ she said. ′We don′t know anything about him. We don′t know what he′s trying to do. We don′t know—′ She stopped mid-sentence, tears welling in her eyes. She backed up and sat down on a chair by the window.
Irving walked toward her, kneeled before her, took her hands in his.
′I′ll have someone at your house,′ he said reassuringly. ′I′ll have a black-and-white in the vicinity of your house. I′ll have someone come and see you at home. I′ll make sure that if he has any such idea—′
Karen shook her head. ′Jesus, Ray, what the fuck did we do to deserve this? What the hell does this have to do with us?′
′We′re just the opponents,′ John Costello said. ′This is a game and we′re the opponents, nothing more nor less than that. He has to have someone to play against, and we′re right there in the frame.′
′But this is different,′ Karen said. ′This is very fucking different now. I mean, Jesus, I′ve seen some things in my time, we all have. But it′s out there isn′t it? I mean . . . I mean it′s out there in the world, and we look at it, and we write about it, and sometimes we see pictures, but this . . .′
She started hyperventilating.
Irving glanced at Costello. He felt awkward. He wanted to hold this woman, to pull her tight, tell her that it was going to be fine, that everything was going to be okay, but he didn′t believe that, and Costel
lo′s presence made him feel awkward.
Karen tried to fingertip the tears from her lower lids and merely smeared her mascara. She looked beaten down, overwhelmed.
′I don′t want to feel like this,′ she said, ′so frightened . . . he knows who we are, Ray . . . he sent this letter to me, for God′s sake.′
She took a deep breath. She closed her eyes and exhaled. When she opened her eyes she looked at Costello.
′I agree with Ray,′ Costello said. ′He′s not going to come after us. Why would he? This isn′t about us, this is about him. This is about him doing whatever the hell he likes and getting away with it. This is about him performing his little theater and watching as the NYPD and the newspaper and the TV stations all start to sit up and take notice. If he comes after us then who′s going to be left to play the game with him?′
Karen gathered herself together. She fetched a Kleenex from her purse and tried to fix her mascara. ′I need some coffee,′ she said. ′I′m gonna go get some coffee from the canteen.′ She rose from the chair and straightened her skirt. ′You want some?′
Irving said he would, Costello declined, and once she′d left the room Irving sat in her chair and looked over the letter.
′You actually believe what you just told her?′ he asked.
Costello shook his head. ′No,′ he replied.
′Me neither.′
′And there′s not going to be anything on that letter that will get us any closer toward his identity.′
′I′d put money on it.′
′Was there anything from the scene in the park?′
′Nothing useful.′
′So all we know is that he has done, or is going to do, a Henry Lee Lucas killing.′
′Can you put together a calendar of the killings that were attributed to him?′ Irving asked.
′I sure can . . . you wanna wait while I do it now?′
′Please, yes. That′d be good.′
Costello left the room.
Irving walked to the window and looked down into the street, was still there when Karen Langley returned with coffee and her false hope that this wasn′t personal.