′Okay?′ Irving asked.
′As can be.′
′I′m just waiting for some info from John, and then I′m going to take the letter to the forensics people.′
′Can you really get someone to check out my house?′
′Sure I can . . . in fact, you let me know what time you′re done and I′ll come check it out myself.′
′Who knows?′ she replied. ′Six, seven, something like that.′
′So call me when you′re through and I′ll follow you home, okay?′
′Thank you, Ray.′ She sat down, held the coffee cup between her hands and closed her eyes. ′Hell, I feel bad,′ she said. ′This has really shaken me up.′
Irving stepped beside her, put his hand on her shoulder. ′I know,′ he said quietly. ′I know.′
FORTY-SEVEN
Irving left the offices of the City Herald with the letter and Henry Lee Lucas′s schedule of killings. They spanned the calendar, and there seemed no sequence to them, but between him and his partner, Ottis Toole, they had been busy. October 22nd, 1977, the gun killing of Lily Pearl Darty. In Waco, Texas on November 1st of the same year, they hog-tied Glen D. Parks and then shot him with a .38. On October 31st, 1978 in Kennewick, Nevada, the duo raped and killed a girl called Lisa Martini in her own apartment. November 5th, 1978 they were driving along the I-35 in Texas when they spotted a young couple, Kevin Kay and Rita Salazar. Salazar they raped, and then shot six times; Kay they shot also, dumped both bodies unceremoniously at the side of the highway. A year later, 3rd October 1979, Lucas and Toole robbed, raped and murdered Sandra Mae Stubbs. Ten days later they shot and killed the mom-and-pop owners of a liquor store in Austin, Texas. October 31st, another woman was found dead on the I-35, unidentified. Twenty-first of November, while robbing a motel in Jacksonville, Cherokee County, Lucas raped, then shot to death, a thirty-one-year-old woman called Elizabeth Knotts. Eighteen days later a teenager was raped and stabbed in her own home, her remains found in nearby woods.
And so it went on - killings through Christmas, through January, February and March of 1980.
Their spree continued unabated until Henry Lee Lucas′s arrest in October 1982. Ultimately Lucas confessed to one hundred and fifty-six homicides, and among his weapons of choice he claimed to have used pistols, shotguns, table legs, telephone cords, knives, tire irons, axes, vacuum cleaner cables, even a car. In retrospect, it was considered that many of the murders attributed to him were down to over-eager homicide detectives wishing to close as many outstanding cases as they could. Nevertheless, the schedule of killings gave Irving a small glimpse of the nightmare he was facing. The Lucas-Toole replica could already have happened, or it could only have been planned. There was no way to know which murder would be replicated, or when.
It was this scenario that he explained to Jeff Turner when he arrived at the crime lab a little before six that evening.
Turner took the letter, the schedule that Costello had typed out. He sat in silence for some time.
′You could commit the original sin,′ he said to Irving.
′Which would be?′
′Leak something to the press, get the thing on the news. Stir up enough trouble to get some more people assigned to this.′
Irving smiled sardonically. ′I′m gonna make believe you didn′t say that.′
′Make believe all you wish, Ray. The girl in Central Park consumed about twenty-five minutes all told. I saw the news on three different channels. People don′t want to know. She was a hooker, for God′s sake. People don′t think of hookers as real people. Best kind of reaction you get is that they probably deserved it.′
′And this is something I don′t already know?′
Turner leaned back in his chair. He looked as tired as Irving. ′So where do you go with this now?′ he asked.
′I wait for your results on the letter,′ he said, indicating the page on the desk before him.
′And when I come back and tell you that there′s nothing on it, no prints, no distinguishing marks—′
′I hope that you don′t, but if you do, which I′m sure you will, I′ll jump off that bridge when I get there.′
Irving′s pager beeped. Karen Langley again.
Irving got up. ′I have to make a call. I′ll come back in a little while.′
′Karen.′
′You need to call John. He has something else for you.′
′Did he say what?′
′No. Just call him. I have to go into a meeting.′
Irving thanked her, dialed Costello′s number, paced the corridor waiting for him to pick up.
′John, it′s Ray.′
′He missed out a word.′
′What?′
′The letter he sent to Karen . . . he missed out a word.′
′What word?′
′Joanie.′
′Someone′s name?′
′It′s the Orange Socks Murder,′ Costello said. ′That′s what he′s going to replicate.′
′The what murder?′
′October 31st, 1979, a motorist on the I-35 found a body in a culvert. She had nothing on but a pair of orange socks and a silver ring. No clothes, no purse, nothing. Just the orange socks. She had perfect teeth, no broken bones, no dental or medical records to help identify her, and as far as I know they still have no idea who she was. Only other thing was the contents of her stomach, and a pair of panties found nearby, inside of which was a makeshift sanitary napkin.′
′And this was definitely a Lucas killing?′
′Well, Lucas was arrested in Montague County, and one of the murders he confessed to was a hitchhiker he picked up out of Oklahoma City. He says that her name was either Joanie or Judy, and he took her down the I-35 to a truck stop where she had burger and fries and a Coke. The remains of such a meal was found in this girl′s stomach. Then he said they had consensual sex, and when they were done he choked her to death and dropped her down a culvert. He also mentioned that she had some kind of sanitary napkin which he called a kotex.′
′And the word ′′joanie′′ was missing from the letter?′
′Yes, between ′′inside apartment′′ and ′′white pretty teeth′′ it should have said ′′joanie′′.′
′Jesus,′ Irving exhaled. ′So if you′re right—′
′Then we have a date.′
′Halloween. Eleven days.′
′And she′ll be dropped off a highway somewhere into a culvert.′
′Okay . . . okay,′ Irving replied, his mind already reeling at the number of highways and expressways that transected New York, and beyond that the number of storm drains and conduits that could be considered culverts.
′John . . . I have to get to work on this, okay? I′ll come back to you.′
′Let me know what you find,′ Costello replied, and then he hung up.
Irving left a message with the receptionist in the crime lab foyer. He drove back across town to the sanitation department, recruited the assistance of one of the engineers, and had him call up the grid systems and networks that spanned the city.
′So which ones do you want to include?′ asked the engineer, a stocky, red-faced man called Victor Grantham.
′Can you just pull up a straightforward map of the city on this?′
′Sure can,′ Grantham replied. He typed, he scrolled, he clicked, and an overview of the city presented itself on the screen.
′So let′s take Hudson Parkway, the West Side Highway, South Street through to the elevated section. FDR Drive, Harlem River Drive, Bruckner, the bridges - Triborough, the Queensboro, Williamsburg -′ Irving paused for a moment. ′Hang on,′ he said. ′Which interstates do we have running through the city?′
Grantham scrolled down, opened a file, and said, ′Just the city, or do you want the county as well?′
′Just the city.′
′We have the I-87 which is the Major Deegan, the I-95 which runs across the Washington Bridge into New Jersey, Bruckner whic
h is the I-298, and then the I-495 which connects up with 678 beyond the city limits. Oh, and beyond Lower Manhattan you have the Brooklyn Bridge Tunnel which is essentially the I-478.′
′Okay. So, sticking just to the interstate routes, how many drainage outlets and conduits are there?′
′You serious?′
Irving just looked at him.
′You′re serious,′ Grantham said quietly, and got to work.
It took less than a minute or two for Victor Grantham to tell Irving what he knew he did not want to hear.
′Just over eight hundred and fifty . . . and that′s only so far as I can cover on this system. You follow those highways right to the edge of the city limits in all directions and there must be thousands.′
Irving closed his eyes. He sighed deeply and lowered his chin to his chest.
′Not what you wanted to hear, right?′
Irving shook his head without raising it.
′Can I ask why you want to know this?′
′Because we think someone might try and dump a body in one of those culverts on Halloween.′
′A body?′
Irving looked up. ′Yes, a body.′
′And you don′t know which one?′
′No, I don′t know which one. If I knew which one I could wait there and catch the guy.′
′So how many men do you have to cover these areas?′
Irving started to laugh, and then decided not to. It was simply not a laughing matter. ′Not enough,′ he said quietly.
′Seems to me a body is going to block a culvert completely,′ Grantham said. ′And if it blocks the thing completely it′ll come up on the screen. That′s the way the system is designed, so we can tell when there′s a blockage that′ll prevent run-off, and we send a crew out there.′
Irving sat up, eyes wide. ′How many crews do you have?′ he asked.
′How many do we have here, or how many do we have for the entire municipal system?′
′The entire system,′ Irving said.
′Well, at a stretch we could mobilize maybe three hundred crews, two men to a crew.′
′And how far apart are these culverts?′
′Different for different sections of the highway. Depends on inclines, whether the water comes down rapidly or slowly, the usual quantity of traffic—′
′Roughly,′ Irving interjected. ′Roughly how far apart?′
′God, I don′t know . . . maybe two, three hundred yards, something like that.′
′So if you had all three hundred crews mobilized they could cover three culverts each within the eight hundred and fifty range, and if they were stationed at the culvert in the middle of the three there would be a team of two men no more than two or three hundred yards from any one point in the entire system.′
Grantham nodded. ′Be a hell of an operation, organizing something like that, but yes, if you had every team out there you′d be within shooting distance of every single drain in the network.′
Irving didn′t reply. There was a light in his eyes. His heart was going twice its pace.
′And from here,′ Grantham added, ′someone at this desk could tell within ten or fifteen seconds whether something was blocking one of the conduits.′
′And we′d have someone there already,′ Irving said. ′We′d close off the highway and question every single driver within half a mile of the drop site.′
′Seems so,′ Grantham said. ′That seems like a plan to me. A plan that requires a dead body, however . . .′
′I know that,′ Irving said quietly. ′But the way this is going . . .′ He didn′t complete the sentence.
′Go,′ Victor said. ′Tell whoever you need to that it can be done.′
FORTY-EIGHT
′Not a prayer,′ Farraday stated matter-of-factly. N Forty minutes later, Fourth Precinct, Irving standing by the window of Captain Farraday′s office.
Farraday had cut short a telephone call to see Irving, thinking perhaps that Irving′s urgency was due to some progress, not an insane scheme to bring the New York City Sanitation Department on board.
′They have a system,′ Irving reiterated. ′Every single drain is on their screen. Someone puts a body down there—′
′And he′s armed, and dangerous, and he′s alert for the slightest sign that he might be being followed, and you have some poor schmuck of a sanitation engineer coming up behind him and getting his fucking head blown off. Jesus, Ray, are you even thinking straight?′
′Captain—′
′No,′ Farraday said. He came from behind his desk and stood in the middle of the room. ′I understand what you have . . . this letter, the fact that there′s every possibility that this is the next murder, but do you have any idea what it would take to instigate a collaborative action between the NYPD and the sanitation department, the amount of money it would cost, the lives you would put at risk? And that doesn′t even take into consideration the cost of whatever resources would be required to close off the expressway and speak to every driver within a half mile radius . . .′ Farraday stopped and caught his breath. ′I can′t even begin to imagine what such a thing would take.′
′So what the fuck do you want me to do with this?′ Irving said. ′What the hell am I supposed to do with this? I′m busting my balls trying to—′
′I know you are. I see the reports, Ray, I do actually see your reports and I read them beginning to end. I understand how hard you are working, but this goes back to the same discussion we had before. This is not the only case we′re dealing with, and with the evidence we′ve got these could be viewed as unrelated cases. What we have as far as these anniversaries is concerned is essentially nothing more than circumstantial—′
′I can′t believe that anyone would—′
′Consider them circumstantial,′ Farraday finished for him. ′I know, but the people I have to deal with are not cops. They are not homicide detectives. They′re bureaucrats, Ray, nothing more than bureaucrats, and they′re looking at the big picture. They see the muggings, the rapes, the car-jacking, shoplifting up twenty-six percent since last quarter . . . these are the things they look at. Homicides . . . Jesus, Ray, homicides are down nineteen percent on this time last year, and the evaluation period against which stats are being published is over. Your victims . . . well they are next quarter′s problem, and by next quarter the election will be over, and Chief Ellmann will either be the chief or he won′t, and the Mayor will be the Mayor or he won′t, and it doesn′t get any more complicated than that.′
′So what can you give me?′ Irving asked. ′A public warning?′
′A public warning? A warning about what? We tell every girl in the city that they have to be alert for someone trying to kill them? That if anyone stops them and tries to get them to put on some orange socks they should run for the fucking hills?′
Irving was silent. Farraday stood up, paced the floor, thinking. Finally he spoke.
′I′ll tell you what I can give you. Maybe twenty motorcycle units, and maybe ten squads on call for the 31st. I see what you have, and what you have seems solid enough for me. First and foremost I′m a cop, and I couldn′t give a rat′s ass about the election except that if the election goes the wrong way it could mean a lot less policing gets done around here. You don′t even want to know what the next administration has in store if they get in. The public overview and oversight committees, the reclassification of offences, the miles of fucking paperwork we′ll get ourselves wrapped up in. I have to think about that, Ray, that it′s not just one victim whose life is at stake, it′s a thousand victims, and what might happen to them if we have a change in this system. Only problem is that the people in this city might just be short-sighted enough to get excited about something new, and not look at the long-term disaster they′d be voting themselves into.′
′Twenty motorcycle units, ten squads?′
′What day is the 31st?′ Farraday reached for his desk calendar. ′Tuesday. Okay, Tuesday is a hell of
a lot better than a Friday or Saturday. Yes, I can give you that, maybe more, depending on what′s happening.′
Irving turned to leave.
′And between now and then?′ Farraday asked after him.
Irving looked back, and the expression on his face said that such a question was precisely the kind that he didn′t want to be asked.
Farraday didn′t push it, he let Irving go. He′d been in homicide for enough years himself to know that it was perhaps the darkest place of all.
Quarter past six Ray Irving stood patiently in the foyer of the City Herald offices. He′d called up to let Karen Langley know he was there. A message had come back that she wouldn′t be long.
He asked her if she wanted to go get some coffee before he escorted her home, and in the warm seclusion of a diner on West 28th he told her of Farraday′s response to his suggestion.
′The difficult thing is knowing that someone is going to die,′ he said. ′Knowing how they will die, and how their body will be disposed of, but not knowing who or where.′
′This is awful,′ Karen said. ′This has to be the sickest thing I′ve ever heard of. I can′t believe . . .′ She shook her head. ′Who am I kidding? I can quite easily believe that someone is this crazy.′
′Seems to me he′s enjoying himself,′ Irving said. ′He knows who I am, he knows John, and just to insure that we′re aware of his brilliance he sends the letter to you . . . just to make sure we realize how fucking smart he is.′
′So what are you going to do?′
′I′ve been back through everything. I′ve spoken to every relative, every witness, every person who has been directly or indirectly involved. ′
′Did you ever get a chance to find out about that group that John belongs to?′
′The Winterbourne Hotel people. No, that′s one thing I never followed up on. Not directly anyway. John told me there were four women and two men besides himself.′
′And the women?′
′Our guy is not a woman.′