Good Day to Die (4 page)

It was the truth and it was obvious. The myth of the serial killer—that he’s out there and waiting to get
you
—terrifies the voters, who put pressure on the pols, who put pressure on the department. But the department is not, and never has been, the individual cops who do their jobs every day. The whole, in this case, is not the sum of its parts. The whole, meaning the New York City Police Department, is a political bureaucracy out to cover its ass. Even when covering its ass means sacrificing individual parts.

“You don’t think this particular serial killer was a problem for the six hundred cops relieved of their regular duties to work on the task force?”

“You take the man’s pay, you do the man’s job.” The universal cop explanation for accepting distasteful assignments.

Suddenly, Vanessa Bouton stood up. “You came well recommended, Means. But you also came with a warning. Now that I’ve read the label, I think the possible side effects outweigh the possible benefits.”

“Wait a second, Captain. You asked me what I knew about serial killers. You didn’t ask me what I know about homicide in general.” You can’t have your bluff called unless you’re bluffing. Which I undoubtedly was. “Tell me why you believe Thong isn’t a serial killer? Please.”

She stepped forward without resuming her seat. “Thong
is
a serial killer. By definition, any series of homicides with a cooling-off period between them falls into the category of serial killing.
Assassins
are serial killers.
Hit men
are serial killers. What I said to you was that the King Thong murder victims were not chosen at random. Or, at least,
one
of them wasn’t chosen at random. Now, are you at all interested in how I came to that conclusion? Or do you intend to play your bullshit macho games until I walk out of here?”

T
HE SNEER ON HER
face was truly wonderful. It dripped contempt like the fangs of a rattlesnake drip poison just before they sink into the flesh of a browsing rabbit. I studied that sneer for a moment, realizing that Vanessa Bouton, like any other ranking officer addressing a subordinate, expected me to play the part of the rabbit. To play it consciously and willingly.

Well, bad for her; good for me. Bad for her because if she wanted anything but the scalp of a serial killer (if for instance, she also wanted
my
scalp), then she was vulnerable. Good for me because I could be the snake inside the rabbit. Contenting myself with green, leafy vegetables until the opportunity for red flesh presented itself.

“Please tell me why you believe Thong wasn’t choosing random victims,” I said as sincerely as possible. “If you’re right, it would make police history.”

That got to her. She managed a broad smile and nodded her head. “So, you finally figured it out. And the best part is that we don’t have to share it. The department is committed to the serial killer theory. If we bring Thong in, you and me, they’ll be talking about us for a long, long time.”

And visions of the “Today” show danced in her head. Did she want to be promoted to inspector? Chief? Commissioner? Her current rank, captain, was as high as civil service exams could take her. The rest of her career path (if there was to be a rest) would be paved with appointments and politics.

“I said, ‘
if
you’re right,’ Captain. I’m willing to be convinced, but I can’t take it on faith.”

The perfect mix of respect and skepticism? I felt like I was conducting an interrogation. Trying to coax a statement from a reluctant perpetrator.

“Rule of thumb: Sexually motivated serial killers begin tentatively. There are no schools for murderers. They learn by doing. The Thong murders were
identical.
The victims were all street prostitutes, all working at the time they were taken, yet there was no sign of sexual assault. Each was killed by a single shot to the head from the same .22-caliber automatic and the bodies mutilated after death occurred. I don’t want to get into the details—you’ll have plenty of chances to learn them for yourself—but the mutilations were so exact, it was as if the killer was working from an instruction manual. Look at it from your own point of view. You’ve conducted hundreds of interrogations. In the beginning, you must have been tentative. You knew what you wanted, but you had to learn how to get it. It’s the same with serial killers. They have to learn, and our man started at the top.”

“You think he read a book or something?” I maintained my half-smile, nodding idiotically.

“That’s
exactly
what I think.” By this time, she was out of the chair and pacing. Her hands, palms up, fingers splayed, were moving in excited half-circles. “There are thousand of books on serial killers. Everybody wants a piece of the action. Psychologists, criminologists, cops, lawyers, reporters. There’s no reason why our boy couldn’t have studied the subject for a few months before he made his move. What surprises me is that the FBI, with all its experience, hasn’t been expecting this.”

I raised my hand. “Excuse me, Captain, but aren’t you overlooking something. Maybe he took his show on the road before he came here. I seem to remember hearing that serial killers tend to drift from place to place.”

She stopped pacing and jammed her fists into her hips. Broad-shouldered and solid, she presented a formidable image. Even in that uniform with the two gold bars on the shoulders.

“Don’t you think I thought of that? Are you making me for stupid, Means? Black people don’t care to be taken for stupid. If I was you, I’d keep that in mind as we go along.”

I suppose I could have come back with the “dumb injun” bit. Moaned about how
all
minorities have suffered from the same accusation. But I didn’t. I held my ground and waited for her to get to the point.

“The first thing I did, after I became suspicious, was tap into VICAP You have any idea what VICAP is?”

“Not the faintest.”

“Why am I not surprised?” She was pacing again, her hands moving as rapidly as her mouth. “VICAP is run by the FBI out of Quantico. The letters stand for Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. Theoretically, all unsolved murders are reported to the FBI and entered into VICAP’s database. The programmers designed the system to track killers who move from one jurisdiction to another. If Thong was out there killing before he came to the Big Apple, he wasn’t doing it anything like the way he does it now.”

“No disrespect, Captain, but you used the word ‘theoretically’ to …”

“Yes, yes.” She waved me off impatiently. “Reporting is voluntary and there’s no shortage of cops, like
you,
who don’t even know what VICAP is. But we’re talking about mutilated male prostitutes tied up with strips of leather. It’s not the kind of thing you can file away and forget about.”

I could picture her making this same pitch to whatever chief was running the task force. I could also picture said chief looking down his nose at this upstart black woman who, in his opinion, like all women officers, could best serve the department by resigning forthwith. Vanessa Bouton couldn’t have been more than thirty-five years old. She’d already passed the sergeant’s, lieutenant’s, and captain’s exams. Half the brass at the top of the NYPD would hate her for that alone.

“Consider this,” she continued, pausing for a moment to fix me with a penetrating look. “The victims were taken from various locations around Manhattan: the ‘strip’ on Fifty-third Street, the West Street piers, Queens Plaza under the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge, Hunts Point in the Bronx; Roosevelt Avenue in Jackson Heights. He got them off the street without anyone knowing, then murdered them, mutilated them, and cleaned up the bodies. Why would he dump them where they were sure to be found? Why would he take the risk of being discovered
as
he dumped the bodies?”

“Maybe he’s stupid.” It was exactly what she wanted to hear.

“Stupid? Face it, Means, he’s crafty as hell. By the time he was ready to take his fourth victim, half the homosexual population in the city was looking for him. Not to mention every cop on patrol and the largest task force ever assembled by the NYPD. Yet he managed to kill four more people and leave their bodies on street corners without being caught. That doesn’t sound stupid to me. It sounds like he wanted to make
sure
the bodies were discovered.”

“Why couldn’t he just be proud of his work? Maybe outwitting twenty-seven thousand NYPD cops is part of the kick.”

“Then why not a note of explanation? Contact with the media? Something to tell the world exactly what he was doing. Another rule of thumb: Serial killers do not want to get caught. Some kill and leave their victims right where they are, but the ones who transport bodies almost always make an effort to conceal them. Believe me when I say that I’ve reviewed the literature carefully.”

She sat down facing me, her expression earnest, almost entreating. “And there’s something else that bothers me. The victims were very different types. Thong took a ten-year-old boy from Hunts Point, a pre-op transexual from Queens Plaza, a leather-and-studs biker from West Street, a twenty-two-year-old country boy from Fifty-third Street …”

“Wait a second. A twenty-two-year-old man from the strip? Fifty-third Street is chicken heaven. It’s where the hawks go when they’re hungry. Twenty-two seems ancient for Fifty-third Street.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it? Thong was very careful. Too careful. It was as if the only thing that mattered was not getting caught. He didn’t have sex with his victims. It’s one of the few things we managed to keep from the media. There was no semen in (or on) any of the bodies. And no fresh anal fissures so we’re pretty sure he didn’t use a condom.” She leaned forward, eyes blazing with conviction. “Add it up, Means. He didn’t care who he picked up. He wasn’t interested in sex. He left the bodies where they had to be found. He mutilated and trussed up his victims in a way that guaranteed media attention. Something’s wrong here. Something doesn’t smell right.”

I didn’t buy it at the time. Mainly because I assumed that men like John Wayne Gacy and Henry Lee Lucas (and our boy, King Thong) were crazy. How else could you explain random killings? Later, I found out different, but just then, looking into Vanessa Bouton’s passionate eyes, the only thing I really saw was my ticket out of ballistics.

“Let’s say I buy it. Let’s say I buy that bad smell you mentioned. What does it have to do with me?”

“Simple enough, Means. The victims were all male prostitutes and you spent ten years working Vice. I spoke to Inspector McIntyre, your former commanding officer. He said you had a genius for street work. In fact, he said you were the best street cop he’d ever seen.”

“Most of that was before I became a detective. It was a long time ago.”

She was right, as far as it went. The Vice Squad had given me an opportunity to identify targets. Most pimps have a vicious streak and many of them are heavily involved in the cocaine business. They have to be to keep their stables happy. I think I mentioned that people don’t know what to make of my physical appearance. The whores I was expected to arrest were no different. Believe me when I say they were mightily pissed off when I flashed my shield and uttered the magic words. But not so pissed off they weren’t willing to trade a little information for the chance to continue lives of violence, disease, and drug addiction without the inconvenience of spending a night in jail. Or a few months, if they happened to be carrying drugs in their shiny little purses.

“Are you telling me you have no connections out there? No informants?”

I watched her eyes darken, realizing that I’d made a major mistake.

“No, I’m not saying that. But you can’t expect miracles, either. I’ve been working in Manhattan for the last ten years. You said that some of the victims were taken from Queens Plaza and Hunts Point in the Bronx. I can’t just walk into those neighborhoods and pluck snitches out of the air.” I paused for a moment, as if reflecting. It was time to give her something to hang her hat on. Something she’d already considered. “Can I assume you’re thinking blackmail? That one of our victims recognized a famous john and decided to supplement his earnings?”

Bingo. She smiled like a little girl contemplating her first Christmas tree.

“It’s the right place to start.”

How would
she
know. One thing about NYPD brass, they never lack for arrogance.

“What size task force are we looking at here? There’s a lot of ground to cover.”

“You and me, Means. We’re the task force.”

I managed a frown and a shake of the head. Despite the fact that my heart was pounding with joy.

“You can forget about thorough.” I said. “Forget about quick, too. Seven victims … it could go on forever. Unless we get lucky.”

“Maybe.” Her eyes got that glow again. “But if we succeed, it’s all ours.”

“Look, Captain, no disrespect intended, but I know what’s in it for you. You’re young, you’re smart, and you’re ambitious. Why not? New York is more than half minority. There’s no reason why you can’t make inspector in a few years. Or chief, if you hang on long enough. A failure here won’t make much difference to your career, especially if you keep the investigation low profile. My problem is that I don’t know if I can take being sent back here again after going out on the street.”

She snorted, pulling her head back to contemplate me along the length of her nose. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, Detective.”

“Isn’t that why you came to me?” I looked her right in the eye. The hook was set. All I needed to do was land her. “You’re asking me to give my best effort to the longest of long shots. I need to know that I won’t take the heat if we fail. I need to see the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.”

“Taking a serial killer off the street isn’t enough for you?”

“Taking a serial killer off the street
is
enough for me. I’m not worried about the consequences of success.”

“You’re worried about the consequences of failure.”

“You got it, Captain.”

She finally let herself relax, let her shoulders drop to their normal set and took a deep breath. “You’re not as dumb as you look.”