Seven Ways to Die (6 page)

A clod of soil from the unearthed grave of a nun in Central America who had been buried alive. May 12, 1992.

The gas mask he had worn while investigating a sabotage gas leak in Bhopal, India, which had unleashed a deadly cloud of methyl isocyonate gas that killed more than 4,000 people as they slept. December 2, 1984.

Part of a note written by a madman who had started a club called “Cannibals Anonymous,” had killed more than a dozen youngsters, sodomized and dismembered them, pickled their flesh, and later had eaten them. 1984-1992.

A hat abandoned in the chaotic aftermath of a gas attack in a Tokyo subway that killed a dozen and left thousands to suffer permanent flashbacks. March 20, 1995.

One of eighteen Barbie dolls with their heads twisted backwards and left in the arms of the victims of a predator who called himself “Freaky Freddie.” 1982-1996.

These were just a few of the displays that had earned a place on Max Wolfsheim’s wall of shame, having pierced his calm, normally impenetrable, exterior and struck a blow to his heart.

In the center of the display was a framed motto printed on rice paper by a calligrapher:

A cop needs a good pathologist to do his job, just as a pathologist needs a good cop to complete his.

Max Wolfsheim

It was the only place his name appeared. There were no references to the work he had done on these cases, no scrapbooks filled with articles about him, not a single photograph of him anywhere in the apartment. The furniture, such as it was, faced away from the wall.

The adjoining room, his bedroom, was as modest: a bed, a night table and reading lamp, and a desk in one corner with a laptop computer and a 120 gigabyte external hard drive on which was stored all the research materials and photos he had gathered through the years.

At 8:20 Max’s phone rang. He looked up and scowled, then went back to his reading. On the fourth ring the answering machine clicked on. It was Cody’s voice.

“Answer the phone, Old Man. I need you.”

He reached over to an end table and snatched up the phone.

“This better be good, Kid,” he growled. “I got a nine-thirty lecture at NYU.”

 “Reschedule.”

Cody was still squatting as he described the scene:

Raymond Handley was seated in an antique chair which was in the center of the room. There was a table next to the chair with an old-fashioned glass half full of an amber-colored liquid. Cody judged him to be between five-nine and six-feet, his body well-toned. He had once been handsome. Now his body was gray and his head was leaning slightly forward and cocked to one side. His eyes were slits, staring sightlessly at some fixed point on the floor.

He was stark naked.

There was a deep, open gash running from under his right jaw to just under his left ear and a towel tied around his neck hanging loosely under the wound. There was also a small rubber handball stuffed in his mouth, tightly tied in place with a white cloth.

Each of his hands was handcuffed at the wrists to separate arms of the chair. And each of his legs was cuffed to separate legs of the chair.

“And here’s the kicker,” Cody said.

“There’s a kicker?” Wolfsheim said with surprise.

“Except for a couple of spots on the towel under his chin, there’s no blood.”

“No blood?”

A few moments of silence.

“Okay, Kid, we’re in business.”

“I just saved myself a grand,” Cody said with a laugh.

“And cost me one,” Wolfsheim answered and hung up.

From the bedroom door, Bergman said, “Cap? I think you ought to take a look at this before you go.”

Cody walked carefully on an angle to the bedroom door, putting one foot in front of the other beside Bergman’s tracks. The room was painted pale blue and everything in the room was expensive, from the teak frame and headboard of the king sized bed, to the matching end tables beside it, to the large dresser and armoire. The doors to the closet were mirrored and one was half open. Handley’s clothes were meticulously lined up. Suits, then sports jackets, slacks, and shirts, each an inch apart. A shirt, underwear, and socks were in a laundry basket in one corner of the closet.

There was a wooden valet near the bed with a cashmere jacket, dark gray slacks, and a red tie hanging on it. His alligator wallet, Rolex watch, some coins, keys, and a gold chain with a St. Christopher pendant on it were lined up in the tray. A pair of expensive black shoes were under it, also neatly placed side by side.

“Well, Wilma did say he was neat,” Cody commented.

“That’s an understatement. I checked the wallet. Hundreds, fifties, twenties, tens, fives, ones, all in descending order. Nine hundred and twenty-eight bucks.”

“We could retire on what one of those suits goes for,” Cody said.

“Here’s what’s really interesting. There’s a used bath towel on the bathroom floor.”

“So he took a shower when he got in last night.”

“Uh huh.”

“A very patient killer,” Cody said.

“And not greedy. Passed up the wallet, watch. But check this out.”

Bergman skimmed the carpeting with his flashlight, aiming it toward the library door nearest the kitchen. Naked footprints.

“He knew the killer was waiting for him. He was naked when he went into the library and…” they followed Handley’s footprints to the library entrance near the kitchen where the pair of booties was awaiting for him. “The killer met him at the door.”

“I was thinking,” said Bergman, “maybe this was an S&M thing gone sour. Or maybe he was killed somewhere else which would account for the absence of blood.”

“Not a chance,” Cody answered. “This was a set-up hit from the go and he knowingly walked right into it.”

“I was also thinking maybe I ought to get into his briefcase. Remember what the maid said about his little black book?”

“Good. Take it out to that little sitting room in the hall. Nobody,
nobody,
goes in or out until Wolf and his team gets here.”

“No problem.”

As Cody headed for the apartment door, he muttered half-aloud: “I can’t wait for Wolf to tell us what happened to all five liters of Mister Handley’s blood.”

5

At the same time Micah Cody and Cal Bergman were preparing to enter Raymond Handley’s apartment, crime writer Ward Lee Hamilton was seated in the Eames chair of his 59
^th
Street penthouse apartment overlooking south Manhattan. It was a breathtaking view. The corner room had two floor-to-ceiling windows from which he could see five bridges, the spires of the city, and the heart-breaking emptiness where the Twin Towers once stood.

As always, and regardless of the season, he was dressed in his three-piece white linen suit. It was his trademark. With a lavender shirt and a dazzling yellow tie to complete the ensemble, he was aware that his exaggerated appearance attracted attention, that there were some who looked at him as a foppish popinjay.

He couldn’t care less. He had earned the right to set his own unique standards of dress and attitude. He marked his detractors off as silly, untalented, jealous fools. Ward Lee Hamilton was a snob in the truest sense of the word.

Hamilton had authored more than a dozen true crime narratives in twenty years, most considered the best of their kind in literary history. His first book, written when he was nineteen, had leapt to the top of the bestselling lists in its first week of publication. It had been followed by fifteen scrupulously researched books, flawlessly detailed examinations into the malicious minds of killers whose sexual, avaricious, and otherwise depraved cravings had resulted in some of the most grisly crimes in history. He was relentless in his search for facts, always digging for that one last clue to justify every word, as tenacious as a hungry-eyed hyena stalking another animal’s kill.

The room was filled with memorials to his success: Plaques, proclamations, awards, framed letters, all tributes to his achievements. Plus, an old-fashioned barber’s chair, complete with adjustable foot rests, anchored to the floor of the apartment. Ward sat in the chair for his weekly manicure, with the manicurist kneeling before him to finish his nails—and sometimes providing further service as well, whether he needed it or not. Yes, he was smug with success.

He was the Lord of the Literati. The Beau Brummel of the greatest metropolis in the world.

But today he had a little problem, which somehow annoyed him even more than his big, deadly problem.

He took out his pocket watch, snapped open the cover and checked the time. He got up, threw a tan, cashmere coat over his shoulders, set a gray homburg on his head, and strolled forth to the elevator that would carry him down to the streets of the city of which he considered himself a peerless prince.

His car arrived at the Regency precisely on time. He checked his coat and hat and strolled into the elegant dining room where he immediately became the focus of attention. This was a room where the power brokers of the town met for breakfast, dueling with each other before taking on the challenges of the day, like athletes warming up for a big game. He walked arrogantly to a corner table where his editor awaited. As was his fashion, he ignored the nods of the other diners.

The waiter held his chair and he sat down.

“Good morning, Jacob,” he said as the waiter poured him a cup of coffee.

“Morning, Lee.”

The waiter offered Hamilton a menu which he slapped away.

“Where’s Humphrey?” Hamilton snapped without looking at him. “Humphrey always attends my table.”

“He’s got the flu, sir. My name’s Gus.”

“Well, Gus, tell the chef Mister Hamilton will have the usual.”

“Yes sir,” the waiter said and vanished.

Jake Sallinger, the editor of
Metro Magazine
, shook his head. He was a man in his early fifties with graying hair and a neatly trimmed beard, a veteran of the highly competitive publication wars who had earned his position as head of the hottest magazine in town, which he had conceived with a keen sense for both word and story. He was accustomed to Hamilton’s superior attitude and was neither intimidated nor impressed by it. Most of the writers he dealt with were experienced journalists, professional and jocular by nature. But Hamilton’s name on the cover sold magazines so he endured the man’s insufferable ego.

He also had Hamilton against the wall and Hamilton knew it. Four years earlier, the writer had decided it was time to venture into novels. But he had written two which were critical and financial disasters. Now he was forced to return to the field which he had dominated for two decades.

Sallinger was a tough editor and a conceptual genius. He was demanding, a hard sell, and Hamilton knew that. He had interested the editor on a series of articles tentatively called “Chasing Demons,” a series of sometimes arcane, sometimes recent, unsolved or unsolvable cases. They would then be compiled into a book by the same name, co-owned by Metro.

This time they would be playing by Sallinger’s rules, a tough and bitter pill for the pampered writer to swallow. And his book publisher, knowing that Hamilton would sometimes spend months on research, was uncomfortable with a concept which might take several years to complete.

But Hamilton had convinced them that his files contained much of the research and had agreed to produce eight articles, one every other month for the magazine, and a new and lengthy prologue and epilogue for the book, a task he had agreed to complete in less than a year.

The thing was that Sallinger had him on the spot. He would be approving the articles and editing them and the writer despised making pitches as much as he hated being edited, considering them demeaning. But Hamilton had accepted the terms, like it or not.

It wasn’t the money; he was a rich man.

Vanity had dictated the terms.

He had to redeem his two failures. Thus he had picked a daunting challenge.

The only control Sallinger had allowed him was the due date of the first installment: Halloween. Hamilton had chuckled morbidly as he suggested it.

Gus arrived with their food, a bagel and cream cheese for Sallinger, Eggs Benedict for Hamilton. The writer took a fork and lightly punched the poached egg.

“This egg’s a little on the hard side,” he growled to the waiter. But he noticed Sallinger’s immediate exasperation and quickly added, “They’ll do.”

“I can take them back, sir,” the waiter quickly replied.

“I said they’ll do,” Hamilton snapped and dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

Sallinger looked down and disguised a smile with a bite of bagel. Clearly Hamilton was nervous and on the defensive.

Δ

“So, Lee, what have you got for me?” He asked, spreading cream cheese on the bagel.

“It’s got everything,” Hamilton boasted.

“Forget the tease, okay? What’s the story?”

“Ever heard of the NYPD TAZ?”

Sallinger frowned. “Some kind of back-up squad, isn’t it? Jimmy wanted to do a piece on them a while back but he dumped the idea.” He took another bite. “I thought we were talking about unsolved cases?”

“I’ll get to that. TAZ stands for Tactical Assistance Squad, an understated moniker if I’ve ever seen one. They have more power than God. Everything they do is on the Q.T. They hide police reports, crap all over the media, violate open records laws. Push good, decent cops around. A regular Gestapo, Jacob.”

Sallinger glared at him. “First of all, stop calling me Jacob. Forget the Biblical bull shit and make your point.” He could see Hamilton bridle at his harsh tone, and didn’t give a flying damn.

“Nobody will talk about them. The precinct boys won’t mention them. Stinelli has a clamp on them. They can step into any homicide,
any
homicide they want. Just take over the investigation. The head of it was a kid when they formed the outfit about five years ago. That’s unheard of. They have their own headquarters downtown, a loft that’s harder to get into than Fort Knox. It’s a block from the old police station down around Little Italy.”