Spectrum (The Karen Vail Series) (30 page)

46

>MANHATTAN SOUTH HOMICIDE SQUAD

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Karen Vail walked into the homicide squad at 9:56 PM, having endured two plane delays due to weather. She met Russo near his office. He was a little thicker around the waist—Sofia’s pasta, no doubt—but otherwise looked good. He gave her a long embrace and then leaned her back to give her a once over.

“The FBI agrees with you.”

“Yeah, not so much. We’ve had plenty of arguments, mostly over procedure.”

Russo laughed heartily. “I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

“Actually, I regained it when I lost my deadbeat husband. Funny how that works.”

Russo lifted a case file off his desk and handed it to her. “When your flight was delayed I rescheduled our meeting with the vic for tomorrow. Have you eaten?”

“I was gonna grab something when I got off the plane, but then I thought, all the great restaurants in the city and I’m going for airport food?”

“Then let’s go. I’ve got an open invite at a new favorite place of mine.” As they walked to his car, he tapped out a text message. “I’m having Ben meet us there. Ben Dyer, you remember him, right? You met when we had that vic in the Fort Apache holding cell.”

“How could I forget? Still blows my mind. No offense, but that fake news story that the killer confessed was a pretty reckless stunt.”

“Offense taken. I was on board with that.”

“Hopefully this vic will give us the break we need.”

THEY PULLED INTO a parking spot on Third Avenue and headed toward the brick-faced corner bar and restaurant with its trademark scripted “P.J. Clarke’s” sign lettered on the building’s second story.

The eatery, in existence since 1884, was known for its award-winning burgers and the two human leg bones embedded in the ceiling above its entrance. Not to mention the beloved dog that was hit by a car fifty years ago, then stuffed and mounted over the bar. In short, P.J. Clarke’s was a classic Manhattan institution.

Russo said his regards to a couple of staff members, then met Ben Dyer as they made their way to the table.

“Good to see you,” Dyer told Vail. “Hey loo, wish I could stay, but I’m just gonna grab a beer and go. Got something goin’ on tonight with Amy.”

“I think I’m craving a burger,” Vail said, sneaking a peek at the meal on a neighboring table. “Russo said I have to get the smothered onions and sautéed mushrooms.”

“He should know, he comes here all the time. If you like smothered onions and mushrooms, it’s good. I don’t eat that shit.”

Before they could take their seats, Russo’s and Dyer’s phones vibrated.

Russo read his display. “Shit on rye.”

“Definitely not as appetizing as the mushroom burger,” Vail said.

“You gotta be kidding.” Dyer threw his head back. “Amy’s gonna kill me.”

Russo pushed his chair back under the table, then leaned in close to Vail’s ear and said, “Another Hades vic.”

THEY ARRIVED AT Bryant Park in a matter of minutes. The first on-scene patrol officer greeted them at the periphery, where he was starting to string out the crime scene tape.

The park, first designated a public space way back in 1686, was a ten acre square of greenery amid the skyscrapers and modest buildings of midtown Manhattan. It sported a public game area—with the French bocce-relative Pétanque and Chinese chess—an open-air library for literary events, a carousel, food kiosks, and a Great Lawn for concert events. Movable metal tables and chairs enabled visitors to sit where, and with whom, they desired.

On a summer day, several thousand typically enjoyed the park’s formal French garden design and its airy, tree-covered shade. But now, late night on a winter evening, there were only a scattered few walking along the fieldstone paths.

It was dark, the park lit only by a number of dual-armed light posts. But as four police cruisers pulled up to help cordon off the crime scene, their red, white, and blue lights threw an eerie strobe of color across the dark green and brown landscape.

Russo handed out booties, and after they slipped them on Vail led the way up the steps near the corner of 42nd Street and Sixth Avenue. She hung a left, following the officer’s directions to the body.

It was not difficult to find.

As they walked along the path, past the ivy-filled planters and umbrella-covered tables, they came to a bronze statue of a bearded man in a long coat, his right elbow resting on a Greek-style column, standing on a granite base.

Dyer turned on a flashlight and shone it across the gold letters engraved into the stone. “William Early Dodge.”

“Dodge,” Vail said. “Is that supposed to be significant to the vic? Or the offender? Or is it a taunt, that he’s been able to dodge us for so many years?”

Dyer lowered his beam. Directly in front of the planter at the base of the monument, seated on one of the park’s green metal chairs with her legs spread and fingers glued into the familiar curl, was a woman with her eyes gouged and a glass shard protruding from her neck.

“Where have I seen this before?” Russo said.

Vail took a step forward, carefully maintaining her distance so as not to compromise the crime scene. “Too many places.”

“No arterial spray,” Russo said. “Killed somewhere else.”

“So,” Dyer said, “is there significance to the fact that the asshole had a vic escape a couple days ago so he has to kill a new one?”

Vail nodded. “Actually, Ben, yeah. I think there is. He kills to satisfy a need, a hunger. It builds over time and when it hits that threshold, he strikes. If he doesn’t make the kill—and complete his activity with the body, these behaviors we see here with the eyes, the broken glass—he hasn’t satisfied that hunger.”

“So Nyssa Bari’s escape doomed this woman to death?” Russo asked.

“Strange way of looking at it,” Vail said, “but yeah. What did Ms. Bari say? About the offender.”

“A guy dressed like a patrol officer came to her door. She opened it but it was dark so she couldn’t really see his face.”

“Why was it so dark? Where was she?”

“She was in her apartment,” Dyer said. “But Slater and I went over there, took a look around, and the bulbs had been unscrewed from the light fixtures in the hall.”

“Interesting,” Vail said. “Makes sense.”

“Makes sense?” Russo asked. “We haven’t seen that at any of the other crime scenes.”

“That we know of,” Vail said. “Who the hell would look for that kind of thing? I sure didn’t.”

“I’ll give you that.”

Vail curled a lock of hair behind her ear. “Even if he hadn’t done it before, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s all about being successful. MO changes over time for a lot of reasons, but the main idea is that they adjust the MO to make their crimes less detectable and themselves more successful. If he’d never done that before with the lightbulbs, for some reason he figured it was necessary in this case.

“The fact that MO changes is the primary reason profilers put so much emphasis on differentiating between MO and need-driven behavior—what we call ritual. They’re things the offender does to the victim, or at the crime scene, after he kills her. He’s aware he’s doing those things to the body—gouging the eyes, posing the hands—but he probably doesn’t understand why he’s doing them, or why he
needs
to do them.

“Point is, since they have nothing to do with his success in killing the victim or getting away with the crime, there’s no need to change these ritual behaviors.”

A couple of car doors slammed to their left, along 42nd Street. They looked over in unison and saw Ryan Chandler and Joe Slater walking toward them.

“I also called Finkelstein on the way over,” Dyer said. “Figured it’d be good to have continuity. He’s been with this case since the beginning. Felt bad, it was his day off.”

“It’s okay,” Russo said. “Max doesn’t have a life.”

“And you do?” Vail asked.

“You got a point. But watch your mouth, young lady. I could be your father. Show some respect.”

Vail subdued her grin.

“Hey Karen,” Chandler said as he approached. “Long time no see.” But then his gaze found the body and he slowed his pace. “Ah, shit.”

“I’d give you a hug, Ryan, but doesn’t seem like the time. Or the place.”

“No kidding.”

Vail blew on her hands as Slater came up behind Chandler. “Joe.”

“Karen,” Slater said with all the enthusiasm of a dead fish. “You’re back.”

“Good to see you too.”

“Yeah. Whatever. Another fuckin’ body.”

“Another
victim
,” Vail said. “She’s a person.”

“No, she’s more goddamn work. And she ain’t a person no more.”

Vail gave him a cold stare.

“Yeah, awright, I know, it’s a dead woman. Blah blah blah.”

Russo and Vail exchanged a look.

“Wife left me this afternoon,” Slater said. “Forgive me if I’m in a bad fuckin’ mood.”

She may be on to something.

Finkelstein trailed Slater, lugging his silver box and clipboard, dressed in a pair of Levis, bootie-covered workboots, and a pea coat. “Joy.” He set down his kit and unlatched it. “Ryan, let’s hang a few sheets to block the view and get some lights set up.”

“Let us know when you’re done processing the body,” Vail said. “And we need an ID and time of death.”

Finkelstein stopped what he was doing and gave her a “Really?” look. “Been doin’ this job twenty-eight years, Karen. Good thing you told me what to look for, ’cause I wasn’t quite sure.”

“Guess I deserved that.” She led Russo, Dyer, and Slater several feet away to give Finkelstein and Chandler room to work.

“So we’re standing outside, in the middle of New York City,” Vail said. “In a public park. And the UNSUB somehow gets the victim here, carries the dead body in, positions her on the chair, jabs the glass into her neck, and leaves.”

“And no one sees nothin’,” Slater said.

Vail tipped her chin back and found herself staring at a light post. “Maybe not ‘no one,’” she said, gesturing toward a large NYPD surveillance array on the pole.

Slater turned and looked at the gray box with the blue and gold NYPD logo mounted above the words, “SECURITY CAMERA.”

“Here we go again,” Dyer said. “This guy’s too good. Remember the Fort Apache holding cell? Asshole got into a police station, rode the elevator, and put the body inside the cell. And the whole time he wore a hat, loose-fitting black clothing, and he made sure to keep his back to the cameras. I don’t think he’s gonna make a mistake and get caught on film.”

Slater pulled out his phone. “Let’s be sure. Guessing’s not gonna get us anywhere.” As he started putting in his request, he turned and began walking out of the park, presumably toward the cameras to provide an identifying number.

“You started to tell me about the vic who got away,” Vail said. “Nyssa Bari.”

Russo blew on his hands. “Yeah, so Bari said the perp looked like a cop. He claimed he needed her to look at a piece of evidence they found in the hallway of her apartment. She didn’t know what he was talking about, so she opened the door, and he stepped inside. As soon as he kicked the door closed behind him, she knew she was in trouble, so she grabbed a paper-weight she has on her shelf.

“You’ll appreciate this—paperweight’s actually a hunk of brass the FBI commissioned decades ago for the Hoover Building, some kind of fitting for their plumbing system. But the contractor screwed up and measured wrong, so they were useless. They stamped “FBI” on them and gave ’em out to friends and family to use as paperweights. Bari’s grandfather was a Fibbie, so she got it when her father passed on.”

“And it saved her life,” Vail said. “I assume she hit him with it?”

“Hit him twice and ran. Got out, flew down the stairs, and kept running till she found a fire station. That’s where she called it in. By the time a uni got to her apartment, bastard was gone. CSU combed the place, didn’t find any blood. Or any other usable forensics. Story of our life on this case.”

“So dressed as a cop,” Vail said. “How good was the costume? Assuming it was a costume.”

“Good enough. She thought it looked legit. Hat, badge, blue uniform.”

“How tall?”

“‘Taller.’ She’s 5 foot 2.” He held up a hand. “I know, just about any guy’s taller than she is. All she could tell us is he was ‘probably a few to several inches taller’ than she was. She was barefoot, so she couldn’t judge. ‘Taller.’”

“Taller. Great.” Vail started flexing her calves, doing toe stands in place to get the blood circulating. “Distinguishing marks?”

“Glasses. Mustache and beard.”

“Let’s assume for a second he’s a real cop. What’s department policy on facial hair?”

“Mustache only with sideburns above the earlobe,” Russo said. “No beards.”

“Then it was a disguise.”

“Not necessarily. There are some exceptions. Undercover assignments, medical issues that prevent you from shaving, religious requirements that don’t allow you to shave.”

“Transit police don’t have any restrictions,” Dyer said. “Beard, mustache are both fine.”

“Rebels without a cause,” Vail said. “So this doesn’t help us a whole lot. Even if he really is a cop.”

“Which would be pretty stupid if he is. Anyone sees him there around the time she’s killed—”

“But we already know,” Vail said, “that the offender’s smart. How old was the guy? Wait, let me guess. It was too dark and it ‘happened so fast.’”

Russo chuckled. “Pretty much. He wasn’t as old as me, but older than Dyer.”

“She wasn’t a real helpful witness,” Dyer said. “She did say he was white.”

Already figured that. There aren’t that many nonwhite serial killers.

“So a white middle-aged male, between thirty and sixty,” Vail said. “I knew that from the profile I drew up. Oh, and taller than 5 foot 2.”

Russo said, “Danzig would be in that age and height range. And he worked in a police station. We already knew he was a scumbag. Maybe he swiped a standard issue hat and a shirt before his ass got fired. And you can pick up metal knockoff cop badges made overseas for fifty bucks. Can’t tell ’em from the real thing.”

“All it means,” Dyer said, “is that we still can’t rule Danzig out. Can’t find him, either.”