The Anniversary Man (13 page)

Irving leaned forward and put the pages on the edge of Farraday′s desk. His heart was running ahead of itself, his palms were sweating. This wasn′t the rush that came with new evidence on a stale case; this wasn′t the sense of urgency when a stake out was paying off. This was something altogether more disturbing. Ray Irving felt as if something had crawled beneath his skin and settled for the duration.

Farraday smiled knowingly. ′You wanna know something really fucking scary?′

′Scarier than this?′

Farraday pushed himself away from where he′d been perching on the window sill and sat at his desk. ′I called Detective Richard Lucas at the Ninth Precinct, and two days after those girls were discovered they got an anonymous call. Caller was a woman, and she said the exact same thing as this woman back in 1980. They have it on tape and I read them what was in the Herald. They compared it . . . it was the same, exactly the fucking same.′

′And they know who made the call?′ Irving asked.

′God knows,′ Farraday replied. ′An accomplice? Someone he paid to make the call for him? I have no idea.′

Irving looked up at Farraday. ′This reporter called me,′ he said. ′This reporter. Karen Langley.′

′You′re kidding!′

′She called me a week ago. Asked me about the warehouse kid, whether he was dressed as a clown or not.′

Farraday didn′t speak.

′It wasn′t any different from any other press call—′

Farraday raised his hand. ′Problem we have is that someone else, a fucking reporter for God′s sake, has found a connection between three apparently unrelated crime scenes, and if this is what she says it is—′

′Then we′re in trouble.′

′Go see her, Ray. Find out what the fuck is going on, eh? Find out if she has a line into the PD that isn′t healthy. Find out how the goddamn hell she knows shit that we don′t.′

Irving rose from his chair.

Farraday leaned forward. ′So far this morning I′ve had nine calls. The Mayor′s office, the Chief, three newspapers, someone from the FBI, the Chief again, some woman from the Committee for Mayoral Re-election, and someone from the CBS press office. And that′s just as a result of word of mouth. God knows what the fuck would happen if that actually wound up in the paper.′

′What are we doing with it?′ Irving asked.

′Undecided. First we put a cap on this newspaper thing. We put a stop to whatever incendiary bomb of speculation they′re building over there. I got a meeting with the Chief in a couple of hours. Me, the other captains, this guy Lucas from the Ninth, a few others. They asked for you but I told them no.′

Irving raised his eyes questioningly.

′You have more years than most. They wanna put someone in the front-line on this then it′s more than likely gonna be you. That′s what I don′t want. I can′t have this place being the focus of some bullshit media circus right now.′

Farraday stood up, put his hands in his pockets. His eyes were resigned to the inevitability of bad news and, once it was delivered, the certainty that more would be on the way. ′Go speak to the hack. Tell her how this shit works. Tell her to calm the fuck down and let us do our job, okay?′

′On my way,′ Irving said.

He closed the door silently behind him and made his way down the corridor to the stairs.

I
rving took a right on Ninth past the Port Authority Terminal, found the offices of the New York City Herald on the corner of 31st and Ninth, across from the General Post Office. The sky was overcast, like tarnished silver. He was aware of the smell of the city, the air thick, as if breathing would take work. Parked his car back of the Herald building and walked around to the front desk. Showed his ID, waited patiently, was told that Karen Langley would be another hour. Irving was polite, said he′d go get a cup of coffee and return at eleven. The girl behind the desk smiled back. She was pretty, hair cut short in back, long at the sides. It framed her face like a picture. Made him think of Deborah Wiltshire, not the way she looked but the feeling of having someone there. Remembered the days after her death, those moments he′d paused in his kitchen, how he′d opened a cupboard and stopped dead in his tracks, or leaned forward and touched his forehead to the uppermost edge of the fridge. Felt the tight, breathless vibration of the motor through his skin, like a single exhalation with no respite. How it had clicked off suddenly, startled him; how he was aware of tears in his eyes. All because there was a jar of mustard on the shelf. He disliked mustard. He had bought it for her, the odd occasion she was over and made sandwiches. Something like that. A little thing which became a big thing.

He drank his extra shot half-and-half in a corner booth with a narrow view of a synagogue in the distance. He wondered if a man such as himself would find solace in religion. He wondered if the questions he carried would ever be answered, and if answered would he then let them go. Or had the weight of those questions become familiar, comfortable, necessary?

At four minutes past eleven he stood ahead of the pretty girl with the beautiful hair.

′She′s back,′ the girl said.

′You have beautiful hair,′ Irving replied.

The girl smiled widely, seemed very pleased. ′Thank you. I wasn′t sure if . . . well, if it wasn′t a bit severe . . . you know?′

Irving shook his head. ′You look like a movie star.′

For a moment she seemed unable to speak, and then she lifted the receiver and called Karen Langley.

Words were shared, the receiver returned to its cradle, and the girl indicated the elevator. ′Go on up,′ she said. ′Third floor. Karen will be there for you.′

Irving nodded, started walking.

′You take care now,′ the girl called after him.

′You too,′ he replied.

 

Karen Langley was an attractive woman, but when she opened her mouth she said, ′You′ve come to tell me to shut the fuck up, haven′t you?′ and there was an edge to her tone which made Irving uncomfortable.

He smiled, tried to laugh off the severity of her question, but there seemed to be little humor in the woman′s eyes or her voice.

She showed him into an office to the right of the elevator. There was little personality on display. Nothing decorative, no family photos on the desk or the shelves.

Karen Langley walked around the desk and sat down. She didn′t invite Irving to sit, but he did so regardless.

′I′m busy,′ she said.

′Aren′t we all?′ he replied.

Karen Langley smiled - a little forced, but it gave away something of the person behind the emotional stab-jacket she was sporting. She was late thirties, maybe early forties. Color of her eye-whites said she drank a little too much. Skin was clear, didn′t have the worn-out taint and crease of the heavy smoker. Fingernails were cut short but manicured. No polish. Plain dark skirt, white open-necked blouse, a single silver chain around her neck. No rings, no ear rings, hair shoulder length, mostly straight with a slight wave in the ends. She looked businesslike because she wanted to look that way. To Irving she seemed lonely, the sort of woman who filled up all the empty spaces with work that wasn′t required.

′I′m Detective Ray Irving,′ he said.

′I know who you are.′

′I was on the Mia Grant case—′

′Was?′ Langley frowned. ′It′s closed already. I thought you hadn′t got anyone for that.′

Irving nodded. ′I am on the Mia Grant case.′

′And James Wolfe, right? And the Ninth has Richard Lucas on the Burch and Briley killings from June twelfth, and now we have Gary Lavelle from the Fifth and Patrick Hayes from the Third on the triple from yesterday.′

Irving said nothing.

Karen Langley smiled knowingly. ′I told you that to piss you off,′ she said. ′You didn′t know about the triple from yesterday, did you?′

Again he said nothing. He was being cornered and he didn′t like it.

′Three kids. Two boys shot in the trunk of a car, girlfriend of one of them found naked and strangled a mile or two away.′

′And you know this because?′

′Because we have scanners. Because we have people we talk to. Because we have anonymous tip-offs, most of it bullshit, but sometimes there′s gold in them thar hills.′

Irving smiled. ′Are you really as tough as you sound?′

Langley laughed. ′I′m putting on the kitten-soft front just for you, Detective. Normally I′m a bitch.′

′And the significance of the triple yesterday?′

′You ever hear of a guy called Kenneth McDuff?′

′Can′t say I have.′

′Executed November 1998. Did a triple back in August ′66—′

′The sixth, right?′

′Nail on the head. August sixth, triple homicide. Two kids found in the trunk of a car. A girl found about a mile away who′d been strangled with a broom handle. Had an accomplice, a halfwit called Roy Green. McDuff was an animal. No soul. Know what he told Green?′

Irving shook his head.

′Killing a woman′s like killing a chicken. They both squawk.′

′Sounds like a real star.′

Langley reached over to the right of her desk and retrieved a manila file. She opened it, leafed through a few pages, and handed one of them to Irving.

′That′s a copy of some of Green′s statement after he was arrested.′

Irving glanced over it, looked up at Langley.

′Go ahead,′ she said. ′Read the thing.′

Irving looked up from the page.

′Enough?′ Langley asked.

He nodded.

′I can pretty much guarantee that the MO on yesterday′s crime scene report is gonna read the same as that,′ she said.

′Two boys, one girl you say?′

Langley nodded. ′Two boys found shot dead in the trunk of a car, a naked girl found about a mile away who′d been choked to death with something.′

′So we have a copycat.′

′A copycat who does it on the anniversary of the original killing. And copying not just one killer, but several. Right now he′s done Carignan, colloquially known as ′Harv the Hammer′, Murray the Sunset Slayer, John Gacy, and now Kenneth McDuff. Seven victims, all teenagers, all within two months.′