The Anniversary Man (24 page)

Irving frowned.

′You wonder why?′

′Yes,′ Irving replied.

′Same reason I became a doctor, same reason you became a detective. Why would someone want to bury their hands in someone′s chest cavity, take out their heart, replace it? Why would someone such as yourself want to spend his days poring over the details of horrific murders?′

′I think what we′re doing is a little different from pursuing a morbid interest in the lives and artifacts of serial killers,′ Irving said.

′Perhaps it is, Detective - to us - but to those who do it, no. You will never successfully rationalize what you consider irrational.′

′That′s not the first time I′ve heard that.′

′For an example,′ Beck said. ′Can you imagine how someone like John Costello must feel? Can you imagine the kind of self-inspection he must have gone through in the months after the attack? He′s sixteen years old, he′s out with his girlfriend, probably the first real girlfriend he ever had, and he′s attacked by someone with a hammer. They beat his head in. They kill her, but he survives. He wonders why it happened, he wonders why he survived and she didn′t. He wonders about fate, about God, about divine retribution. He wonders if some mistake hasn′t been made and he was the one who should have been killed. People ask questions, Detective Irving, and they answer them the best way they can. They have to make do with the answers they figure out, because there isn′t anyone else out there who′s an authority on such things.′

′So why do you collect things . . .′ Irving paused, smiled. ′And what is it that you do collect?′

′Letters primarily,′ Beck said. ′I have the foremost collection of letters and documents from known serial killers in the country, perhaps the world. I have documents that were signed by people. I have love letters, letters of complaint, letters of appeal and apology, letters to mothers and fathers, letters from surviving victims to their attackers, and letters from the attackers back to the victims. I have over thirteen thousand pages of words and drawings. I even have a drawing that was done by Perry Smith, one of the Kansas killers that Capote wrote about.′

′And to obtain these things?′

Beck smiled. ′This is why your friend Mr Costello suggested you come and speak with me, isn′t it?′

′Is it?′ Irving parried.

′In answer to your question, Detective . . . how do I obtain such things? I obtain such things by dealing with certain individuals I would most definitely not select as dinner guests.′

′Other collectors?′

′In a way, yes. There are two very different types of individual in this business. The collectors and the sellers. The sellers are the ones who go out looking for this stuff, and sometimes I don′t want to know how they obtain these things. They find them, they let me know, I make some calls, I view the items, negotiate a price and buy what I wish. These days I buy a lot less than I used to. There′s a huge market in spurious material nowadays - staged photographs, forged documents, the most intricate elements of corroboration created to give the apparency that something is genuine. The vast bulk of what I look at these days is either worthless or counterfeit.′

′Okay . . . so if I wished to replicate a crime scene. If I wanted to obtain photographs of a crime scene so I could accurately copy it . . . the position of the body, the clothes of the victim, that kind of thing?′

′Then you would need to start looking a lot further beneath the surface than you are looking now.′

′Which means?′

′The underground. The sub-subculture of this business. You would need to start visiting some of the places where such material can be bought.′

′And how would I get into these places? How would I even find out where they were?′

′Well, they sure as hell don′t advertise in The New York Times.′ Beck was quiet for a moment, and then he rose from the chair and went to his desk. ′The genuine material that is sold at such places has more often than not been stolen by someone within the federal or judicial system. Clerks, people in archives, stenographers, staff in evidence lockups . . . that′s where most of the genuine stuff comes from. It′s their equivalent of stealing staplers and Post-It notes from the office. An old case, files that are falling apart, a hand-written confession from some killer that no-one will ever look for because the guy was executed in 1973 . . . you get the picture. It disappears into someone′s pocket, they sell it to someone for five hundred dollars, and I end up buying it three years later for twelve grand. The second type of material, and significantly more prevalent, is counterfeit. Either which way, these are both illegal activities. One is the theft and subsequent sale of stolen government documents, the other is forgery. The last person in the world that such people would want at their swap-meets is a police detective.′

′I wouldn′t wear my uniform,′ Irving said.

Beck hesitated. ′I believe there may be a meeting on Friday the fifteenth.′

′Where?′

′I am not so sure that—′

′We′re talking real people here, Dr Beck,′ Irving interjected.

Beck raised his hand. ′I can tell you where, Detective, but I cannot get you in. That is something you′re going to have to do yourself.′

Irving didn′t respond.

′Although I′m kept informed of these meetings, I haven′t been to them for years. The people I work with have private viewings—′

′Where is this meeting going to happen, Dr Beck?′

′I cannot have you—′

′I appreciate the fact that you′ve been honest with me,′ Irving said. ′I also understand that nothing would be gained by trying to influence you with threats. You know as well as I do that any attempt to investigate how you came about obtaining your documents and letters would come to nothing. I′m asking you to help me simply because—′

′The Village,′ Beck said. ′West 11th and Greenwich, there′s a hotel called the Bedford Park. It sounds fine, but it′s not. It′s a cockroach pit. There′s a meeting there on Friday evening.′

′And I get in how?′

′Personal recommendation,′ Beck replied. ′No other way.′

′And that′s something I cannot ask you to do?′

′That is something I would be very pleased if you did not ask me to do, Detective Irving.′

Irving was quiet for a little while, and then he stood up, straightened his jacket, and said, ′Today is Tuesday. If I have nothing by Thursday morning I might come back and see you again.′

′Like I said, Detective, tomorrow morning I leave for Atlanta. I′m not returning until next Monday.′

′Is there some way I could reach you?′

Beck handed his card to Irving. ′My cellphone and my pager number are on there.′

Irving looked at the card, not to read what was written but to give himself a few moments to gather his thoughts.

Those thoughts, whatever they might have been, were interrupted by Beck. ′The reason for this?′ he asked. ′Someone is killing people?′

Irving looked up. ′Someone is always killing people, Dr Beck. Seems to be the way of the world.′

C
aptain Farraday was not happy. Chief Ellmann had appeared that morning and asked to speak with Irving personally. Farraday dealt with it, said that Irving was pursuing a vital lead. Ellmann wanted specifics, Farraday bullshitted, Ellmann saw through it, told Farraday to straighten up and fly right on this thing. Those were his exact words. Irving found it difficult to believe that anyone actually said that. Then Ellmann told Farraday that the Fourth Precinct was home for this nightmare, that Irving was to head it up, that it was their case. They would get an overtime allowance for uniforms to work on the files, additional research, such things as this, but as far as pulling detectives from the Ninth, the Seventh, the Third and the Fifth it was not going to happen.

′How many homicides this year?′ Ellmann asked Farraday.

Farraday shook his head. ′This precinct . . . God . . . two-forty? Maybe two-fifty, give or take.′

′How many detectives here?′

′Six.′

′That′s forty or fifty each,′ Ellmann replied. He fired statements at Farraday like shooting practice. ′Irving gets all eight. This is his baby. He′s a good detective. He got cited. He′s not been under IAD investigation. He can handle it. And keep it out of the papers for Christ′s sake.′

′But—′

Ellmann shook his head. ′This is eight homicides. I have a campaign for Chief, the Mayor has his own re-election. Closed cases is what we need, Captain. I can′t have four or five precincts collapsing all their manpower into what is essentially one investigation. Irving′s a grown-up, he can deal with it. I got you a shutdown on the Herald, and we spoke with The Times about this letter they got. We have an element of co-operation right now, and if they get wind of the fact that we′re tying up all our available resources into this thing, you can just imagine how excited they′re gonna get. Irving is the man. Tell him we need it done hard and fast.′

The message was relayed when Irving arrived.

It didn′t surprise him. He had half-expected it.

′I′ve given you the back half of the big office,′ Farraday said. ′All the files are up there. Everything has been brought over from the other precincts. It′s a mess, but you can have a couple of uniforms to help you sort it out. I′m here for about three hours, and then I′m gone until Thursday morning. Anything you need immediately?′

′I need to check a hotel booking, then I need to put a watch on whoever turns up on that.′

′I′ll sign what you need, have someone bring it to me.′

′How do I reach you if I need something else?′

Farraday shook his head. ′Officially you don′t. If it′s life or death, call my cell, leave a message. I′ll come back to you as fast as I can.′

′Can I keep one of the uniforms?′ Irving asked.

′No, I can′t spare them. Right through to the middle of next month I can′t have anyone out on their own. I have an even number of people today. I′m giving you two because I give you two or nothing. You get them until lunchtime and then they′re out. Right now it′s all about visibility on the streets—′

′The elections,′ Irving said matter-of-factly.

′Our jobs,′ Farraday said. ′Think about it that way and it doesn′t feel so cheap.′

Irving visited his own office briefly and then made his way up one more flight of stairs to the third. The room they had used the previous day had been divided down the center by partitions. On the left were the regular homicide detectives′ stations, their desks pushed together to create the necessary room, and on the right a pair of desks end-to-end, the whiteboards and files and stacks of documents that had been brought over from the other precincts heaped on the floor.

Within minutes the two uniforms arrived.

′Take that wall,′ Irving said. ′Push the desks against it longways. Divide the case files into five sections, one for each murder, and then up on the wall I need photographs of the victims and crime scene images. Far right I need the Shawcross documents, the letter that went to The Times—′

The younger of the two present, Michael Kayleigh, interrupted Irving. ′Sir, I know for a fact that the letter has gone over to Forensics. I think Mr Turner took it yesterday.′

Irving nodded. ′Good. Saves one of you a trip.′

′I know what to do,′ the second officer said. His name was Whittaker, a recent transfer from the Eleventh. ′I′ve done this kind of thing before.′

′Okay, so I′ll leave you to it. Go through everything, find the holes in the paperwork, make me a list. Anything you′re not sure of put it to one side and I′ll deal with it when I get back.′

′You know we can only stay until lunchtime, right?′ Kayleigh said.

Irving glanced at his watch. It was quarter of eleven. ′Better work fast then,′ he said.

T
he name of the individual who′d booked the Bedford Park conference suite for Friday evening cost Irving forty dollars. The receptionist was wary, unconvinced at twenty, and thus Irving doubled it.

The Bedford Park was everything Irving had suspected it would be. Early fifties perhaps, built in the mad rush of expansion and prosperity that New York evidenced after the war. It had seen better days, and around it was an aura of lonely desperation that spoke of illicit trysts, drug deals, book-by-the-hour hookers and cockroaches. Within the building hung the smell of sweat, the memory of the unwashed and unwanted making their slow-motion way from one temporary job to the next. It was depressing, and Irving felt some considerable relief as he left.

George Dietz. That was all Irving had, all that his forty dollars had given him.

Back at the Fourth he ran a search and came back empty. He called archives, spoke to one of the girls about pseudonyms, records of aliases and AKAs.

′All computerized,′ she said, ′but you need access from here, not from your own station.′

′Can you check it?′

′Give me the name.′

Irving spelled it.

′I′ll call you back.′

Irving sat for a while watching Whittaker and Kayleigh decorate the wall with the recent murders. Eight faces looked back at him - Mia Grant, Ashley Burch and Lisa Briley, James Wolfe - the hideous rigor of his clown-face staring back accusingly, as if asking Why weren′t you there? Why wasn′t anyone there to help me? Next came the three from the Third and Fifth - Luke Bradford, Stephen Vogel and Caroline Parselle. Last was the hooker, the Shawcross replica, Carol-Anne Stowell.

The phone rang.

′George Dietz, right?′ said the girl from archives.

′Anything?′

′It′s a known alias for one George Thomas Delaney, and if you punch his name in your station you′ll find out what a charming and beautiful human being he really is.′

Irving thanked her, hung up, typed in Delaney, and watched the man′s record unfold.