The Anniversary Man (30 page)

′I know I don′t have to, I want to. But I′m up against it, you know? You understand this shit. You get deadlines, right?′

′Sure I do.′

′I had a good time, Karen.′

′I know,′ she replied.

′You are such a wiseass.′

′So, John′s not here, he′s home today. Well, I presume he′s home. Tell you the truth, I have absolutely no idea what John does with his time.′

′You have his number?′

′I can′t give it to you.′

′You can′t give it to me or you won′t?′

′I won′t. I wouldn′t do that to him.′

Irving was silent, a little puzzled.

′Oh come on, Ray, you′ve met him. You know how he is. He doesn′t deal with people very well. He doesn′t like a change in his routine.′

′So how the hell do I get to talk to him?′

′I′ll call him. I′ll tell him that you want to speak to him. I don′t know whether he′ll call you . . .′ Her statement was left incomplete and Irving had to prompt her.

′He has an issue,′ Karen said.

′An issue?′

′An issue with you.′

′What are you talking about?′

′The fact that we went out. John has a concern about you.′

′Me? Jesus, what the hell is that about?′

′Well, I′m his friend. We′ve worked together for years. He considers me his responsibility in some way. There′s never been anything between us but a professional and platonic relationship, but he still considers that what happens to me is his business.′

′Okay,′ Irving said. ′I can appreciate that, but what did you tell him? Did you tell him I was an asshole or something?′

′No, of course I didn′t.′

′So what′s the deal now? If I want to ask you out again I have to ask him to chaperone?′

′Don′t be sarcastic, Ray. Deal with it. So do you want me to call him or not?′

′Please. That would be good. Tell him I need his help with this thing.′

′You need his help?′

′Sure. What′s so odd about that? He′s the fucking Rainman, isn′t he? He′s the one who can remember three hundred-thousand murder cases.′

′Enough already—′

Irving took a deep breath. ′I′m sorry, Karen, but—′

′But nothing. You treat him like anyone else, okay? Don′t patronize him. If I hear that you′ve upset him—′

′I won′t. I′m sorry, I really am very sorry, okay? I didn′t mean that to sound the way it sounded.′

′Well it did, and I don′t like it. He′s a good person, and a very close friend of mine. You upset him and not only will you not see me again, but I′ll run whatever fucking stories I like and you and the Chief of Police and the Mayor can go to Hell, okay?′

′Karen, seriously—′

′Okay, Ray, that′s all I need. I need a simple acknowledgement here.′

′Yes. Okay. I understand.′

′Good, so I′ll call John. You talk to him nice. You piss him off and I′ll come down there and slap you. Then, when you get a moment, you can call me and talk nicely as well and I might go out with you again. And you can send me some flowers or something as an apology for being an asshole, all right?′

′You are un-fucking-real—′

′I′m hanging up now, Detective Irving—′

And she did.

The receiver burred in his ear accusingly.

 

It took him ten minutes to find the number for a city florist. As he reached for the phone it rang. Startled, he snatched it from the cradle.

′Detective Irving.′

′Mr Costello?′

′You wanted to speak to me.′

′I did, yes. Thank you for calling me.′

′You′re gonna have to be fast. There′s a TV program I need to watch.′

′Yes, of course. Jesus, you′ve caught me on the hop. It was just—′

′Something about the case?′

′Yes, something about the case . . . about our perp. The killings he replicates and the letter he sent.′

Costello laughed - a brief and unexpected reaction. ′You and I have been thinking the same thing it seems,′ he said matter-of-factly.

Irving frowned. ′How so?′

′The question I have is why does he only replicate killings carried out by people who were caught, and yet he used the Zodiac code to send the Shawcross letter. Is that what you were wondering?′

Irving sat open-mouthed for some seconds.

′Detective? Are you there?′

′Yes . . . yes, I′m here . . . yes, of course. Jesus. This is a little unexpected. Sorry, you′ve caught me unprepared. I . . . I was—′

′Thinking the exact same thing?′

′Yes I was. That′s quite remarkable.′

′No, not really. When you look at this thing objectively you can see that this doesn′t make sense. That′s the first thing you have to do with anything like this. Look for the one thing that doesn′t make sense.′

′And I went through the dates of all the confirmed and unconfirmed Zodiac killings and found that—′

′He could have replicated any one of them in any month except January. There were reported killings in every month of the year except January.′

′Right . . . and the one that took place in September before today′s date was—′

′On September fourth,′ Costello interjected. ′Alexandra Clery. Beaten to death on September fourth, 1972. A Monday. Unconfirmed.′

′So he is not replicating the Zodiac.′

′Not yet, no,′ Costello said. ′Though there were three other attacks that took place in September, but later than the sixteenth.′

′So where does that take you?′ Irving asked.

′Homage,′ Costello said quietly.

′Sorry?′

′The letter, I believe, was a homage to the Zodiac.′

′A homage?′

′Sure. He kills like other killers. What is he saying? He′s saying that he can do what they do. He can do it better. He can do it without being caught. He sends the Shawcross letter in the Zodiac code to serve two purposes. First, he knows that the police are not as smart as he is, so he has to make sure that they get the connection between the hooker found down near the pier and the Steffen girl that Shawcross killed in ′88. Secondly, and I think more importantly, he wants to tell us where he′s going—′

′Where he′s going?′

′Into the textbooks, you know? Onto the True Crime channel. He wants to be a star of stage and screen.′

′He wants to be as famous as the Zodiac.′

′He wants to be Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy, probably even wants to be the real Hannibal Lecter, you know? But he wants to remain forever unknown like the Zodiac, and maybe he even wants to break the record.′

′Jesus, but Carignan killed over fifty people—′

′Unconfirmed. Confirmed kills were somewhere between twelve and twenty. That′s always the difficulty. These people habitually lie about what they′ve done. They admit to killings they didn′t do, and they refuse to acknowledge murders that were so evidently their work. It′s always an estimate, you know? But from the commonly accepted information, we can gather the Sunset Slayers killed seven, Gacy thirty-three, Kenneth McDuff about fifteen as far as evidence tells us, and Shawcross says he murdered fifty-three, but again the realistic figure is somewhere between fifteen and twenty-five.′

′And the worst?′ Irving asked.

′Hard to tell,′ Costello replied. ′Worst ever isn′t American. Columbian called Pedro Lopez murdered over three hundred. Next you have an American pair called Henry Lee Lucas and Ottis Toole who apparently killed over two hundred. Confessed to thirty or so after something called the Interstate Murder Spree. The de Gonzales sisters, Mexican brothel owners, ninety-one bodies found in their bordello in the early 1960s. Then you′ve got Bruno Ludke, German, maybe eighty or eighty-five. Next we have the infamous Chikatilo, Russian, a cannibal, and he killed somewhere over fifty. Onoprienko, another Russian, apparently wanted to hold the world record for serial killings but he was arrested after fifty-two murders. Then we have another American, Gerald Stano, in prison at twenty-nine years old for killing forty-one women, mostly prostitutes and teenage runaways in Florida and New Jersey. He went to the electric chair back in March of ′98. Gary Ridgway, the Green River Killer, anywhere between thirty-five and fifty victims, Seattle and Tacoma mainly. Gacy is next with thirty-three, then Dean Corll and Wayne Williams both with twenty-seven. Straight answer to your question is that our friend would have to do well in excess of fifty to get into the record books, and that′s only as far as American serial killers are concerned. If he wants the world record he′s gonna have to get very busy indeed.′

Irving was silent for a long time. He was having a conversation about something that he found almost impossible to comprehend.

′And so far we have eight,′ he eventually said.

′That we know of,′ Costello said. ′There′s always the possibility that he could have come from another city. He could even have taken a break for a period of time, and we′re not looking back far enough to catch the earlier part of the cycle.′

Irving felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. The earlier part of the cycle. Such a thing made it sound so utterly clinical.

′The truth of the matter is that there is no way to predict who he will decide to be next,′ Costello said.

′Unless, of course, there is some aspect of the preceding murders that give a clue, and we′ve missed it.′

′You think he′s showing you what he′s doing?′ Costello asked.

′Who knows what he′s showing us,′ Irving said. ′Who knows what he′s showing the world.′

′For what it′s worth,′ Costello said, ′I think he wants to show the world that he′s the best.′

A
few minutes after twelve-thirty, less than an hour before he was scheduled to call Chaz Morrison, word came from downstairs. Morrison had made a call on his landline at twelve-seventeen. He had explained his requirements to someone - multiple homicides, preferably more than twenty years ago; three, four victims, unusual body positions, articles of clothing left at the scene - anything a little out of the ordinary. Morrison and his contact made a joke about pedestrian tastes. The contact said he′d get what Morrison needed, that he should call back on Monday evening. The call ended. Within fifteen minutes Irving had had the number traced to an address in Greenwich Village near the 14th Street station. He ran the address on the city employee database and got a name. Dale Haynes, twenty-five, no priors, currently employed by the police department′s Archival Restoration Unit.

Irving had the seller. They had him for theft, violation of the confidentiality clauses of his government contract, sale of stolen City property. What he was doing was not of major importance: what mattered was whether this man Haynes had provided crime-scene photographs for their Anniversary Man. When, thought Irving, did anyone ever use the term short shot? It was all long shots. That was the nature of the beast.

By one-thirty he had a search warrant and a surveillance unit on Haynes′s apartment. This took precedence over the scheduled call to Chaz Morrison, and Irving decided to let that go. Farraday had asked Irving for a blow-by-blow account of what he was doing, had approved everything he′d asked for. He seemed satisfied with Irving′s actions, told him to take a unit of six from the Fourth and deploy them as he saw fit. Haynes was not to run under any circumstances - as of this moment he was not a suspect in the killings, but he was a potential lead and had to be handled by the book. Irving had no authority to make a deal with Haynes without strict and specific authority from Farraday, and Farraday himself would liaise with the DA. The case was far too important to fuck it up with procedural errors.

At three minutes past two, afternoon of Saturday, September 16th, Detective Ray Irving stood to the side of Dale Haynes′s apartment door and knocked loudly. He identified himself clearly, made no further attempt to alert the suspect as to his presence beyond waiting thirty seconds and then knocking again.

At four and a half minutes past they went through the door with a ram.

Confusion broke out as Irving and three uniforms ran through the apartment, clearing each room in turn. One door was closed, and before Irving had a chance to kick it open a voice from within shouted, ′Hold on a minute . . . hold on a minute!′

′Dale Steven Haynes?′ Irving shouted.

′Yes . . . I′m here . . . what′s happening?′

′Step out of the room. Hands over your head. This is the police.′

′What the—′

′Step out of the room, Mr Haynes. I′m counting to three. If I don′t see the door opening we′re coming through—′

′Okay, okay . . . Jesus Christ, what the fuck is this?′

Irving nodded at the uniforms, who stepped to each side of the door and flattened themselves against the wall. The door handle turned. Irving stepped behind a chair and crouched down. He had a clean line of fire to the doorway.

The uniforms pulled Haynes out into the room and had him cuffed, down on his knees, before he knew what was happening. He was wearing nothing but his tee-shirt and shorts, his eyes wide, his face white, his expression one of sheer terror.

′Dale Steven Haynes, you are under arrest for suspicion of theft of city property, for suspicion of the illegal sale of city property. You have the right to remain silent, but anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney one will be appointed you by the court—′

By now Haynes was crying.

′Detective?′ one of the uniforms called from inside the bedroom.

′Keep an eye on him,′ Irving told the second uniform, stepping past the kneeling man and walking through the doorway.

There must have been eight or ten boxes. Bank boxes, standard size, and inside each box were manila files, and within each file dozens of pictures. Everything imaginable, some of it truly horrific, and all of it taken from case files that were being repaired and moved for the NYPD archival project. All of them were closed cases, the pictures representing New York′s criminal history. Here were its ghosts, its specters, here were the lives of endless thousands of people destroyed by killers known or unknown. Dale Haynes ran a sideline selling the darkest of New York′s memories.