The Anniversary Man (38 page)

′If you do,′ Irving said, ′can you try and convince yourself that I′m a half way decent human being beforehand?′

′Now who′s the sarcastic asshole?′ Karen Langley said, and hung up.

 

By ten-fifteen Irving had identified the four TV stations that had crews on-site for the Lynette Berry murder scene. NBC, NET, ABC and CBS. He called Langdon in Public Relations, told him he needed copies of all the footage from all four stations, not only the footage they planned to air, but the unedited takes. Langdon said he′d be back to him within the hour.

Irving didn′t vacillate for long about visiting Costello. Waiting around would only make the situation worse. He thought about going over to see Karen Langley, but what would he say? He had enough to deal with without Costello′s paranoia. He believed he should feel sympathetic - after all, the man was doing what he could to help them, and for this Irving should have felt grateful - but at this stage of the game sympathy seemed an irrelevant and unaffordable emotion. No-one had the time to be anything other than efficient and effective. Damage control on Karen Langley was a thing all its own. It would resolve or it would not. He liked the woman, but hell, she wasn′t his wife. If she never spoke to him again would it be the end of the world?

The phone rang. Irving snatched the receiver and nearly brought the thing off the desk.

′Yes.′

′Ray, it′s Karen. John has seen the paper. He doesn′t want to leave the apartment. He says he′s not being paranoid, he′s being practical.′

Irving started to smile. It was a reaction, nothing more. It was the exhaustion, the stress, the utter disbelief attendant on such scenarios.

′So he says he′s going to lay low for a little while—′

′Lay low? What the fuck does that mean?′

′Hey, don′t speak to me like that, Ray. I′m not the one who created

this fucking nightmare, you are. Treat me with some respect or go fuck yourself—′

′I′m sorry, Karen—′

′Enough already. I don′t need apologies, I need you to shut the hell up and let me finish what I was saying. So, he′s laying low for a little while. He says he needs to focus. He wants to try and understand some more about what′s going on with this guy. He feels he′s got too close to it and needs some distance.′

′What is going on here, Karen? What kind of person am I actually dealing with here?′

′Kind of person? Jesus, Ray, sometimes you really are the working part of an asshole.′

Irving couldn′t help it then. He started laughing.

′God, you really have lost it, haven′t you? I really am starting to worry a little about you.′

′You know something, Karen? You wanna hear something?′

′Go for it, Ray, give it your best shot.′

About to come back at her with some acidic one-liner, Irving stopped. He looked at himself. For a moment he really believed he was seeing himself from a distance - what he was thinking, what he was feeling, what he had planned to say to this woman at the other end of a phone line . . . a woman he barely knew, a woman he actually cared for in some strange and awkward way. And he held himself in check. He didn′t say the thing. He just said, ′I′m sorry, Karen. I′m actually really sorry that this has happened. I do understand . . . hell, fuck no, I don′t have a fucking clue what he must be going through, but tell him from me that I appreciate his situation. Tell him that I′m sorry it happened this way, and that if there was some way to turn it backwards then I would. Tell him to take whatever time he needs, that he knows where I am, and if he has any thoughts about this thing then he should give me a call . . .′

Karen Langley didn′t speak.

′And as far as you′re concerned,′ Irving went on. ′I′m sorry that we started our friendship because of a serial killer. Maybe if we′d met some other way we′d be getting along just fine right now—′

′We are getting along just fine, Ray,′ Karen interjected. ′This is the way things happen sometimes. I′ll give your message to John, he′ll appreciate it. Stay in touch, eh?′

The line went dead.

Irving was left with a profound feeling of solitude, as if he was now the only one in the world who could make this thing stop.

S
eated in a small sound-proofed booth at the New York City crime lab, headphones clamped to his ears, sweat running down the middle of his back, Ray Irving worked with Jeff Turner from just before noon to nearly four o′clock. From the digital footage taken in Central Park they at first isolated the angle from which the image might have been taken. It was finally a choice between NBC and CBS. Then they looked closely at the faces of bystanders, TV crew members, newspaper photographers and journalists, all in an attempt to find the one face that didn′t fit, the single individual with a camera who took a picture of Irving and Costello as they visited with Lynette Berry.

At four-ten, just as Irving believed that he would never feel anything other than desperation and futility, a CSA came to the booth with a message for him. He was to call Karen Langley. It was urgent.

′John needs to speak to you,′ she told Irving. ′Where are you?′

Irving told her, gave her the number, and within minutes Costello was on the line.

′John . . . what′s up?′

′It′s a cop,′ he said.

′What?′ It was as if Irving had suddenly dropped off the edge of

something and was plummeting toward the ground.

′No, shit . . . I didn′t mean to say that,′ Costello replied. ′I guess you′ve been looking at the footage from the park, right?′

′Yes, I have . . . but the cop thing, John. What the—′

′Someone posing as a cop,′ Costello said. ′There were lots of cops down there. He was in amongst them. It′s the Bianchi killing, right? Apparently the Hillside Stranglers posed as cops. Remember what I told you? About the fact that people got so scared they wouldn′t even stop for the police? They posed as cops. That′s how they did it. I think he was there in the park. I think he was there and he was dressed as a cop. That′s how he got close, and that′s how he had the opportunity to take the picture.′

Turner was beside Irving, frowning.

′Jesus . . . Jesus . . .′ Irving was saying.

′I think that he was there, Ray, I really do.′

′Okay, okay . . . right . . . I′m back on it. I′ll call you. Hell, no . . . I can′t—′

′You got a pen?′

′A pen? Sure—′

′This is my number, Ray. It′s not in the book. I′m trusting you with it, okay?′

′Okay, yes . . . sure.′

Costello gave him the number. Irving wrote it down. Irving thanked him, hung up, looked at Turner.

′We have to find a cop with a camera,′ he said matter-of-factly, and started back toward the booth.

 

NBC were the ones who caught him. A motorcycle cop. The only one present. He never removed his helmet, and despite the lack of sunshine he didn′t remove his shades. He was in the frame for literally a handful of seconds, crossing the grass ten or fifteen yards from where Lynette Berry lay naked and cold. He held something in his hand which, at first, Irving assumed was his radio, but thanks to the quality of the digital system that NBC employed as standard they were able to enlarge the sequence frame by frame. A cellphone. Presumably a camera phone. And it was this with which he′d taken the picture of Irving and Costello. The clarity of image gave them the ID number on his jacket, they traced the number and found it was invalid.

Irving′s frustration was epic.

′Jesus Christ, Ray, how in fuck′s name were you ever supposed to know?′ Turner asked him.

′He was there, Jeff. He was right there. Twenty yards from where we were standing. The guy was right fucking there and—′

′And you didn′t know, and could never have known, and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it now. You have a guy in shades and a motorcycle helmet. All we can judge from this is his approximate height and weight—′

Irving rose from his chair. He paced the room, thumped the wall a couple of times near the door, and then stood with his eyes closed. He was trying to center himself, trying to find some way he could feel something other than futility and desperation.

′Maybe he stole the bike, Ray. Check on whether there have been any police bikes stolen—′

′I know, I know.′ Irving raised his hands and clenched his fists. ′I know where to go from here . . . it′s just we were within fucking shouting distance of the guy and—′ He gritted his teeth, stood there shaking his fists, his eyes closed, the muscles and veins visible in his neck.

After a while he lowered his arms, stood silently with his head bowed. ′Print me some hard copies of what we′ve got,′ he said quietly. ′Closeups of the side of his head, the jacket, the ID number . . . whatever you can make out, okay? Can you send them over to the Fourth soon as you′re done?′

′I′ll do them now. You can wait—′

′I gotta get out of here, Jeff. I gotta go get some air or something. I′m gonna . . . Jesus, I don′t what the fuck—′

′Go,′ Turner said. ′I′ll get this stuff over to you within the hour.′

Irving thanked him, opened the door and let it slam shut behind him. He walked out through the crime lab and up the stairs to the street. He went around the block twice and then made his way to the car.

It was close to six, the traffic was really bad; it took him nearly an hour to reach the Fourth.

 

Turner came back with the autopsy results and the crime scene report simultaneously. Forensics had cigarette butts, a size eleven Nike sneaker print, a discarded can of Coke with three unidentified partials, a single blond hair caught in Lynette Berry′s pubis. There was no sign of rape, no subcutaneous bruising, no tape residue from the wrists or ankles. She had been sedated with a strong barbiturate at some point within the twenty-four hours preceding her death. COD was asphyxiation; strangled with a piece of fabric, fibers from that fabric nowhere at the scene or on the body. Autopsy gave Irving nothing further. Central Park was the secondary, and from a series of small scratches on Lynette Berry′s right shoulder, those scratches carrying a residue of motor oil, she had more than likely struggled involuntarily, despite the sedative, in an area where a vehicle had been parked. A garage, an auto shop, there was no way to tell. Once again, as with Mia Grant and Carol-Anne Stowell, the primary was unknown.

At twenty past eight Ray Irving called Karen Langley′s desk and got her voicemail. He left no message; he wasn′t even sure what he would have said had she answered. He sat in the incident room staring at the boards on the wall. Lynette Berry′s face had been added to the group, and she looked back at him from a picture that had been taken very recently. She was a pretty girl, and from what he knew she had been a better-than-average student, no drug habit, nothing in the tox report but the barbiturates. Mother was alive, father was dead, three sisters, one brother, and she was the youngest of them all. Why she′d turned to hooking, all of nineteen years old and the world there ahead of her, Irving would never know. Casualties of war - that′s how they all seemed to him now. Which war and who was fighting it, he didn′t have a clue. An internal war, something that existed solely within the mind of one man, or a war against something, or someone, from the past - a hated sister, a cheating girlfriend, a sadistic mother. There was always a reason, however irrational, and knowing that reason served only one purpose: to prevent further loss of life. For Irving, the reason was just as unknown now as it had been when he walked toward the plastic-wrapped body of a teenager back at the beginning of June.

He typed his daily report for Farraday, the details of the photograph, the courier company, the information from The New York Times, and before completing it he called Jeff Turner.

′Nothing,′ Turner said. ′Only prints on the picture are those from your guy at The Times. The note that came with it . . . best I can do is that it was printed on a Hewlett Packard laser printer, an older model, maybe a 4M or a 4M Plus. Picture was printed on a generic brand of paper, available in a million different places. That′s as good as it gets I′m afraid.′

Irving thanked him, ended the call, added the frustrating last paragraph to his report. He instigated an action on any stolen police motorcycles, forwarded it to every police precinct in the city, marked URGENT, and then signed off.

He took his coat from the back of the door and left.

It was nine-eighteen, the sky was clear. He drove to Carnegie′s simply for the warmth, for the familiar sounds, for the presence of people who knew nothing of the Anniversary Man.

M
orning of Friday 20th a report came in regarding a stolen police motorcycle, taken from an NYPD-approved auto shop in Bedford-Stuyvesant, not far from Tompkins Square Park. The bike had been logged in on Saturday 14th, had remained uninspected until the afternoon of Tuesday 17th. According to the logbook, an initial inspection of the bike had occurred at three thirty-five on that Tuesday afternoon. It had been given a clean bill of health aside from the routine oil/brake-fluid/tire-pressure maintenance procedure, and nothing further had been done until the request came through from the Twelfth Precinct.

It was the desk sergeant who called Irving, relayed the report, and gave him the address of the shop. Irving went down there, arrived a little before noon, and spoke with the owner.

′I don′t know what to tell you,′ he told Irving. His name was Jack Brookes, seemed eager to assist in any way he could. ′We′ve been handling this business for years, never had a problem. Can′t believe this has happened. Gonna make it very difficult to keep the contract.′ He shook his head resignedly. ′It was logged in, inspected, a service was put on the schedule, and we would have gotten to it tomorrow. If the inventory request hadn′t come in we wouldn′t have known it was missing for another twenty-four hours.′