The Anniversary Man (39 page)

Irving had Brookes show him where the bikes were kept. They had a small secure warehouse facility, perhaps thirty or thirty-five bikes on site, and no CCTV.

′CCTV isn′t a requisite for the contract,′ Brookes said. ′Usually they′re in and out of here within a day or so, certainly those that just need a service, but we′ve had some damaged bikes come in and they′ve been priority. Couple of them should have been scrapped, but I think someone is tightening up the budget, you know?′

Irving thanked Brookes, let him go. He spent an hour walking around the compound. He asked questions of the crew, the mechanics, the admin staff. Ordinarily the motorcycle officers just came in to collect their own machines. Irving′s photographer could have walked right in, his uniform being the only identification needed, and just wheeled a bike right out of the warehouse. The auto-shop had a good working relationship with the police, they′d never had trouble, and operated on the basis that there was none on its way.

Irving left close to two with a heavy heart and a headache.

 

From the Fourth he called Costello at home.

′You were right,′ he said. ′Motorcycle cop. Took a bike from an auto shop anytime since last Tuesday. No-one remembers anything, no CCTV, nothing.′

′He knows what he′s doing,′ Costello said. ′Perfectionist.′

′But why . . .′ Irving was voicing a thought rather than intending a question.

′Cause he′s fucking nuts,′ Costello replied matter-of-factly. ′I don′t think you need to get any more complicated than that.′

Irving was silent for a moment, and then he said, ′So how are you doing?′

′I′m okay, you know? It shook me up, seeing my picture in the paper. It really shook me up. But today? Today I′m actually okay. I′m going to go in after lunch, go see Karen, see what needs doing.′

′And the weekend?′

′Whatever. I don′t make plans. I stay home usually, watch some movies, but you have my number now . . . if you need me.′

′Appreciated, John. I′ll call if this goes anyplace.′

′Best of luck, eh?′

′Overrated commodity,′ Irving said. ′Very fucking overrrated.′

Irving hung up the phone. He leaned forward and rested his forehead against the edge of his desk.

He was so tired, so unbearably exhausted that if the phone had not rung he might have fallen asleep.

T
he letter had arrived with the regular mail. It was addressed URGENT RUSH PLEASE HURRY to Karen Langley. Karen opened it, read it, dropped it on her desk and called Ray Irving.

She had been out all morning, had arrived back minutes before to start through her mail, and there it was.

Irving put the light on his car and floored it to West 31st. He told her to stay put, do nothing, call no-one, not to touch the letter. His heart pounded in his chest all the way. His mouth was dry and bitter, though his hands sweated.

By the time Irving arrived John Costello was there, had already seen the letter.

′Plain white bond,′ he told Irving. ′I haven′t touched it. I know what it means.′

Written in a childlike print on a single sheet, the message was clear and disturbing:
Irving read it twice, standing ahead of Karen Langley′s desk, Langley to his right, Costello to his left.

′Henry Lee Lucas,′ Costello said. ′This is one of his confession letters from October 1982.′

′And the victim?′

′God, any one of dozens. He had a partner, a guy called Ottis Toole, and they went on a rampage along the I-35 in Texas.′

′MOs?′

′No one particular thing. They shot some people, beat them to death, strangled, set others on fire, crucified them. Usually they were sex killings. They raped and sodomised people. They had a couple of kids with them, a thirteen-year-old girl who they used as bait to get truck drivers to stop on the highway, and then they dragged them out and killed them.′

Irving took a deep breath. ′And the dates?′

′There′s a number of them throughout October and November if that′s what you′re asking.′

Irving nodded. ′That′s what I′m asking.′

′So what do you do with this?′ Karen asked, indicating the letter.

′You got a plastic bag, a folder or something, anything to put it in? It′ll go to forensics. I′ll take it down there, see if there′s anything on it. If earlier letters are anything to go by there won′t be.′

Irving looked up at Karen Langley. Her face was pale, drained of color, and her eyes were wide. ′He knows who we are,′ she said, her voice almost a whisper. ′He photographed John, and now he sent this to me—′

′It′s not a threat against you—′ Irving started.

′How do you know that, Ray? How do you know that it′s not a threat against me?′

He started to respond, and then realized he had nothing to say.

′You don′t know, do you?′ she said. ′We don′t know anything about him. We don′t know what he′s trying to do. We don′t know—′ She stopped mid-sentence, tears welling in her eyes. She backed up and sat down on a chair by the window.

Irving walked toward her, kneeled before her, took her hands in his.

′I′ll have someone at your house,′ he said reassuringly. ′I′ll have a black-and-white in the vicinity of your house. I′ll have someone come and see you at home. I′ll make sure that if he has any such idea—′

Karen shook her head. ′Jesus, Ray, what the fuck did we do to deserve this? What the hell does this have to do with us?′

′We′re just the opponents,′ John Costello said. ′This is a game and we′re the opponents, nothing more nor less than that. He has to have someone to play against, and we′re right there in the frame.′

′But this is different,′ Karen said. ′This is very fucking different now. I mean, Jesus, I′ve seen some things in my time, we all have. But it′s out there isn′t it? I mean . . . I mean it′s out there in the world, and we look at it, and we write about it, and sometimes we see pictures, but this . . .′

She started hyperventilating.

Irving glanced at Costello. He felt awkward. He wanted to hold this woman, to pull her tight, tell her that it was going to be fine, that everything was going to be okay, but he didn′t believe that, and Costello′s presence made him feel awkward.

Karen tried to fingertip the tears from her lower lids and merely smeared her mascara. She looked beaten down, overwhelmed.

′I don′t want to feel like this,′ she said, ′so frightened . . . he knows who we are, Ray . . . he sent this letter to me, for God′s sake.′

She took a deep breath. She closed her eyes and exhaled. When she opened her eyes she looked at Costello.

′I agree with Ray,′ Costello said. ′He′s not going to come after us. Why would he? This isn′t about us, this is about him. This is about him doing whatever the hell he likes and getting away with it. This is about him performing his little theater and watching as the NYPD and the newspaper and the TV stations all start to sit up and take notice. If he comes after us then who′s going to be left to play the game with him?′

Karen gathered herself together. She fetched a Kleenex from her purse and tried to fix her mascara. ′I need some coffee,′ she said. ′I′m gonna go get some coffee from the canteen.′ She rose from the chair and straightened her skirt. ′You want some?′

Irving said he would, Costello declined, and once she′d left the room Irving sat in her chair and looked over the letter.

′You actually believe what you just told her?′ he asked.

Costello shook his head. ′No,′ he replied.

′Me neither.′

′And there′s not going to be anything on that letter that will get us any closer toward his identity.′

′I′d put money on it.′

′Was there anything from the scene in the park?′

′Nothing useful.′

′So all we know is that he has done, or is going to do, a Henry Lee Lucas killing.′

′Can you put together a calendar of the killings that were attributed to him?′ Irving asked.

′I sure can . . . you wanna wait while I do it now?′

′Please, yes. That′d be good.′

Costello left the room.

Irving walked to the window and looked down into the street, was still there when Karen Langley returned with coffee and her false hope that this wasn′t personal.

′Okay?′ Irving asked.

′As can be.′

′I′m just waiting for some info from John, and then I′m going to take the letter to the forensics people.′

′Can you really get someone to check out my house?′

′Sure I can . . . in fact, you let me know what time you′re done and I′ll come check it out myself.′

′Who knows?′ she replied. ′Six, seven, something like that.′

′So call me when you′re through and I′ll follow you home, okay?′

′Thank you, Ray.′ She sat down, held the coffee cup between her hands and closed her eyes. ′Hell, I feel bad,′ she said. ′This has really shaken me up.′

Irving stepped beside her, put his hand on her shoulder. ′I know,′ he said quietly. ′I know.′

I
rving left the offices of the City Herald with the letter and Henry Lee Lucas′s schedule of killings. They spanned the calendar, and there seemed no sequence to them, but between him and his partner, Ottis Toole, they had been busy. October 22nd, 1977, the gun killing of Lily Pearl Darty. In Waco, Texas on November 1st of the same year, they hog-tied Glen D. Parks and then shot him with a .38. On October 31st, 1978 in Kennewick, Nevada, the duo raped and killed a girl called Lisa Martini in her own apartment. November 5th, 1978 they were driving along the I-35 in Texas when they spotted a young couple, Kevin Kay and Rita Salazar. Salazar they raped, and then shot six times; Kay they shot also, dumped both bodies unceremoniously at the side of the highway. A year later, 3rd October 1979, Lucas and Toole robbed, raped and murdered Sandra Mae Stubbs. Ten days later they shot and killed the mom-and-pop owners of a liquor store in Austin, Texas. October 31st, another woman was found dead on the I-35, unidentified. Twenty-first of November, while robbing a motel in Jacksonville, Cherokee County, Lucas raped, then shot to death, a thirty-one-year-old woman called Elizabeth Knotts. Eighteen days later a teenager was raped and stabbed in her own home, her remains found in nearby woods.

And so it went on - killings through Christmas, through January, February and March of 1980.

Their spree continued unabated until Henry Lee Lucas′s arrest in October 1982. Ultimately Lucas confessed to one hundred and fifty-six homicides, and among his weapons of choice he claimed to have used pistols, shotguns, table legs, telephone cords, knives, tire irons, axes, vacuum cleaner cables, even a car. In retrospect, it was considered that many of the murders attributed to him were down to over-eager homicide detectives wishing to close as many outstanding cases as they could. Nevertheless, the schedule of killings gave Irving a small glimpse of the nightmare he was facing. The Lucas-Toole replica could already have happened, or it could only have been planned. There was no way to know which murder would be replicated, or when.

It was this scenario that he explained to Jeff Turner when he arrived at the crime lab a little before six that evening.

Turner took the letter, the schedule that Costello had typed out. He sat in silence for some time.

′You could commit the original sin,′ he said to Irving.

′Which would be?′

′Leak something to the press, get the thing on the news. Stir up enough trouble to get some more people assigned to this.′

Irving smiled sardonically. ′I′m gonna make believe you didn′t say that.′

′Make believe all you wish, Ray. The girl in Central Park consumed about twenty-five minutes all told. I saw the news on three different channels. People don′t want to know. She was a hooker, for God′s sake. People don′t think of hookers as real people. Best kind of reaction you get is that they probably deserved it.′

′And this is something I don′t already know?′

Turner leaned back in his chair. He looked as tired as Irving. ′So where do you go with this now?′ he asked.

′I wait for your results on the letter,′ he said, indicating the page on the desk before him.

′And when I come back and tell you that there′s nothing on it, no prints, no distinguishing marks—′

′I hope that you don′t, but if you do, which I′m sure you will, I′ll jump off that bridge when I get there.′

Irving′s pager beeped. Karen Langley again.

Irving got up. ′I have to make a call. I′ll come back in a little while.′

 

′Karen.′

′You need to call John. He has something else for you.′

′Did he say what?′

′No. Just call him. I have to go into a meeting.′

Irving thanked her, dialed Costello′s number, paced the corridor waiting for him to pick up.

′John, it′s Ray.′

′He missed out a word.′

′What?′

′The letter he sent to Karen . . . he missed out a word.′

′What word?′

′Joanie.′

′Someone′s name?′

′It′s the Orange Socks Murder,′ Costello said. ′That′s what he′s going to replicate.′

′The what murder?′

′October 31st, 1979, a motorist on the I-35 found a body in a culvert. She had nothing on but a pair of orange socks and a silver ring. No clothes, no purse, nothing. Just the orange socks. She had perfect teeth, no broken bones, no dental or medical records to help identify her, and as far as I know they still have no idea who she was. Only other thing was the contents of her stomach, and a pair of panties found nearby, inside of which was a makeshift sanitary napkin.′