The Anniversary Man (44 page)

Irving stopped, smiled to himself.

Hardangle.

The name Costello had invented for him.

He could hear Deborah Wiltshire′s voice then, something she had said too many times for him to forget. You have to let people in a little bit, Ray . . . have to give them a little of yourself before you′ll get something back . . .

He wondered in that moment if he would be the same man when this thing was over.

Somehow he doubted it, and in some strange way he hoped that he would not.

T
hroughout the next seven days, despite the bitter cold that suddenly seemed to grip New York, despite the forthcoming Thanksgiving celebrations and the approach of Christmas, Ray Irving worked eighteen and twenty hours a day. He never stopped, he didn′t slow down. He spoke to Karen, to John Costello; he held meetings with Farraday, with Chief Ellmann, with the FBI agents, with officers assigned to assist in the division of labor; he ran Detectives Hudson and Gifford ragged at the edges - checking, cross-checking, visiting people themselves. Then the inevitable occurred.

Mr David Trent, mid-forties, married, an unemployed father of four, kind of guy who believed implicitly that the world owed him a living, took it upon himself to tell the world. Despite Detective Vernon Gifford explaining the situation and stressing the necessity of keeping some sense of balance about the nature of what they were dealing with; despite impressing upon Mr Trent that confidentiality was of the utmost importance, that everything should be done to prevent any panic regarding a potential serial killer . . . regardless of whatever efforts had been made to make Mr Trent understand what was happening, Mr Trent called The New York Times, he visited with them, and he told them that there was something going on.

Later, the article in his hand as he sat before Captain Farraday and Chief Ellmann, Irving realized that such a situation would have been impossible to avoid entirely. Evidently, Trent had spoken to The Times on Thursday, November 9th, and on Friday the 10th, three days before the anniversary of the Amityville killings, a decidedly attention-grabbing headline appeared on page two of the largest circulation newspaper in the State:

Somewhat inconclusively, the article covered the Mia Grant killing, the deaths of Luke Bradford, Stephen Vogel and Caroline Parselle from the 6th of August, an unrelated murder from the same month, and then went on to ′alert the people of New York, as was the duty of the press′ to the fact that the police had undertaken a huge program to caution several hundred families. The article gave no specifics as to the caution, aside from the fact that these families ′could be in danger from a person, or persons, unknown.′ The report didn′t isolate solely those families with six members, and it created sufficient noise for Chief Ellmann to call a press conference in the early afternoon of Friday the 10th in an effort to allay fears and minimize panic.

′We are in possession of no conclusive evidence at this time that New York is under threat from a serial killer. In fact, it is possibly incorrect to employ this term at all.′ He spoke with authority. Had Irving been uninformed he might even have believed this. After all, Ellman was New York′s Chief of Police.

′An operation has been ongoing for some days,′ Ellmann went on, ′to contact a number of families within the New York City limits - families that could be classified as occupying a particular demographic. The purpose of this operation is to prevent harm, not to cause concern or instigate panic among New York′s inhabitants. Let me assure you that if you, or a member of your family, has not been contacted by someone from the New York police department or a federal representative, then you fall outside the relevant demographic and have no cause for concern.′

When asked by an NBC journalist what had prompted this action, Ellmann responded without hesitation.

′Through one of the many lines of investigation we have been pursuing, we have unearthed some information - at this time unsubstantiated - that an individual may make an attempt to commit further murders. As I have said, and will say again, there is no cause for alarm. Through actions currently being undertaken by the New York Police Department, very ably assisted by representatives from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, we have this situation well in hand. I can assure you that the likelihood of any untoward occurrence is very slight, and that all measures to prevent any harm coming to any citizen of New York are being taken with the greatest speed and efficiency possible. I wish to make it clear once again that there is no significant cause for concern. I would urge all New Yorkers to go on about their business as usual. We have one of the finest police departments in the country, and they are committed to making the streets and homes of this great city completely safe.′

Amidst a hubbub of questions and flashguns Chief Ellmann concluded the press conference.

Ray Irving and Bill Farraday, watching the TV in Farraday′s office, looked at one another for a moment as Ellmann walked from the podium. Farraday switched off the TV and sat down at his desk.

′Very smooth,′ Irving said.

′That′s why he′s the Chief,′ Farraday replied.

′Seems that despite everything our guy has got a little of what he′s looking for.′

′You think that′s all that this is about . . . some press coverage?′

′God almighty knows. It has to be part of it, doesn′t it? Isn′t that the cliché? Someone didn′t listen, someone didn′t pay attention, so now the whole fucking world has to see what he can do?′

′Well,′ Farraday said, nodding toward the TV, ′all I can say is with that statement now public we better not get it wrong. Family of six winds up dead on Monday and . . . well, I don′t even wanna go there.′

′Neither do I,′ Irving replied.

′So how much progress has been made?′

′Eighty, eighty-five percent,′ Irving replied. ′There′s limits of course. Families away, families with the head of the household out of state, all the things we predicted we′d run into . . . but as far as the five hundred-odd families are concerned, we′ve got in touch with about eighty-something percent of them.′

′Keep on going,′ Farraday said. ′There′s nothing else to do.′

′My sentiment exactly,′ Irving said as he backed up toward the door.

′And Ray . . .′

′What?′

′If this all goes to shit on Monday . . . I mean, if we do wind up with another six dead, the press will descend on us like vultures.′

′Way I feel right now, by the time they get here I don′t think there′ll be anything left to scavenge.′ He closed Farraday′s office door behind him, and made his way quickly down the stairs.

H
er name was Marcie, at least this was what she wished herself to be called. Christened Margaret, she believed - even at eight years old - that Margaret was clumsy and old, an old woman′s name, and that Marcie was pretty and simple, and two syllables. Two syllables was perfect. One was too few. Three was too many. Marcie. Marcie Allen. Eight years old. One younger brother, Brandon, whom they all called ′Buddy′, and he was seven, and then there was Leanne who was nine and Frances who was thirteen. That made four, and with Mom and Dad there were six, and on the evening of Sunday the 12th of November they watched a goofy movie together, the whole family, and they had pizza and popcorn because it was the last night before school, and they always did things together on Sunday nights, because that was the kind of family they were.

Jean and Howard Allen were good people. They worked hard. They didn′t believe in luck or good fortune, except where such luck and fortune had been created by themselves. Howard was a hopeful golfer, and constantly reminded himself of the old Arnold Palmer saw: Seems the harder I practice the luckier I get. Howard figured that such a philosophy applied to pretty much everything, and thus they made their way forward in life through diligence and their commitment to certain values. Though they were not a religious family and didn′t attend church, the Allens had nevertheless raised their children on the sound principles that what you gave was what you got in return. Bullshit out, bullshit in was a phrase Howard tended to use, though Jean disapproved of such language around the children.

Bedtime was staggered in the Allen household. Buddy went up at seven-thirty, Marcie and Leanne at quarter past eight. Teenager Frances got to stay up ′til nine, though she always protested nine was too early and her friends went to bed at ten, and there was always some kind of performance on the landing until Howard did his loud whisper and stern face, and commanded her to go to bed or she′d be grounded. She was not a bad girl, not by any stretch of the imagination, but her parents considered her willful and strong-minded, and secretly believed that such qualities would stand her in good stead for the future. They didn′t, of course, tell her this, but they believed that, of all of them, Frances was going to carve her way through life and make a difference.

Howard Allen was a proud man, and he had every right to be. He ran his own business, a commercial electrical components supply facility, and the three-story townhouse they owned on East 17th near the Beth-Israel was paid off but for thirty thousand dollars. There was a college fund for at least two of the kids, and the Allens had discussed the possibility of putting a down-payment on a condo in the Kips Bay Plaza area, a place to rent to students at NYU Medical. There was a lot of future, there were things to plan, and things to take into consideration, and never once did they consider the possibility that it could all so suddenly end.

 

At eight-ten, evening of Sunday 12th, Ray Irving called Karen Langley at the City Herald. What it was that prompted the need to talk he could only guess, and beyond that the possibility that she might not be there didn′t enter his mind, so he called, got her voicemail, and left a simple message: Just wanted to talk, nothing important. Call me when you can.

Somewhere he had her home number, and could anyway have easily located it from any number of sources, but he did not. Perhaps he didn′t really wish to speak with her. Perhaps he only wished it to be seen that he′d had the thought, that he′d made the effort, for if she′d answered he wouldn′t have known what to say.

Tonight. After midnight tonight. If we′re even close to right he′s gonna go out there tonight and kill six people . . .

And what would she have said in return?

Ray Irving paced the office. He′d had a bank of telephones installed the previous day, a separate receiver for every two precincts within the city limits. Detectives Gifford and Hudson would man the desk, and there were four uniforms available for any additional assistance required. Black-and-whites city-wide were on alert, and an individual frequency had been allocated to the Fourth Precinct as control center. There were so many variables, so many unknowns. There were too many possibilities, too many potential errors human and otherwise, that Irving couldn′t bear even to consider all that could go wrong. Right now, even as he paced back and forth between the window and the door, cursing Gifford and Hudson, who were already twelve minutes late, six people might be dead somewhere. The killings, if they were going to happen at all, could already have occurred. He had studied the Amityville case endlessly: The appearance of the eldest son, Ronald ′Butch′ DeFeo, in Henry′s Bar around six-thirty, evening of November 13th, 1974, shouting, ′You′ve got to help me! I think my mother and father are shot′, all the way to his final confession the following day with the words ′Once I started, I just couldn′t stop. It went so fast.′ Aside from obtaining copies of the original case notes, Irving had read everything he could find about the murders themselves. Trying to understand perhaps, trying to isolate something that would give him some indication of how, or why, or where. He had found nothing, nothing that made his task any easier or less complex.

And so he paced the room, and he waited for Hudson and Gifford, and the bank of telephones sat silently, anticipatorily, and Ray Irving carried such heaviness in his heart.

 

Eight minutes after Frances finally resigned herself to the confines of her bedroom, Jean and Howard Allen sat in their kitchen and looked at one another expectantly. There was a matter of significance to discuss, and neither wished to broach the subject. Jean′s mother, a difficult woman at the very best of times, a widow for eleven years, fiercely independent and even now somewhat disapproving of her daughter′s choice in husbands, was awaiting the results of a biopsy. Current indications did not bode well. She had lost weight, a considerable amount in the last three months alone, and twice she had experienced a funny turn, once in the shopping mall, a second time at Sunday dinner in the Allens′ house.

Now, finally, that Sunday evening, Jean said, ′If it turns out to be positive, you know we′ll have to take her in.′

Howard said nothing.

′That house is way too big, Howard. She should have sold it after Dad died—′

′I don′t think she′ll want to come,′ Howard said, all too aware of the fact that such a comment meant nothing.

′I know that she won′t want to come. That′s never been a question. She′ll have to come. We′ll have to make her see that she doesn′t have a choice.′

′There′s always the other possibility—′

′No way am I having her put in a home, Howard. Besides, there′s no way in the world that we could afford it—′

′The house?′ Howard ventured, knowing that he was walking on thin ice, running to be more accurate, and running with heavy steps, as if he was trying to break through to the dark and icy water and drown himself in shame and ignominy for suggesting such a thing.

′I am not selling the house where I grew up to pay for my mother to go into a nursing home, and you know she′d never agree to such a thing. Jesus, Howard, sometimes I wonder whether you actually care for her at all.′