Authors: Oliver Stark
88 Killer (34 page)
Lock-Up, Bedford-Stuyvesant
March 15, 4.18 a.m.
A
bby opened her eyes. She had been in the tiny cell for so long, fighting in her mind, but the starvation was sapping her will. She was feeling so weak that her head felt too heavy to lift, but something had pulled her back from her dreams. The food had stopped altogether, along with the water. Every few hours, she fell into some deep sleep; perhaps it was even unconsciousness. Her dreams raged and tormented her. The silver-blue lines of ocean waves were infested with snakes; her tongue seemed to swell so large in her mouth that she couldn’t breathe or swallow.
‘Abby!’ She heard it again. It was a soft voice. A woman’s voice, but not like a real voice, probably a voice from her dreams, hidden somewhere within her subconscious. But her eyes were open. She scratched her leg and the pain felt real. Her eyes lifted and there on the wall were the marks that she’d made with her restraints. If she was awake, then the voice wasn’t imagined.
‘Abby!’
Abby tried to speak, but her throat was dry. A low croak stretched her mouth and her lips cracked. She tasted blood on the tip of her tongue and started to suck on it. She tried again to speak, but only a low whisper came out. She felt herself start to heave with frustration and cry in dry, waterless sobs.
She heard her voice called out again and turned to her right. Her knee rapped hard against the door. She twisted herself again and again, the sound reverberating. Outside, the voice stopped as she continued to knock against the door with her knee. Then she stopped knocking and waited. It had been days and days since she had communicated with anything or anyone. Only a monster.
‘I can hear you,’ said the voice. ‘Maybe you can’t speak. Maybe he has gagged you. I’m Lucy. I’m in another cell, only a few yards from your door. I hope you’re okay. You’re Abby, aren’t you? The high-school girl? Your mom and dad are still hoping. I saw them on the news. They’re holding up okay.’
Inside the cell, Abby listened, and though they were only words, she felt as if she was being given a long drink. She wanted to speak out, but at first her words came out light and airy like feathers, so at each pause she knocked and when the voice stopped, she knocked and knocked and knocked until the voice started to speak again.
Finally, Abby pushed herself upright. She breathed deeply and called out, ‘I’m here. I’m Abby.’
‘God bless you,’ said Lucy. ‘You okay?’
‘Yes, but need water.’
‘Is there any way we can get out of here?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Abby. ‘I really don’t think so.’
Photography Labs, Manhattan
March 15, 4.23 a.m.
T
he figure at the bench stopped and started to turn. There was no time left. Harper was already two paces across the room, his body charging towards the bench. Kasper jumped to his feet from the side. The figure turned to Eddie Kasper and as he did, the full weight of Harper’s charge landed heavily on his side, throwing him to the ground.
Harper fell on top of him and they tumbled twice across the floor. The suspect shouted something, but Harper’s arm was already around his neck pulling hard and Eddie Kasper already had the suspect’s gun.
As Harper’s arm jammed hard into the suspect’s neck, the figure stopped fighting and lay still. Eddie Kasper flicked on the lights.
He looked down at the red face of the man on the ground. ‘Fuck you!’ the man shouted. Eddie looked away. Harper pushed the figure off him and stood up.
‘We fucking cleared this with security,’ said Harper. ‘No one comes this way tonight.’
‘You fucking animals,’ said the guard, standing and brushing himself down. ‘Animals.’
‘What the hell happened?’ demanded Harper. ‘We could’ve killed you.’
‘I got told to come here, do a sweep.’
‘This is bad news,’ said Harper. ‘Who told you?’
‘One of your guys.’
‘What do you mean, one of our guys?’
‘Cop. He had a badge. Said he was on the stake-out.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Like a cop – big, arrogant, impatient and ugly.’
‘Where?’
‘He came by the security door.’
Harper and Eddie looked at each other.
‘How long ago?’
‘I don’t know, ten minutes?’
Harper looked around. He spoke quietly: ‘The killer knows we’re here now, but he’s still going to want those prints.’
‘How the hell did he know we were on a stake-out?’
‘He’s not just a cop, is he? He’s a fucking smart cop.’
A second later, the lights flickered and then died. Harper pulled Eddie to one side. ‘He’s going to try to take them – get out of the line of fire.’
In the darkness, they heard a key in the door to the room. ‘He’s locking us in,’ shouted Harper. ‘Do you have a key?’
‘Sure,’ said the security guard, but there wasn’t any time. Something smashed the window of the door and a lighted bottle flew in the room. It shattered over the floor and the contents exploded into flame. Harper and Eddie jumped.
‘What the fuck do we do?’
‘Is there a sprinkler system?’ said Harper.
‘Sure, in the corridor, but not in the photography lab.’
Harper ran towards the door as the flames spread and caught the wood of the benches and the books and files.
The security guard moved to the door and tried his key. ‘Shit, he’s broken his key in the lock.’
Harper’s flashlight picked out the jagged edges of the door windows. It was too small to get through. Eddie moved across, holding his mouth as the thick black smoke started to rise and fill the room. He stumbled against the broken glass, his hand sliced across. ‘I’m cut, Harper.’
‘We got to get out of here,’ said Harper. ‘Get you some help.’
The smoke was filling the room. Harper took his Glock and pumped three bullets into the lock mechanism, then kicked the door open. He rolled into the corridor, his gun in one hand, his flashlight in the other. ‘All clear,’ he shouted.
The security guard led them as quickly as they could through the dark corridors. He pressed the alarm on the wall and the sprinkler system kicked in. Somewhere down the corridors, they could hear a door slamming. The killer was ahead, but not far.
‘Is there a quicker way out of here?’ asked Harper.
‘Not unless you just burst out through the windows.’
‘Which windows?’ said Harper.
The security guard moved across to a door and opened it. The room was illuminated by the faint moonlight from outside. ‘Gotcha,’ said Harper. ‘Get an ambulance, Eddie.’
‘I got to come with you,’ said Eddie.
‘You’ll slow me down,’ said Harper, then he ran at the window, shot once and watched the plate-glass shatter and fall. He leaped on to the bench and out of the window.
A figure was moving quickly across the ground, towards a car. Harper sighted him and shot twice. The shots missed and Harper sprinted towards the car. The figure jumped in and the car’s engine rumbled to life. Harper shot again and hit a side window. The car didn’t make a U-turn as expected, it turned to the right and Harper heard the sound of its undercarriage screech and scrape on the concrete edge of the lawn. The headlights rose across the ground and Harper was suddenly illuminated in a wide patch of grass with no hiding place.
The car started to gain speed, the bumps in the ground making it lift and lurch left to right. It was a hundred yards away and gaining fast. Harper had no time to run; he stood firm and put his gun hand out, steadying it with the other. Shooting someone dead through the windshield of a car that was traveling at speed was hard enough; with the tension and the darkness it was ten times more difficult.
He waited as the car approached. He had one chance and had to leave it as late as possible. Harper counted down. At two seconds he would shoot to the right side of the driver and jump to his left.
His finger pressed. Three seconds. He was blinded now by the headlights, by the roar of the engine. Two seconds. He shot twice and threw himself to the left. The car veered right and clipped Harper’s feet as he was moving through the air.
Harper turned, his gun pointing as the car drove on a few more seconds, then stopped. Harper exhaled. He’d hit him. The killer was down.
Harper scrambled to his feet and moved cautiously towards the car. He peered into the darkness, but through the shattered windshield he couldn’t see a thing. He moved round to the driver’s side. There was a body leaning against the door. He could just make out the trickle of blood from a wound on the side of the head. Harper pulled open the door. Then a gunshot rang out from inside the car. Harper was thrown backwards and the dead driver was pushed out on top of him.
A masked face glanced across. The killer moved across to the driver’s seat and drove the car away.
‘Two of them,’ said Harper. ‘There were two of them.’ He shoved the dead weight off him, stood up and turned over the body at his feet.
Martin Heming’s grimace and wide eyes stared back at him.
Photography Labs, Manhattan
March 15, 4.53 a.m.
H
arper ran across the open ground and reached Denise in the car. He was breathing deeply. ‘We got to follow that car.’
‘Yes – are you all right?’
‘I’m okay. What the hell happened?’ said Tom.
‘I don’t know,’ said Denise. ‘They must have dropped one guy off earlier. One guy came out, then the second guy came out a couple of minutes later – the one you shot at.’
‘Let’s follow,’ said Harper. ‘We’ve got to get this killer.’
‘Where’s Eddie?’
‘He got hurt.’
‘Bad?’
‘I hope not. He’s okay, I think.’
Denise drove off.
‘Did you get the plates?’ Harper asked.
‘Sure, here.’ Denise tossed him a notebook. They could see the tail lights up ahead. Harper called base and put out an APB on the license-plate.
‘It was Martin Heming,’ said Harper.
‘Heming?’
‘The guy on the grass. He’s dead. I don’t fully understand his involvement yet. We got a lot of working out to do. He wasn’t involved in the killings. There was only one guy at the Capske scene and the Glass scene. Heming might have been helping him. Or maybe the killer was blackmailing him, who knows?’
They drove in silence, Harper trying to keep focused on the tail lights ahead. ‘He’s heading into Brooklyn,’ he said.
‘Abby and Lucy are in danger,’ said Denise. ‘If he’s panicking, he could do anything. We can’t lose him.’
‘That’s right,’ said Harper. ‘So put your foot down.’
They drove over the bridge and into Brooklyn. The car they were following headed into the area called Bedford-Stuyvesant. Harper watched the car slow ahead. Then it turned.
‘I think we’ve found his lair,’ said Harper.
‘You think we should call for backup?’
‘Yes, but we can’t wait for it. We’ve got to get Lucy and Abby out of there now.’
They turned the final corner and saw a long alley. The car had vanished. They drove on, then turned and circled, but the car was nowhere to be seen.
‘What now?’ said Denise.
‘Now,’ said Harper, ‘we try to find him again. We’ve lost him. I’ll call Patrol, get this area saturated.’ Harper shook his head. ‘Shit. How the hell did he slip away? We almost had the bastard.’
Lock-Up, Bedford-Stuyvesant
March 15, 5.35 a.m.
T
he killer entered the lock-up and slammed the door. He was sweating; it had been a very close call. Too close. They had nearly caught him. Time was short now. There was nothing else to do. His final plan had to be actioned. Ahead of him, Lucy stared out of her Plexiglass and brick prison. His shirt was covered with pieces of glass and his face was bright red.
He stood for a moment, shaking, unable to move; his rage was burning him up inside. He moved across to his desk and violently swept everything aside. The typewriter and papers and Nazi medals cascaded to the floor. Then he turned. He stared at Lucy. She was the origin. He picked up the typewriter and threw it across the room. It hit the Plexiglass and rebounded on to the floor.
He turned away, running his fingers through his hair. Across the room, he had written the eighty-eight words that once upon a time had meant so much.
There was nothing else left now. There was no need to wait, no need to hide, no need to keep Lucy or Abby alive. They were closing in on him. He felt the noose tightening. He had to destroy them, pack up, and then make his final point.
Heming was dead but it didn’t matter. The man was expendable. He had come across Heming when he needed help, when he had needed Section 88 to help hurt and destroy.
He had big plans now and he’d have to carry them out alone. Karl Leer had got him another old truck. It was an orange Dodge and it was waiting outside.
It would be just like it was in the book about Sturbe. The book that he had devoured, that had incited him and made him feel that he also had the power to turn all that feeling of being bullied and broken into revenge – not against his attackers, but against those that they attacked too.
Sturbe had come alive in his mind. He was like a father to him. A guiding light. When the Jews tried to resist, in the Warsaw Ghetto, German troops destroyed the synagogue. A final symbolic gesture. He would do the same.
He turned to Lucy. The time had come. They all had to die. He had to die too. No question, no question at all. It was only a matter of when.
He opened the door to Abby’s closet, pulled her out forcibly and dragged her to her feet.
She was weak but she screamed her lungs out in a hoarse voice. The killer held her neck and squeezed, watching the pain cross her face. Lucy banged frantically on the Plexiglass. She howled at him to stop.
He stared at Abby with grim satisfaction before pulling open the door of his gas chamber and throwing her inside as Lucy raced at him, trying to reach the door before he slammed it shut and bolted it.
He stood staring at them, breathing deeply. He wasn’t sure any more if it was real or a game. He felt the emotion welling up in his chest. He had to be strong to the end.
He moved across to the canister of Zyklon B and saw the reaction in the gas chamber, as blind panic spread over the faces of Abby and Lucy and they began screaming and hitting the Plexiglass. He would not kill them yet, he decided. They would be last. First, he had to make sure of something. Everything was a battle and this one he wanted to win.
