Myth Man (6 page)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“S
ON OF SATAN STRIKES”
screamed the headline of the
Daily News
.

Myth Man was not a happy camper. Actually, he hated camping, and he was eternally, internally angry. This morning he was particularly incensed.

First was the press coverage. Both the
Daily News
and the
New York Post
hailed him as, the Son of Satan. Thus far, they missed the point, but they’d come to learn. They had focused on the upturned crosses. That was for fun.

And the gall of the
New York Times. He had not even made the front page. No, he’d been relegated to the Metro Section. Was he not news fit to print? He’d teach them all.

Then his contact had called. Dominick Presto had not been severed from the investigation as promised. Maybe that idiot Frank Danko was smarter than he’d been told.

He knew that the game could not last forever. When the trail got close, he had his escape plan. He hoped to cover as many religions as possible before it was all over. He did not fear Dominick Presto could get him, but he might be forced to end the killing spree prematurely.

Two more weeks: the timetable was the interfaith holiday calendar. Thinking of his next kill brought a small smile to his lips.

He rose from a cracked, faded black Naugahyde couch and walked across the decrepit blue living room carpet to the kitchen. He opened the fridge. Inside, he retrieved a clear, plastic, liquid-filled bag and returned through the living room, down a short hall, and into a bedroom. There was one window, and the blinds were down.

Lying in the bed was the same bedraggled, silent man who had been previously predisposed to the wheelchair. Next to the bed was a metal stand. Myth Man hung the liquid bag from a hook and then injected a needle into the port. He placed the needle on the bedside nightstand and then gently squeezed and rotated the bag, mixing the medicine. Next, he inserted tubing into the bag and affixed a needleless cannula to the end of the secondary tubing. He scanned and then adjusted the drip rate.

No fuss. The man didn’t even turn his head away when the needle pierced the infusion point. His patient was most cooperative. The necessary routine of feeding and changing the bedpan was still an ordeal that revolted him. But for now, he had to keep him alive.

For months he scoured the Internet for the disenfranchised. There were Web sites for conspiracy theorists, antigovernment zealots, firearm fanatics, and other citizens not plugged into the program. These were people who tended to have problems with society and strayed from mingling with the mainstream.

Most of the sites had forums where loonies left their crackpot commentary. An alias frees them to express their wisdom to the world. Of course, the government was watching, they claimed, but they posted away. In time, the anonymous enclaves bond together. A real nuclear family.

It took time getting close. He met a few candidates (in disguise, of course) before he found the right one—a malcontent marine whose misgivings were with the military he’d served.

Initially, the guy had no problem with his mission in Iraq. In fact, the marine was eager, but there had not been as much action as he’d hoped for. Later, a fellow soldier convinced him that they were all pawns in global gamesmanship, orchestrated by greedy multi-corporations hell-bent on global hegemony. His only true buddy prodded.
Hadn’t Eisenhower warned about the military industrial complex
?

The marine had not turned from hawk to dove. Violence was a necessary means. Freedom was better than dictatorships. We were not the enemy. He believed in saving America, restoring her to the way the Founding Fathers dreamed. Back then, the government kept robber baron industrialists in check, but greed is hard to suppress. Wealth builds power. Power breeds corruption. Good Americans, such as himself, were losing. The masses went about their business, which was in the interest of big business.

Alone, the marine needed an outlet for his anger. The Internet was such a place. At his favorite Web site, http://www.losingoldglory.com, one of the smarter regulars who consistently agreed with him suggested chatting without the prying governmental eyes of Big Bother.

Myth Man smiled in recalling his first encounter with the marine. He’d told the fool he served in Vietnam and had also felt betrayed. The military angle seemed to ensnare the gullible grunt. Naturally, he’d never set foot anywhere near Southeast Asia. He’d read a few biographies and just talked shit. They went from posting messages on Web sites to frequent email exchanges.

After a few months of courtship, the guy broached the idea of getting together. Myth Man played it reluctantly cool, but then slowly and, he thought, cagily warmed to the idea.

Both had stated that they avoid open public as much as possible. They agreed to meet on a Saturday night at eight o’clock. Myth Man cancelled a few prior times. He preferred inclement weather.

The rendezvous point was the intersection of Wall and Water street. The financial district is a literal ghost town on weekends, especially nights. The few police strayed around Wall and Broad streets where the New York Stock Exchange was located.

Myth Man spent hours aging his appearance by some twenty years. His hair grayed, his face paled and sloughed. He walked with a limp and hunched—Vietnam War injuries, he exclaimed. He even hammed it up with an old army jacket, where the stitched name pronounced “Greed.” The slacks were that seventies style that reminded him of wallpaper in his old home, hideously large checkered patterns that rattled one’s rudimentary senses.

He topped the look off with an old school black bowler hat.

His gopher showed up in denim—pants, jacket, and baseball cap. The boots were army standards. A cigarette hung from his mouth, a habit picked up during the boredom in Iraq, he later explained. He tossed scattered looks, like he expected to see cameras, secret agents, snipers, or maybe UFOs. His build suggested he was once a tough guy, but inactivity made him flabby and soft.

The courtship: a wink and a nod. They drew closer, wary like two tentative combatants. They receded to the nearby shadows, between two streetlights and became acquainted.

He dazzled the denim off the misfit. Void of human contact, the man craved the feigned interest in him. By the time a small drizzle began to fall, they’d covered guns, especially illegal ones, and duplicitous dealings of both the federal and
secret
government.

Like a gift from the god’s that did not exist, the rain suddenly intensified. Myth Man began to shiver and cough. The man caught the cue and suggested finding shelter. At this hour, in this desolate location, the only spots open were a few bars. The few residents who lived in the financial district were Wall Street types—greedy sorts who perpetuated big business’s stranglehold over the common man. Neither man fancied their company. After a short deliberation, the guy suggested going back to his place. He parked a car a few blocks away. What harm could an old man with a limp cause?

Back in Bay Ridge, the house was as perfect as the subject. It was as isolated as a place could be (in Brooklyn, anyway).

On a corner, the neighbor on the right side, he learned, was an elderly woman who rarely ventured out, except to feed a stray cat that had settled in her yard. On the left, there was a narrow street and then a large barbwire fence that protected the backside of a used car dealership. Directly across the street was a wall that rose buttressing an off-ramp. The final piece of good fortune was a garage with an automatic door opener.

This was his man.

Married once, the marine’s wife and kids split to Seattle. His brother had died years ago from Hodgkin’s disease. He had no friends to speak of. He was a loser.

The small house in Bay Ridge Brooklyn had been his parents’ and was already paid for. He’d been unemployed since returning from the first Gulf War and lived with his folks. When they died, he kept the place and inherited enough money to remain gainfully unemployed.

While they checked the marine’s gun collection, which was comprised of both registered and unregistered weaponry, Myth Man stabbed a needle into the man’s neck. The guy turned. He was in shock. He trusted this man. Then he collapsed.

He never left home again.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“I
WANT EVERYONE’S ATTENTION.” DANKO strode into the gathered room like an intense football coach set to deliver a fiery halftime speech. Any chattering ceased. Everyone saw the press. They knew this was serious.

“Before I begin, I want to thank you for your hard work. We’ve compiled quite a bit of information in a short time. If we keep this up, we’ll get this guy soon.” Danko stopped. His formidable chin angled upward. He looked confident. “We have to. This might be the most sensationalized city murder since John Lennon, and our man is still at large. We’re going to come together and work eight days a week until we get this bastard.”

From the back of the room, Presto looked for a small smile from Danko. After naming a Beatle, he strung two of their hits in the next sentence. Because Danko’s expression never changed, Presto was unsure if it was an unintentional coincidence.

Danko pointed. “Jenkins and Fortunato put together a report of their interviews with all the potential witnesses, a few who came forward after hearing the news. Good job, men.”

Presto saw their heads dip and rise.

“It’s pretty strange, but let me start with the man we found dead in the church pews. His name is Darrel Mankin. He’s been in and out of homeless shelters for close to seven years. Alcohol killed his marriage, his job, and ultimately, life’s ambitions. With the city budget crisis, many of these shelters have closed, and guys like Mankin end up on the streets.”

The room seemed especially silent. Every cop knew about the budget crisis. The NYPD had been working without a contract for more than a year. The union flatly rejected a four-year deal that proposed no raises for the first two years and then 1 and 2 percent for the next two. Presto knew he was fortunate not to rely on a cop’s salary.

Danko forged on. “Mankin may have been a bum, but there’s nothing in his record to suggest he’s capable of this violence. As for the gun, we can confirm it was the weapon used in the murder.” He sighed. “The serial number was a dead end. About ten years ago, a firearms dealer in Brooklyn was robbed. It was an inside job, and the perpetrator was apprehended, but by then, the merchandise had been widely dispersed.”

Danko stopped to thank another officer for the report on the gun.

The room darkened, and Danko moved from the lectern. Projected on the wall behind him, an illuminated face appeared. Off to the side, Danko narrated. “Sketch artist Randy Celesnki spent hours with the eyewitnesses. He said their descriptions were generally consistent. The question is how much did our suspect alter his appearance?”

In the dimmed room, the face glowed like a jack-o’-lantern. The visage was unhelpfully nondescript. Void of a prominent characteristic, such as a scar or pronounced nose, he appeared unusually ordinary, but recognizable.

Presto dismissed the rest of the profile, except that he was likely a male.

Danko’s voice cut through the darkened room. “The people responsible for the sketches include the two guards, the priests from the rectory, and two people we deem reliable based on our interviews. One was a subway commuter who spoke to a man fitting our description and said he opened his coat and showed a priest’s collar. She claims she did not like the way he leered at her. The other was a woman who bumped into him on the street. She told us he boasted about murdering someone.”

Danko must have tired of the dark, romantic setting and snapped at someone about the lights. Feet scuffled, and the room brightened.

Danko muttered, “Thanks,” and returned to the pulpit. “While all the witnesses were uniform in their descriptions of the suspect, there was one detail that varied—his accent.”

Danko leaned forward with his hands on the lectern, his fingers moved slowly, like twin tarantulas. “The two guards swear the man had an Irish accent. Father Buchnell thinks the accent was mideastern, as does the woman on the subway. However, Ms. Edith Hooper, the woman who claims the suspect talked about killing someone that day, is certain the accent was Indian. She was adamant about that, saying she worked in a hospital for years with Indians. The difference was that his wasn’t genuine. ‘Forced,’ was how she phrased it.”

Danko threw his hands up. “Who is this guy, a comic impersonator?” He said it without jest, his voice exasperated.

Presto guessed they’d find out more soon enough. This one wanted notoriety.

“There’s more,” Danko announced. “When I heard about the accents, something occurred to me. At first I didn’t make the connection, as I was vacationing at the time and the case was hardly publicized.” He paused, craned his neck, and locked eyes with Presto for a few seconds then resumed. “A Muslim cleric was brutally murdered in his Mosque about a month ago. It was also a holiday. I have it written down here; I’m not sure how to say it.”

Danko gave it the ol’ American try. “I’d al ad hah?”

Laughter and a few snide comments brought a smile to Danko’s lips.

Presto smiled, too. There was a connection. Eid al-Adha—the Festival of Sacrifice.

He wasn’t mad if Danko tried to portray the lead as his own. Between them, they knew. That was all that mattered.

After Danko absorbed his moment, he waved his hands downward for quiet. “So both a priest and cleric were killed on religious holidays. The priest had the cross on his head for Ash Wednesday. For the cleric, it was much worse.”

Danko picked up a piece of paper and read. “Basically, the holiday is about sacrifice. Something about how God wanted the Muslim prophet to kill his son. It was a test, and because Muhammad was willing, he passed, and God slipped in a sheep or ram instead.”

Danko brought the paper higher, obliterating his face. “The custom is to kill an animal by slitting the throat and donating one-third to the poor, one-third to friends and relatives, and I guess the rest is all yours.” He dropped the paper.

“In this case, the cleric’s throat was slit, and he was missing both arms and his legs below the knees. His nose and ears were also sliced off.” Danko stopped to grimace. “The arms were mailed to a homeless shelter, while the legs were sent to the cleric’s mother-in-law.”

“Good to see our culture does not have a monopoly on meddlesome mothers-in-law,” Danko joked, but then grew serious. “The nose and ears remain unaccounted for.”

He stopped, his face twisted in disgust. “This is a sick fuck that we’re dealing with,” Danko spat acerbically. “Also found at the scene was a desecrated Qur’an. Next to it was an open Bible with, once again, a highlighted passage.”

He let the comment hang momentarily. He read: “And they shall come against you from the north with chariots and wagons and a host of peoples; they shall set themselves against you on every side with a buckler, shield, and helmet, and I will commit judgment to them, and they shall judge you according to their judgments. And I will direct my indignation against you that they may deal with you in fury. They shall cut off your noses and your ears, and your survivors shall fall by the sword. They shall seize your sons and daughters, and your survivors shall be devoured by fire.”

In the quiet, everyone pondered the implications. A priest and a cleric killed on religious holidays. Presto felt a nonfood-related surge in the vast chamber of his belly.

Danko used the impasse to slug some water. The liquid seemed to wash away his grave demeanor.

“Another thing,” Danko said with a coy smile. “On a hunch, I requested an autopsy on Father Venezia. Cardinal Keaton was kind enough to acquiesce. I was curious how the killer was able to do what he did without any visible signs of struggle. As it turns out, we found something.”

Once again, Danko found Presto’s eyes. “The toxicology revealed high traces of tetrodotoxin.” He stopped to scratch his beard. “This stuff is serious shit. I’m told the book went into more detail, but I did see the movie,
The Serpent and the Rainbow
. This is the same drug. It’s ten thousand times more lethal than cyanide. If given in the right doses, it prohibits the nerves from sending messages to the body. Hence, the person can be alive but unable to even blink. That was how, in the movie, they had those zombies. People were literally buried alive.”

Danko’s bushy eyebrow’s raised. “That means the priest and cleric may have been drugged and alive when they were killed. If you think about the circumstances, that’s one terrible way to go. It also shows what we’re up against.”

Presto fought his impulse and remained quiet and seated. It was not because Danko had stolen the credit again. These matters did not concern him. Unresolved murders did. Jack Burton often brought unresolved cases for his perusal. Danko’s tidings sparked the memory search engine.

There was a hit; a double homicide in one of those, pay-and-play by the hour motels.

The man was married. She had been divorced for many years. The crime scene suggested she shot him and then turned the gun on herself. However, investigators were suspicious. The two seemed an unlikely pair. Presto was asked to review the case, and he immediately suspected foul play.

He now knew who their killer was.