Seven Ways to Die (16 page)

“And he’s gonna get where he’s going without dancing in the street like Gene Kelly.”

“My thought exactly.”

“Straight and narrow.”

“We gotta start somewhere, Wow. I say we make some maybes into positives to start with. Like he comes down here to meet a dame. A classy dame. Not a pimp. He isn’t into hookers, that’s why he goes to these clubs.”

“Somebody he’s met before, man. Maybe to set up that gig in his apartment.”

“Yeah. This somebody, this chick, is gonna meet him and he’s coming in from Cincy so the setup has to cover for a late arrival. A classy dame isn’t gonna sit around some club or restaurant alone.”

“But one of these sex clubs, that works, right? She’ll be comfortable if he’s a little late. And she checks on the flight, see if it’s late.”

“Good thinking. Know what, Wow? I don’t think it’s in an apartment. Too many people going in and out. A doorman, too, probably. That’s too risky for Handley.”

“That’s good, Butch, that’s real good. So she goes to this club, wherever the hell it is, about the time he’ll get there.”

“Right. And he isn’t going anyplace and hang out waiting for her. I mean, this guy’s all class. He’s gonna be noticed at that time of night with his three thousand dollar coat and killer briefcase. So he’s gonna go straight to the club, too.”

“And it’s more likely to be in an alley than on a main street.”

17

“Jesus!” Stinelli said. “What the hell kind of wacko are you dealing with?”

Hue and Cody had just run the entire Handley briefing for him, but the commander’s eyes were fixed on the photograph of the death scene. Stinelli and Cody stood at the back of the operations room as he stared at the main board. Simon and Hue were at their posts, Kate Winters was sitting at her desk and Charley was asleep on the cot in Cody’s office. The rest of the crew was in the field.

“Si, can you elaborate a little bit for the commander,” Cody said.

“A conundrum,” the little man said.

“That’s obvious. A little more than that.”

“I’m still working on a couple of things,” Simon said. “I have a lot of blanks to fill in.”

“Just give him the general profile for now, Si.”

“Well, we’re not dealing with a wacko in the sense I think you mean, Chief. Not like, say, Richard Trenton who believed he had to drink his victim’s blood to stay alive. He was a true psychotic. Our killer is a psychopath. The murder has all the indicators of a serial killer—who are mostly white, male, psychopaths between the ages of twenty-five to forty-three. Average age thirty-four. Only five percent are psychotic and, of the entire lot, only about one percent are women. So for the sake of this discussion let’s just say this killer is a white male who appears to be normal, probably follows a routine—a civil servant or blue collar person although he could be a doctor, lawyer, or college professor. He shows minimal bizarre behavior in everyday life but harbors a secret need to dominate and control others, has a constant need for sexual stimulation and gratification, has no conscience, knows good from evil but feels no guilt or remorse. He’s a hedonist. No worse, a sybarite. Cynical, often impulsive. And a contact killer because he enjoys inflicting pain and killing. It’s an addictive obsession. Normally he would have left a trophy or some kind of signature because he’s proud of his accomplishment. So far we haven’t found one.”

“But, maybe he didn’t need to. The slaying itself is unique,” Cody added.

Si paused for a moment and said: “The scariest thing about these killers is they usually take a cooling off period after a kill. Weeks, months, sometimes years. Until something prods their appetite.”

“So how can you be sure this is the work of a serial killer?” Stinelli asked.

Nobody answered for a minute or two.

“Look at the picture, Chief,” Cody said. “This is a sadist at work. He controlled Handley and tortured him. He dominated the scene. The whole set up was manufactured. This killing was brilliant. No clues, no prints or DNA that we can determine. It was not impulsive, the killer had it planned and timed perfectly and had the prerequisite biological knowledge to pull it off.”

“The simple answer is because there’s too much joy in this kill,” Si said.

“Joy?”

“He obviously enjoyed every minute of it.”

“We call the killer Androg because it could be a male or female,” Cody added. “Either way, this killer’s addicted.”

“And brilliant,” Si said. “Most serial killers commit their acts in the same way. John Wayne Gacy is typical. His trademark was that he stuffed his victim’s underwear down their throat so they’d gag and die in their own vomit.”

“This one?” Cody said. “This one’s all over the map.” “He’s the guy next door, Commander,” said Winters. “Hiding in plain sight. And waiting to kill again.”

“I hope to hell he’s not living next door to me,” Stinelli growled. “How about a motive?”

“The motive is Androg’s compulsion,” Simon said.

“And you’re expecting more,” Stinelli said flatly.

“That’s Wolf’s appraisal and we all agree. Frank and his team are working the neighborhood. Bergman is checking the company where Handley worked. I’ve got my three best street cops working the West Village hoping to find out where Handley spent the missing thirty minutes on his way home.”

Almost on cue, the phone rang. Hue fielded the call and nodded to Cody. “It’s Butch.”

Cody answered it. “Yeah. Where? Okay stay on top of it, call me when you get something.” He signed off and turned to Stinelli. “Ryan says they may have nailed down a spot. They’re scoping it out now.”

“A sex club?”

Cody nodded.

“Amazing,” Kate said.

“It’s what they do,” Cody said. “Nothing sets off their adrenalin like the old needle in a haystack.”

Stinelli shook his head. “Christ, how are you going to keep this one under wraps, Micah? Victor Stembler? Hell, Handley might as well be the mayor’s son-in-law.”

“Victor Stembler doesn’t want the details to leak out.”

“He almost fainted when he came over and made the official ID,” Kate said.

“So far he’s the only one who knows exactly what happened. We treat it as a break-in that went sour. A case in progress. Everybody stays mum as usual.”

“How about the autopsy?”

“Nothing on paper yet.”

“And McKeown? It’s his precinct.”

“He’s working with us. Some of his people are doing the door-to-doors with Frank. He’ll file a normal report with the generic stuff. Name, address, occupation, blah, blah…”

“How about cause of death?”

“Possible homicide during a break-in. He’ll just drop it in the box. No press conference or any of that. He’ll treat it as a normal homicide.”

“A normal homicide. There’s an oxymoron. And you also got that guy Hamilton dogging you about the Cramer murder.”

“Out of town. I’ll worry about that Monday.”

“Sometimes you make me nervous, Micah.”

“Ah, come on, boss. Keeps us on our toes.”

Stinelli shook his head and looked back at the board.

18

“Y’know what? I’m not even sure what the hell we’re lookin’ for,” DeMarco said as the three cops stood under one of the larger trees in the area behind the theater.

It was a pleasant spot but cramped, hardly wider than a city street, its trees and buildings blocking the sounds of the city.

“What were you expecting, a marquee?” Ryan said.

In this quiet island midst the bustling streets, someone had hung a child’s swing from a branch of the tree which struck Ryan as odd considering the licentious nature of the club they were seeking. Huddled in Ansa’s Yankees jacket, which was draped over his shoulders, he sat down on the swing and looked around.

“A marquee would be a help,” said Ansa, staring at the backs of apartments, stores, and the theater.

“Yeah,” DeMarco said with a sweep of his hand. “A big red neon arrow, blinkin’ on and off: ‘Get laid here.’”

Several of the buildings had staircases leading down to rear entrances and there was a deck behind the theater with stairs leading down to their level. The back door opened and a tiny, dark-haired girl who appeared to be in her early twenties came out. She was dressed in a white gossamer dress with wings attached to it. She huddled against the wall and lit a cigarette.

“I got an idea,” Ryan said.

“Aw hell, here we go again,” DeMarco shook his head.

“Just bear with me.”

Ryan climbed the stairs to the deck and gave the young woman his fifty-dollar smile.

“Hi,” he said, looking over the costume. “Halloween party?”

She rolled her eyes. “This is a theater. We’re like doing
Midsummer Night’s Dream.
”

“Shakespeare, huh. Who are you playing?”

“Just a walk-on.” Her eyes narrowed a hair as she looked past him at his partners. “I’m one of the fairies.”

“No kidding,” he said. “What’re you gonna do, wave your wand and change me into a warthog?”

“Now there’s a clever pick-up line,” she answered, still squinting over his shoulder at DeMarco and Ansa checking doorways. She looked back at Ryan who was still grinning.

“What are you three up to?” she asked cautiously. “Looks y’know like you’re casing the place or something?”

“In a manner of speaking. We’re looking for a club. Private place. We heard it was back here.”

She sighed and took a drag on her cigarette, turning her head when she exhaled.

“You don’t look the type,” she said with a pinch of arsenic in her tone.

“What type would that be?”

“C’mon.” She looked him over. “Anyway, from what I hear you’ll fail the dress code. The Yank’s jacket alone’ll do you in.”

“How come?”

“Mink coat society.” A shiver wove through her body and she dropped the cigarette in a sand-filled pot nearby.

“Gotta leave,” she said. “I’m like
freezing
.”

Ryan took off the jacket and draped it over her shoulders with the back facing him.

“Here,” he said. “This won’t squash your wings.”

“So what do you need that kind of thing for anyway? Good looking guy like you.”

“Thank you. That is a great pick-up line. Only…” He took out his I.D. wallet and flashed his gold badge. “We’re working.”

“Oh, m’gosh,” she said, her eyes widening. “Oh please don’t bust the place until after rehearsal, okay? Our director’s a real ninny. He’ll like pitch a squirrel.”

“Pitch a squirrel?”

“He y’know totally loses it over
anything
? You go up on a line? Boom! He’s like a squirrel you just stepped on its tail.”

“I get it.”

“Anyway, you’re way early. Things don’t get started until like ten, ten-thirty?”

“Where is it?”

She nodded toward a staircase leading down to a door at the end of the tiny square.

“What do you know about the place?”

“Just what some of the kids hear. Some of them leave this way and short cut over to Christopher.”

“What do they hear?”

“It’s mainly uptowners and they, uh, y’know…uh, like to, uh…trade partners?”

“Sex club.”

“Well…uh huh, I guess. There’s this bartender named Warren? Should be there now. He comes early to supervise the cleanup crew.”

“You know him?”

“By sight. Some of the kids have talked to him but he won’t like talk about the club.”

“Does it have a name?”

“I think it’s called the Yellow Door.”

Δ

Ryan put his thumb over the peephole in the door and DeMarco knocked on it and they waited.

A minute went by. Two. Three. DeMarco knocked again, this time with a little more authority. They waited again. Then Ansa appeared at the top of the stairs. He was wearing a Phantom of the Opera mask only it was bright red with spangles around the edge.

“This must be da place,” he said.

“You cover the peephole this time,” Ryan said taking out his badge. “I’ll do the knocking.” He stepped back and kicked the door hard with the toe of his boot. Another minute and a muffled voice inside asked, “Who is it?”

“The Dumpster guy, Warren,” Ryan said. “Open up, we got a problem.”

Inside, the chain clinked, the deadbolt was drawn and a key turned the door lock. The door opened a couple of inches. Warren, startled speechless, backed up as Ryan shoved it open and they walked into a small anteroom with a yellow door facing them. To their left was a heavy door with a thick glass window and a small slot in it. To their right a narrow hallway curved around into darkness.

“You need a warrant,” Warren said so fast the words ran together. He was a short man, five-six, with reddish-brown hair, wearing jeans and a t-shirt with “It’s my attitude and I like it” printed across the front. “That’s the law,” he added.

“You know what this is?” Ryan asked, holding his badge an inch from Warren’s face.

Warren stared at it for a moment, nodded, and said, “I have to call my boss.”

“You know what this is?” Ryan insisted, shaking the badge.

“It’s a badge.”

“That’s correct. And right now it’s the only warrant we need.”

DeMarco stepped in, playing the good guy.

“Take it easy, sergeant,” and to Warren, “This isn’t a bust, kid. No need to get your shorts in a knot.”

Ansa stepped behind the little man and opened the yellow door as DeMarco and Ryan forced Warren into the room beyond.

It was lush; an art deco cabaret with mirrored walls and ceiling, a well-stocked curved bar on one side and, facing it on the other side of the room, a carpeted lounge with expensive, pastel colored sofas, chairs and futons. A small dance floor separated the bar and lounge. The color scheme was muted yellow. Throughout the room scented candles offered soft light and herbal perfumes which, although pleasant, could not entirely erase the ineluctable odor of Lysol.

There were six doors on the far wall bordering the lounge area, each with a light over it.

The room was spotless and empty.

“See, nobody’s here now but me,” Warren said. “The cleaning people are gone and I’m just getting the bar set up. Nothing’s going on.”