Authors: C. E. Lawrence
Silent Slaughter (18 page)
C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-THREE
HAPTER
F
ORTY-THREE
A
s he predicted, Lee arrived late. Dr. Williams had squeezed him in right after her last regular patient—he slid into the office just as the Con Edison clock tower in Union Square chimed the quarter hour.
s he predicted, Lee arrived late. Dr. Williams had squeezed him in right after her last regular patient—he slid into the office just as the Con Edison clock tower in Union Square chimed the quarter hour.
“So what’s going on?” asked Dr. Williams, closing the door behind him. “You missed your session last week. And you’re late this week—that’s not like you.”
“Sorry about that,” said Lee, sitting on the couch opposite her. “I did call and tell you.”
She smiled. “I wasn’t complaining. I’m just wondering what’s happening.”
He looked around the office, with its familiar, African-inspired décor. Dr. Williams sat in her usual spot, the leather swivel chair, her ubiquitous iced tea in the tall blue thermos at her side. Today she wore a knit wool skirt and a lemon yellow blouse that showed off her milk chocolate skin.
“I got called in on a case,” he said.
“A tough one?”
“As bad as it gets. Have you read the work of Robert Keppel and Richard Walter?”
“I’ve heard of them, but crime isn’t my specialty.”
“They’ve created a way of classifying sex offenders and murderers.”
“That sounds useful.”
“Basically, they divide them into four types. This guy is a Type Four, the worst of the worst—a real sadist.”
“You’re working on the Alleyway Strangler.”
“Yeah.”
She shuddered. “I live not far from where the first girl was found. It’s all my neighbors can talk about.”
“It’s pretty horrendous.”
“No wonder you look so stressed. That’s a huge responsibility.”
“He’s smart too. Full of wit and playful humor . . . he’s really enjoying this.”
“Unlike you.”
“It’s still a mystery to me why some people become so twisted that they’re compelled to do these things.”
She looked at the bookcase with its volumes on psychology and human behavior, tomes of wisdom and experience and learning—none of which sufficiently explained the evolution of a ritualistic serial killer.
“Why do some people have horrendous childhoods and go on to lead productive lives, and others are turned into these . . . killing machines?” he said.
“There are so many elements in a person’s life, so many factors, that it’s impossible to trace and explain all of them.”
“I want to kill this guy with my bare hands.”
She took a sip of tea. “How’s your boxing going?”
“It’s a good way to release my anger.”
“Better than feeling depressed.”
“Much better.”
“But you’re still angry.”
“Yeah.”
“At life’s unfairness, your sister’s disappearance, your father’s betrayal. Which you still can’t talk about.”
“All in good time, my pretty, all in good time,” he said, doing a passable imitation of Margaret Hamilton as the Wicked Witch of the West.
She smiled. “Do you wish you could have as much fun as this killer you’re chasing?”
“Of course. And there’s been a . . . development in my sister’s case.”
She sat up straighter. “Oh? What is it?”
He told her about Brian O’Reilly’s death, Gemma, and the strange man in the church.
“That is mysterious. I wonder if this is something you shouldn’t be involved in. Maybe you should report it to—”
“To who? From what this guy says, the cops themselves may be involved—at least in that precinct. And I don’t know enough to report to anybody yet.”
“I’m afraid you may be in danger.”
“I’m more worried about Gemma.”
She cocked her head and smiled, the way she did when she was prying. “I get the feeling there’s something more going on there than you’re telling me.”
He felt himself reddening.
Damn Celtic complexion.
“There’s nothing much to tell. She’s Brian O’Reilly’s sister.”
Damn Celtic complexion.
“There’s nothing much to tell. She’s Brian O’Reilly’s sister.”
“Attractive?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Dr. Williams took another sip of tea. “Okay, whatever you say.”
That night Lee tossed and turned in bed. He knew he should try to sleep, but he couldn’t help thinking about his conversation with Dr. Williams. He realized that, for all that separated them, he and the killer were more alike than he wanted to admit. There were times when hate filled him, a rancor as bitter as dandelion greens, an evil vine wrapping itself around his heart, choking the breath from his body. He struggled with the clinging tendrils clutching at him, but when he was in this state, Lee knew he was closest to feeling what
he
felt—the man he had begun to think of as more than just his prey, the hunted, but also his doppelgänger.
he
felt—the man he had begun to think of as more than just his prey, the hunted, but also his doppelgänger.
The killer was like a reverse image of himself, a mirror negative, a darker brother. He struggled with his lack of faith in any meaningful concept of God; this man served a cruel and exacting god. He fought every day to hold back the tide of his own rage and disappointment; this man gave in to these feelings, embracing them like old friends.
He finally drifted off around three o’clock, to a night of restless dreams and murky, fleeting images. He awoke to the sound of Chuck shaving. For a split second he imagined he was back in their old rooms in Princeton. Those were sweet times, with youth and innocence and the bright future of an Ivy League graduate ahead of them. Life was rugby, classes, girls and eating clubs. Even at the time, he knew enough to savor those days, realizing they would never return. He listened to Chuck puttering around in the bathroom, heard him turn the shower on. He watched the steam seeping through the crack in his bedroom wall, made a note to talk to the super about it, then hauled himself out of bed, hoping Chuck didn’t use up all the hot water.
C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-FOUR
HAPTER
F
ORTY-FOUR
T
he evidence room at One Police Plaza was climate controlled and antiseptic, but Lee could taste the dust in the air as he followed the clerk down the endless aisles of boxes.
he evidence room at One Police Plaza was climate controlled and antiseptic, but Lee could taste the dust in the air as he followed the clerk down the endless aisles of boxes.
“Here you go,” said the clerk, a sleepy, dusky-skinned Latina with gold bangles in her ears that jingled when she walked. She pulled out a cardboard file box labeled in block letters with a black Magic Marker:
CAMPBELL, LAURA.
There was something surreal about seeing his sister’s name so objectively rendered by an unknown hand on the side of a featureless cardboard box, jammed in with thousands of others just like it. Sweat sprang onto Lee’s forehead as he signed the release form on the clipboard the clerk held out to him.
CAMPBELL, LAURA.
There was something surreal about seeing his sister’s name so objectively rendered by an unknown hand on the side of a featureless cardboard box, jammed in with thousands of others just like it. Sweat sprang onto Lee’s forehead as he signed the release form on the clipboard the clerk held out to him.
“Follow me,” she said, handing him the box.
He trailed after her, lugging the box, reminded of all the clips he had seen of criminals hauling their case files to court. There was something demeaning about the whole criminal justice system, necessary though it was.
The clerk led him to a locked room in the Records section. It was empty except for a couple of long tables and a water cooler. She unlocked the glass door and held it open for him.
“Just knock on the glass when you’re done,” she said, “and I’ll come let you out.”
“Thanks,” he said, heaving the box onto the table. Tiny granules of dust floated into the air and settled onto the heavy wooden table.
She left, locking the door behind her, and padded back to her station around the corner. He lifted the lid from the box and, for the first time since his sister’s disappearance, looked at the case files.
There wasn’t much. Copies of witness statements, the original Missing Persons report he and his mother had filed. He remembered the day they went to the station house together, his mother stern and anxious and full of questions. She couldn’t seem to believe that the desk sergeant they spoke with didn’t immediately produce her daughter as soon as they reported her missing. It was as though she expected Laura to be hiding in a closet somewhere in the building and that she would jump out yelling “Surprise!” with that big, toothy grin of hers. Laura had been living in the city less than a year when she disappeared. Kylie—thank God—was with her father that weekend.
The initial police response had been lukewarm, to say the least. In the scheme of things, a missing adult female didn’t seem to interest them much. Forms were duly filled out, records made and copied, and Lee and his mother were promised that someone would be assigned to the case if Laura didn’t turn up soon. The sergeant reassured them that in most cases the person did surface, usually in a short amount of time.
But from the minute he was assigned to the case, Detective Brian O’Reilly took it very seriously indeed. He reported it at once with the FBI National Crime Information Center (NCIC), as well as the NYPD, and he called Lee several times a week with updates.
And now he was dead—murdered. At first he had thought Brian might simply be a suicide his sister, Gemma, just couldn’t accept. Lee had seen it before—family members never want to believe a loved one could take their own life, but they could and did every day. The position of the gun wasn’t that conclusive—he had seen guns end up in odd places in crime scene photos. But the man in the camel’s hair coat was pretty convincing; Lee now believed Gemma’s conclusion about her brother’s death.
He dug through the pile of papers, reports, phone records, e-mails and departmental forms. One thing he had learned since coming to work for the NYPD was that paperwork was the bane of all cops’ existence. It was endless, inescapable and tedious—but if you didn’t do it, there was hell to pay. Brian O’Reilly might have been a drunk, but he was thorough. Every step of the investigation into Laura’s disappearance was documented: phone calls made, interviews conducted, leads followed.
Lee was startled by the ringing of his cell phone, which he had forgotten to turn off. He grabbed it. The caller ID said
Chuck
, so he answered it.
Chuck
, so he answered it.
He immediately regretted it. The call was from Chuck’s home phone in New Jersey, not his cell phone, and the caller was Susan Morton.
“Hello, sugar,” she said. Her voice was coated with the usual layer of syrup, but something was off.
“Hello, Susan,” he said, his voice flat, uninflected.
“Long time, no see,” she purred. She was trying too hard, pushing for effect.
“What can I do for you?”
She laughed her trademark laugh, like the tinkling of tiny bells, but it sounded forced. She was scared. Trying not to seem like it, but she was frightened.
“Why must you always be so businesslike?” she said. “Can’t we just chat for a moment? What have you been up to, sugar?”
“Are you looking for Chuck?”
She sighed, and in that sound he heard anger and frustration as well as resignation.
“Maybe I’m just calling to talk to you.”
“I’m sorry, Susan, but I was just heading out the door,” he lied. Cowardly, perhaps, but he had forced out all the coldness he could afford already and had no wish for a confrontation.
“Oh,” she said. “Okay.” She sounded so forlorn, he almost felt sorry for her.
“I’ll tell him you called,” he said, his voice softening.
“Oh, that’s all right,” she said. “He knows I’m trying to reach him. I must have left a dozen messages on his cell phone. Never mind. Guess I’ll just have to stay in the doghouse for a while.”
“I’ll tell him anyway.”
“Oh, you’re a sweetheart, really,” she said.
There was a knock on the glass partition of the door, and he looked up to the see the clerk standing there.
She pointed at his phone. “I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t use your cell phone down here.”
“I gotta go,” he said to Susan, and he slipped the phone back into his pocket.
The clerk unlocked the door and poked her head inside. “I gotta leave in about fifteen minutes. You want to stay much longer?”
“No, I’ll be right out—thanks,” he said. There wasn’t much he hadn’t already seen here and nothing he was unaware of.
He picked up the papers on the table and put them back into the box. As he did, a slip of paper slid out and onto the floor. He bent to pick it up. On it, scribbled in Laura’s handwriting, was a name and a phone number:
Thomas—202-555-1852.
He recognized the area code as belonging to Washington, D.C. He had no idea who Thomas might be. Presumably Detective O’Reilly had followed up on the lead, but he was dead now.
Thomas—202-555-1852.
He recognized the area code as belonging to Washington, D.C. He had no idea who Thomas might be. Presumably Detective O’Reilly had followed up on the lead, but he was dead now.
Lee copied down the phone number, then put the lid back on the box and called for the attendant. When he got home, he was going to give Thomas in Washington, D.C., a call.
C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-FIVE
HAPTER
F
ORTY-FIVE
W
ednesday was the first day of Hanukah, so Butts was spending the day with his wife’s family. “I think religion’s a bunch of bunk,” he’d said the night before, “but being Jewish has its perks. We may not get such cool presents, but we get a lot more days off.”
ednesday was the first day of Hanukah, so Butts was spending the day with his wife’s family. “I think religion’s a bunch of bunk,” he’d said the night before, “but being Jewish has its perks. We may not get such cool presents, but we get a lot more days off.”
Lee knew perfectly well that Butts would find time during the festivities to sneak off and work on the case, but he’d just smiled and nodded.
The first thing Lee did that morning was to dial the phone number of the mysterious Thomas. A man picked up on the second ring.
“Hello?” He sounded middle-aged, wary.
“Is Thomas there, please?”
The pause that followed told Lee the man knew something he didn’t want to divulge—for whatever reason.
“Who’s calling?”
He had the lie ready just in case.
“I’m his cousin. He asked me to look him up if I ever—”
“He moved to Philly.”
“Oh, do you have a number for him?”
“ No. ”
Lee could tell the man was getting ready to hang up. He made a stab at one last bit of information.
“Is he still working as a—”
To his relief, the man took the bait. “No—he’s in construction now.”
“Oh, right.”
“Look, I gotta go.”
“Thanks so much for your help.”
After he hung up, his initial feeling of triumph wore off quickly. He had a first name, city and a profession—now all he had to do was find a man named Thomas working construction in Philadelphia.
Piece of cake,
he thought grimly as he looked across the street at a crowd of people gathering in front of the Ukrainian church. Dressed in bulky winter coats and ski hats, they huddled together on the steps, their breath visible as white wisps in the frigid air. A young man distributed sheet music, and soon the sound of Christmas carols floated across the street.
Piece of cake,
he thought grimly as he looked across the street at a crowd of people gathering in front of the Ukrainian church. Dressed in bulky winter coats and ski hats, they huddled together on the steps, their breath visible as white wisps in the frigid air. A young man distributed sheet music, and soon the sound of Christmas carols floated across the street.
God rest ye merry, Gentlemen,
Let nothing you dismay,
Remember, Christ our Saviour
Was born on Christmas day,
To save us all from Satan’s power . . .
Let nothing you dismay,
Remember, Christ our Saviour
Was born on Christmas day,
To save us all from Satan’s power . . .
If only it were that easy,
Lee thought as he dialed Brian O’Reilly’s home number. Gemma picked up on the second ring.
Lee thought as he dialed Brian O’Reilly’s home number. Gemma picked up on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” he said, unexpectedly warmed by the sound of her voice. “Can we get together?”
“I was going to call you—I have a copy of the note.”
“Great. I have something to tell you too.”
They arranged to meet at Jackson Hole, on the Upper East Side, in an hour. Lee slipped on his coat and headed downstairs. The carolers across the street were just hitting their stride, their voices clear and sweet in the thin stillness of winter.
Hark! The herald angels sing,
“Glory to the newborn King,
Peace on earth, and mercy mild
God and sinners reconciled!”
“Glory to the newborn King,
Peace on earth, and mercy mild
God and sinners reconciled!”
Alas, some sinners were not so easily reconciled with God—or man, for that matter, Lee thought as he slid out into the frosty air. The door closed behind him, the dead bolt clicking into place with the hollow sound of finality.
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