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Authors: C. E. Lawrence

BOOK: Silent Slaughter
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C
HAPTER
S
IX
“
A
ny sign of the missing finger?” Krieger asked from the backseat as they drove back to the station house in Butts’s oversized Chevy.
“Nope. It’s probably his trophy,” Butts remarked as he swung into a parking space that looked way too small for the big sedan. Lee winced, waiting for the scraping of metal on metal, but to his surprise, the car fit.
Interviews with the neighbors had yielded little useful information. Several people reported hearing what sounded like a trash pickup in the alley but thought nothing of it. New Yorkers were used to sanitation trucks coming and going at all hours of the day and night, so it wasn’t surprising that no one had gone to a window to look out until later.
Jimmy Chen had stayed behind with a couple of sergeants to finish up the interviews before joining them at the precinct. Lee was looking forward to seeing his old friend—they had been inseparable during their graduate student days at John Jay. They had met a few times after graduation, but careers and the concerns of daily life had a way of interfering. And then there was Lee’s struggle with clinical depression, which he didn’t really like to share with anyone.
Butts led the way to his office, which Krieger entered with the air of a prisoner being led onto death row. She observed the clutter on his desk with a disdainful wrinkle of her perfectly straight nose and perched on the edge of a chair in a corner.
“Are there any similar cases you know of?” asked Krieger.
“Nope,” said Butts. “I already checked on that. There’s nothin’.”
“Well,” said Lee, “in that case—”
“Wait,” said Butts. “Before you do your thing, Doc, mind if I take a crack?”
Lee smiled. When they’d first met, the detective was disdainful of what he called the “mumbo jumbo” of profiling. But since then they had worked quite a few cases together. Butts had come to see the value of analyzing the psychological aspects of a crime, rather than relying entirely on forensic evidence.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Have at it.”
“One thing’s clear,” Butts began. “This guy is damn smart.”
“I already
told
you that,” Krieger muttered.
“You were talkin’ about the note he left,” Butts replied. “But I mean the manner of the crime itself.”
“Go on,” said Lee.
“This perp leaves his vic in an alley in an upscale neighborhood, where he could easily be seen—”
“Under the cover of darkness,” Krieger remarked languidly.
“Yeah, but why not wait until the middle of the night, when most people are asleep? He could, but he doesn’t. So he’s daring, and he’s smart.”
“And arrogant,” Lee said. “Don’t forget that.”
“Yeah, right,” Butts said, scribbling on the whiteboard against the far wall.
•
Risky MO
•
Intelligent
•
Arrogant, daring
“How am I doin’ so far?” he asked Lee.
“You’re doing great. I don’t see what you need me for.”
The detective turned back to the board. “What else?”
“He probably owns a vehicle,” said Lee.
“Which he used to transport the body?” Krieger said.
“Right,” said Lee.
Butts wrote it on the board.
“Don’t forget organized,” Lee said. “He’s highly organized.”
“Right,” Butts said. “He took a low-risk vic—a nice girl, from a good family, not a street hooker.” He turned and wrote on the board.
•
Low-risk victim
•
Organized
“And he took the time to type out the note,” Krieger remarked.
Butts frowned. “You think he did that before or after he killed her?”
“Hard to say,” Lee replied. “Either way, he’s a cool customer. And given the ritualistic aspect of the crime and staging of the body, it looks like we have a repeat offender on our hands.”
“That’s just great,” said Butts.
“Well?” Krieger demanded. “When are you going to give me the other note?”
“Oh, right,” Butts said, fishing out a photocopy from the pile of papers on his desk. “Here it is.”
Krieger snatched it from him with the eagerness of a child with a Christmas present. After scanning it briefly, she said, “I can tell you something else about him.”
“What’s that?” Butts asked, obviously intrigued but trying to hide it.
“There’s a good chance he’s English. Or at the very least, he was educated in a British school.”
The detective’s face expressed astonishment mingled with disbelief. “How do you get that?”
“It’s the syntax of his sentences. ‘I very much doubt you’ll ever see me.’ Americans don’t talk like that—‘I very much doubt.’ That’s British—upper class, I’d say. Probably public school educated.”
“What else?” Butts asked.
“It’s subtler, but this phrase also struck me: ‘Still, you never know.’ ”
“What about it?” Butts said.
“I get it,” said Lee. “Another typically British locution.”
“Right. By itself, it’s not much. But taken together with the other phrase and the reference to Conan Doyle and Sherlock Holmes, I think we have something.”
“What reference was that?” asked Butts.
“Why, Detective, I’m surprised at you,” Krieger said, obviously relishing the chance to admonish him. “In the first letter he said, ‘The game’s afoot.’ ”
“Oh, that,” said Butts, his already florid complexion reddening. “Yeah—of course.”
“I’m impressed,” Lee said. “Well done, Detective Krieger.”
Krieger shrugged, but the corners of her mouth twitched upward. She was a woman who worked hard not to show her feelings, which he found ironic, since she was clearly a hotbed of roiling emotion and passion.
“How sure are you about the British thing?” Butts asked, fishing around in his desk drawer.
“About seventy percent,” Krieger replied.
“Or he could just want us to
think
he’s English,” Lee said. “What else can you tell us about him from his writing?”
“Some of it is obvious,” Krieger answered. “You are correct with regard to intelligence and organization.”
“What about this reference to One being ‘the loneliest number’?” said Butts. “Is he tryin’ to tell us he’s lonely?”
“I don’t think so,” said Lee. “He’s too in control. He sees himself as superior to us. He’s not likely to be baring his soul.”
“It is interesting, though,” Krieger agreed. “What exactly
is
he referring to—the girl herself?”
“So maybe it’s a threat to take more victims?” Butts suggested, pulling a half-eaten sandwich from his desk drawer. An expression of disgust crossed Krieger’s face. “What?” Butts said. “This is dinner. Actually, it’s left over from lunch. You want some?”
Krieger wrinkled her nose. “No,
thank
you.”
“You sure? It’s turkey—not half-bad,” he said, taking a bite. “Never used to like turkey, but the wife insists I eat healthier.”
“It could be a reference to the song lyric,” Lee said. “ ‘One is the loneliest number.’ ”
“Hmm,” Butts said, chewing thoughtfully. “Who recorded that?”
“Three Dog Night, I think,” said Lee.
They both looked at Krieger. “Anything there, linguistically speaking?” said Butts.
She frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t share your knowledge of American pop tunes.”
“It’s not a ‘pop tune,’ ” Butts said. “It’s classic rock.”
Krieger shrugged. “Whatever.”
“Look,” Butts said. “We gotta wait for the results on forensics from the lab, and it’s already after ten o’clock. So why don’t we meet here tomorrow morning around nine?”
“Okay,” said Lee. “But first, add one more thing to your list on the board.”
“What’s that?”
“Sense of humor.”
“Yeah,” Butts said, frowning. “This guy’s a laugh riot. But you know what they say. He who laughs last—”
“Right,” Lee agreed. But even as he spoke, he could hear the sound of the UNSUB’s laughter, mocking them. He was having fun—and the fun was only just beginning.
The game was afoot.
C
HAPTER
S
EVEN
E
dmund stood at the kitchen table, peeling an apple. He stroked its glistening red skin carefully with the knife, applying just enough pressure to separate it from the firm white flesh underneath. He took a deep breath and smiled to himself, thinking about what pleasures lay ahead of him. He sliced the apple cleanly into four quarters and bit into one.
Murder burned like fire in his belly. Apart from mathematics and Bach, it was all he thought about, all he desired—to kill, again and again, in a never-ending orgasm of bloodlust and death. There was something dark and rotting at his core; he knew that, had known it since childhood. He felt contempt for the people he saw enjoying their little lives, or pretending to. He always suspected there was a pretense with the really “happy” ones. How could you enjoy this lousy existence, so full of pain and loss and sickness and disappointment? The sodden, sullen center of his being resisted the pull of commonplace pleasures; he found true satisfaction only in the taking of pleasure from others.
He sank his teeth deeply into the apple chunk, chewing thoughtfully. The fruit was just an appetizer; it was almost time for lunch.
Lunch.
He liked the crisp sound of the word, the final consonants crunchy, like bones snapping between teeth.
Lunch.
Delicious and nutritious, carnivorous . . .
He put down the apple and laid the tools of his trade out lovingly on the kitchen table: the long, serrated hunting knife with the inlaid mother-of-pearl handle, the roll of duct tape, coil of rope, blindfold and, of course, the handcuffs. He had selected each item with care: the rope had to be white and new and of good quality, the duct tape had to be black, and the blindfold was always pure silk. He liked the touch of elegance. He usually used black or purple and hand-washed it carefully after each victim.
The handcuffs were trickier. He preferred British models, his favorite being the old fashioned “Darby” handcuffs he had found in an antiques store a few blocks north of Gramercy Park. Dating from the early fifties, they were sturdy and harder to pick than some of the more modern ones. He was also pleased that his purchase would leave no trail for law enforcement to follow. Who would think to trace a pair of handcuffs to an obscure antiques store on Lexington Avenue?
He smiled and caressed the smooth, cold metal, imagining it wrapped around the tender wrists of a youthful victim, the harsh steel cutting into the smooth young flesh. He shuddered with pleasure at the thought.
Monster.
The word made him smile. Down deep, he believed all men had these fantasies, if only they would admit it to themselves. He looked forward to the rush of adrenaline as he stalked each victim, carefully planning each attack as though it was a military campaign, complete with maps and diagrams.
He believed that every man secretly wished to enjoy the pleasures he had cultivated so carefully—if only they were as clever as he was, as brave and resourceful. It wasn’t virtue that kept other men from indulging in the chase and capture; no, it was their cowardice, their fear of being caught, their lack of imagination and daring. This he believed as surely as he knew that within the next phase of the moon, he would step out in search of more prey. He took another bite of apple and shivered with the pleasure of anticipation.
C
HAPTER
E
IGHT
“H
ey, Angus—long time, no see!”
Lee Campbell knew that voice could only belong to one person—Jimmy Chen. He turned to see his old friend striding into the Thirteenth Precinct as if he owned the place, his shiny black hair bouncing, wearing the same lopsided grin Lee had first seen in their student days at John Jay. The two men embraced, awkwardly—a precinct house was no place for emotional bonding. But it had been a long time, and Lee realized how much he had missed Jimmy.
“So, Angus, how’s that hot mother of yours?”
Lee smiled. Jimmy Chen had a sly sense of humor. Even at John Jay, where gallows humor was common, he had raised some eyebrows. A lot of the other Chinese cops had a serious, studious attitude, but Jimmy referred to himself as “your atypical Asian dude.” He was unusually tall, well over six feet. Jimmy’s family came from north of the Yangtze River, where the people were taller. His grandfather had been a leader in one of the notorious
tongs
, the organized gangs operating in Chinatown.
He had started calling Lee “Angus” when he got a whiff of his Scottish ancestry, and he’d had Fiona Campbell eating out of his hand within minutes of meeting her. He’d flirted outrageously, then sent her flowers the next day. She had never stopped asking Lee about “that nice Chinese friend of yours.” He didn’t have the heart to tell her Jimmy was a compulsive flirt—or that he also happened to be gay.
“My mother is just fine, thank you,” Lee said.
“I’ll say she is,” said Jimmy with a wink and a slap on the back. “Give her my best, will you?”
“Always.”
“So what have you been up to?” Jimmy asked as they walked to Butts’s office in the back of the station house. “You doing okay?”
There weren’t many people in Lee’s life who knew the intimate details of his sister’s disappearance and his subsequent nervous breakdown. Jimmy Chen was one of them.
“I’m doing okay, thanks. You?”
“What is it your mom’s boyfriend says? ‘Can’t complain—even if I did, no one would listen.’ ”
“Yep—you got him, all right.”
“What’s his name—Stan?”
“Yeah, Stan.”
They reached the office, and Lee reached out to knock, then glanced at his watch. It was five minutes after nine. Hildegarde Elena von Krieger was notoriously punctual, and if she was alone with Detective Leonard Butts for any length of time, he figured, it wasn’t going to be pretty.
He was right.
When he and Jimmy entered the office, he could tell from Krieger’s body language that it wasn’t going well. She sat, arms crossed over her Wagnerian bosom, staring coldly in front of her. Crime scene photos were spread out on Butts’s desk. The pudgy detective clutched a cinnamon roll in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He tossed the paper onto the desk.
Lee looked at the headline screaming out with the combination of alarm and relish typical of the city’s tabloids.
 
 
Alleyway Strangler’s Young Victim
GRUESOME DISCOVERY—HORRIFIED NEIGHBORS FIND GIRL’S BODY
 
Butts flung the paper into the recycling bin. “More trash from the garbage mill.” Detective Leonard Butts did not like the media.
Elena Krieger uncrossed her arms. “They are just doing their job, same as we are.”
Butts snorted. “And they’re providing
such
an important service to the community.”
Krieger rolled her eyes. “Why don’t you just get over yourself?” She turned to Jimmy and extended a hand. “Hello. I’m Elena Krieger.”
“Jimmy Chen,” he said, shaking her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Okay,” Butts said. “Now that we got the introductions over with, let’s cut to the chase.”
“I was wondering if you think there are previous victims we haven’t discovered yet,” asked Krieger.
“That’s a good question,” Lee answered. “He seemed awfully in control of the crime scene, and his careful posing of the body indicated that his fantasy has been in place for quite a while.”
Jimmy leafed through the crime scene photos. “Man, this is some twisted stuff.” He held up a shot of Lisa’s left hand. “Why did he take that finger, do you think?”
Lee studied it. “I think it’s an important aspect of his signature, but it’s early to draw any definite conclusions.”
Butts ran a hand through his thinning wisps of sandy hair. “But what does it
mean
?”
“One obvious interpretation would be that it represents castration anxiety,” said Lee.
“How so?” asked Butts.
“That he sees women as potential threats to his masculinity, so he cuts off their appendages before they can remove his.”
Krieger cocked her head to one side. “He cut off her pinky finger. He must have a teensy-weensy penis.”
Jimmy stifled a laugh, and Butts glared at him.
“It’s not a direct correlation,” said Lee. “And it could signify a dozen other things.”
“Do they know if it was postmortem or antemortem?” Jimmy asked.
“We’re waitin’ on the ME’s office for that,” said Butts.
The phone rang, and he snatched it up.
“Butts here.” He listened, his face grim. “Okay, I’ll be right over.” He hung up and turned to the others. “That was the ME’s office. I’m goin’ over to look at the body.”
“What is it?” asked Lee.
“They didn’t say, just that I’d wanna have a look.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Lee. “Jimmy, you in?”
“I’ve got to type up all those interviews,” his friend said, avoiding eye contact. “I think I’ll wait for the photos, if you don’t mind.”
Lee nodded. Jimmy wasn’t exaggerating about the paperwork—never ending and exhausting, it was the bane of a cop’s existence. But Lee knew something about his old friend: Jimmy Chen hated being around dead people. An odd trait in a detective, perhaps, but everyone had their weakness, he thought as he watched Butts stuff the last remnant of his day-old turkey sandwich into his mouth before throwing on his coat.
He turned away before Elena Krieger had a chance to roll her eyes in disgust.

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