The Anniversary Man (11 page)

James was a good kid who became a troubled young man. Hailed from the lower east side, edge of Vladeck Park. Had aspirations for architecture, design, other such things, but his father was a tough guy, a blue-collar sweat-and-cold-beer kind of guy who had worked on Piers 34 through 42 beneath the shadow of the Manhattan Bridge, air from Wallabout Bay in his lungs for as long as he′d possessed the strength to haul and hammer. Dennis Wolfe was not an educated man, he had no certificates or qualifications. He once carried a man three quarters of a mile to a hospital and saved his life by stanching the blood that was rushing from a stomach wound with a handful of rags wrapped in a plastic bag. ′Figured I should do that,′ he told the attending triage nurse. ′Stuff a bunch of rags in there and they′re just gonna soak up the blood and let it keep on leaking, right? Wrap it in a plastic bag and it′s gonna act like a sealant . . . least that′s what I thought.′ Dennis Wolfe had guessed right. Acted awkward, embarrassed even, when they held a party for him a week later. Pier chief came down and shook his hand, gave him a little brass plaque with his name on. Dennis had prevented an industrial accident becoming an unlawful death lawsuit. He wrapped that plaque in newspaper and stuck it in the crawl space in the roof above the stairs, same place he put all the odds and ends he didn′t have a great deal of use for. Anyone in their right mind would′ve done the same was what he thought, and that′s what he believed. Didn′t mention it again.

Dennis Wolfe struggled with his son. Felt sure the kid wasn′t a faggot, but he just didn′t get the artistic thing. James′s mother, Alice, was a good woman, perhaps a little simple, but pragmatic and methodical. There was nothing artistic there. James had taken her to the Whitney Museum of American Art a couple of years before. She′d commented on the tea they′d been served in the small cafeteria outside. The tea was all she noticed, pretty much all she remembered. James had two sisters, both married, both young mothers, both tied in with a world that Dennis understood as their husbands worked on the Piers. There was a future in predictability. There was substance in tradition, repetition, doing what was known, not new things untried, untested. Architecture? Interior design? Such things had a place, for sure, but not in the Wolfe family. The Wolfes were workers, not dreamers. The Wolfes broke a sweat while the uptowners graced coffee bars and talked shit.

Dennis Wolfe came out of his break early to take a call in the Pier foreman′s office. Foreman had a mallet for a head, blunt features, blunter character. The call was brief and to the point. Dennis Wolfe showed no emotion, merely explained to the chief that there was a family matter he had to attend to. He′d make up the time - tomorrow, maybe the next day.

Three blocks from the car park Dennis Wolfe slowed for the lights, and then it kind of hit him: He wouldn′t have to worry whether his son was a faggot anymore, because his son was dead.

 

By the time Ray Irving reached the back of Wang Hi Lee Carnival & Firework Emporium the scene had been taped and cordoned. Duty uniforms had erected sawhorses and strung black-and-yellow around the building, giving a twenty-five foot perimeter within which to work on all sides. Lead CSA from the Mia Grant killing, Jeff Turner, was already there, and the expression on his face when he saw Irving made the detective uncomfortable.

′Indications he was strangled first, more than likely with a rope,′ Turner said. ′That′s my initial on COD. Positive ID hasn′t been done, but the kid had a wallet with a college pass inside. If it′s genuine then his name is James Wolfe.′

′Strangled first?′ Irving asked. ′And second?′

′Well, whoever did this pretty much broke his body in half.′

′Broke his body in half? What the hell does that mean?′ Irving asked as they ducked beneath the crime scene tape and headed toward the rear of the building. Everywhere hung the smell of sulfur and paint.

′Forced his body into a square trap in the floor, some kind of drain outlet or something. Three by one and a half feet, give or take, and it looks like rigor had already set in. If it had—′ Turner shook his head. ′If he was rigored then someone would have had to jump up and down on his stomach until the poor bastard folded in half. Otherwise there would have been no way to get him in there.′

Up ahead a uniform slid back the vast wooden warehouse door to permit entry.

′And he got his face painted,′ Turner said.

Irving slowed up and stopped. ′What?′

′His face . . . the kid got his face painted and someone put a red wig on him . . .′

′You′re kidding me.′

Turner took a deep breath and looked ahead. ′Come on. I′ll show you.′

T
he picture of James Wolfe, his face painted like Pennywise the Clown, his body awkwardly crammed into a hole in the concrete floor of the Wang Hi Lee Carnival & Firework Emporium, appeared on the front page of the New York Daily News. All it had taken was a police officer with alimony, car payments, an ex-wife or two, and a camera phone.

Shapes in the background - grotesque carousel horses, a jack-in-the-box eighteen feet high, the head of a Chinese dragon - and red banner headlines were paraded on the newsstands and carried on the subway and talked about over water coolers and backyard fences. The Clown Killer. Give it a name; always had to give it a name, because a thing wasn′t a thing until it had a name.

Morning of Monday, July 31st, Ray Irving stood quietly in the corridor opposite the door of his office. The corridor had a window overlooking the street; his office did not. Sufficient longevity to warrant a room to himself, insufficient to warrant daylight. He had pot plants - a fern of some description, a peace lily. He had a percolator, which filled the room with the bitter scent of dark Italian coffee when the mood took him. He had a desk, a phone, a filing cabinet, a chair with a sprung back to ease the tension he carried in his spine, and on the wall a cork board. Upon this were pinned mementoes of things; alongside crime scene pictures, scraps of paper upon which were scrawled barely legible phone numbers, was a recipe for almond muffins, a monochrome snapshot of himself and Deborah Wiltshire when he was younger and she was alive. His office was not dissimilar to his apartment. His office was inconspicuous, unadorned, impersonal. Had it been suggested to Irving that he get a life, perhaps he would have smiled and said A life? This is my life.

Mia Grant and James Wolfe were the unfortunates, among so many unfortunates. The U.S. was home to eighteen thousand murders a year, and New York was among the front runners as to a locale of choice. In essence New York was a crime scene, perhaps better now than in the eighties, but nevertheless from his perspective it appeared that the quiet times - the times between the killings - were distant and seemingly disconnected. His life moved swiftly and smoothly from one primary to another.

The Mia Grant secondary was a small plot of earth beneath an overhang of trees back of a fence off a busy sidewalk; the primary was still unknown. The Wolfe primary was still being analyzed, but in a couple of days it would be nothing more than a hole in the floor in back of some warehouse owned by a Chinese firework company. That was all that was left. The body would be buried, cremated, whatever the family wished, and then the rest of the world would forget. The family would try to forget, feel guilty for attempting such a thing.

Irving sighed. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then turned when he heard the phone ringing in his office.

′Irving.′

′Ray? Got a reporter from the City Herald.′

Irving sat down. ′Go for it,′ he said resignedly.

′Detective Irving?′

′Speaking.′

′Hi there . . . thanks for speaking to me. My name′s Karen Langley, calling from the New York City Herald. Had a couple of questions I thought you might be able to answer.′

′Shoot.′

′Mia Grant.′

′What about her?′

′Wondered if there had been anything from the coroner on the weapon used.′

′We have chosen not to release that information,′ Irving said.

′So you do know what weapon was used?′

′Of course we know what weapon was used, Ms Langley.′

′But you′re not saying?′

′I just said that.′

Karen Langley paused. ′The teenage girls isn′t your case, right?′

′Teenage girls?′ Irving asked.

′The two girls found in the East River Park, fifteen and sixteen years old. Gunshot victims. I have their names here—′

′I don′t have any teenage gunshot victims,′ Irving interjected. ′Not in the last couple of weeks. When was this?′

′No, you′re right,′ Langley said, ′it′s Detective Lucas at the Ninth.′

′So you′ll have to speak to him about that.′

′Okay, one other thing . . . this clown killing thing—′

′I hate that you do this, you know?′ Irving said.

′What?′

′Give these things a name, for God′s sake.′

′Not guilty, Detective . . . think you′ll find that that was someone else′s unbridled creativity.′

′Yeah, okay, but it′s bad enough having to deal with this stuff without the free press that these animals get. Jesus, the vic was nothing more than a kid. What was he? Nineteen years old?′

′I′m sorry, Detective Irving—′

Irving sighed audibly. ′Hell, I don′t know what I′m complaining about . . . seen enough of this to last any number of lifetimes. What was your question, Ms Langley?′

′So the victim was found on Saturday, right?′

′Right, Saturday. Two days ago.′

′And can you tell me whether he painted his own face or it was painted by his killer?′

′What?′

′If he painted his own face . . . you know, like he was going to a party or something? Or if his killer painted his face. That′s what I wanted to know.′

′I can′t tell you that, Ms Langley, not because I don′t want to, but because I don′t know.′

′Was he dressed as a clown?′

Irving paused.

′Detective?′

′I heard you.′

′So . . . was he dressed as a clown? If he was dressed as a clown then it seems more likely that—′

′I know where you′re going with this, Ms Langley.′

Karen Langley was silent. She waited patiently for Irving′s response.

′Why?′ Irving eventually asked.

′Why? Because I have an interest in whether or not—′

′An interest?′ Irving echoed. ′You have something on this one?′

′Something? No, I don′t have something on this one in particular—′

′You′re asking specific questions about three unrelated cases, Ms Langley.′

Langley was silent.

′Right?′ Irving prompted.

′My turn to say nothing,′ Langley replied.

′You have them connected?′ Irving asked.

′They could be,′ Langley said.

′Blunt force trauma, gunshot victims, and a strangulation . . . unrelated victims, three different locations, two different precincts. The MOs—′

′We extrapolate, Detective Irving, just as you do.′

′Don′t start something with this, Ms Langley.′

′Start something?′

′Something in the newspapers, something that gets people all worried that there′s more going on here than there actually is.′

′Four teenage murders in seven weeks?′

Irving leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. ′Ms Langley, seriously—′

′I just wanted an answer to a couple of questions, Detective, that was all. We make something out of it, or we don′t. Maybe if you answered the questions it would dispel whatever ideas we—′

′That′s bullshit, Ms Langley, and you know it. You can′t honestly believe that I′m going to fall for that.′

′We do what we do, Detective, and we do it whichever way we can. Thank you for your time.′

′You′re not going to give me any leeway on this, are you?′ Irving asked.

′Leeway?′

′You′re gonna cook up whatever story you can think of, and then run it without liaising with us.′

′When did the press ever liaise with the police department on such things?′ Langley asked, a smile in her voice. ′More pertinently, when did the police department ever liaise with us?′

′Isn′t that half the problem?′ Irving asked.

′I′ll take that as rhetoric. I asked, you answered, or didn′t answer, and that′s the end of it.′

′I s′pose it is.′

′You have a good day, Detective Irving.′

′You too, Ms Langley . . . oh, one moment.′

′Yes, Detective?′

′You were a trainee reporter from which paper?′

′Very funny, Officer Irving, very funny.′

The line went dead and Irving hung up.

He opened the Wolfe file on his desk and stared once more at the brutally garish painted face of the teenage clown, the startling red wig, his body jammed into a hole in the ground, his tongue swollen and protruding, the starkly defined ligature marks on his throat.

Kind of a life is this? he asked himself for the thousandth time, and then reminded himself that it had in fact been his choice.

A
s far as the attending crime scene analysts and the city coroner could determine, the three teenage victims discovered in the early hours of Monday, August 7th, had been dead for less than eight or ten hours. At first the killings seemed unrelated, for there were two crime scenes, but the simple matter of cellphones clarified the connection. Beneath an overhang of the Queensboro Bridge, the naked and battered body of a teenage girl was found. Nearby, still switched on and displaying a screensaver image of a young man, was her cellphone. The attendant CSA called up the last number dialed, pressed the little green phone symbol, and was surprised when it was answered by a voice he recognized. The CSA at the second crime scene - the discovery of two teenage boys shot and left in the trunk of a car - answered the cellphone found in one of the boys′ jackets. They later learned that his screensaver was an image of the murdered girl. Perhaps the last thing each of them had seen was a digital image of the other. The primaries were thirty-seven blocks apart - two different jurisdictions, two different precincts - but the presence of identical tire tracks at both locations made them one murder case.