The Anniversary Man (17 page)

′Ashley Burch and Lisa Briley.′

′Right, yes . . . you′re saying that these murders are related to similar incidents that occurred back in the early 1980s.′

′June 12th, 1980,′ Costello said. ′Cynthia Chandler and Gina Marano, killed by the Sunset Slayers. That′s as far as I can tell. I don′t have access to the coroner′s report, and I can only surmise that Burch and Briley were killed with a .25.′

′And then this teenage boy that was found in the warehouse.′

′That was stretching things a little.′

′Stretching things?′

′Yes . . . there was a little artistic license taken with James Wolfe. The killer was supposed to be replicating the murder of John Butkovich, but John Gacy never painted his victims′ faces like a clown - he painted his own. Only thing I can think is that whoever is doing this is trying to make sure we get the connection . . . he′s underestimating our ability to recognize similarities without—′

′Okay,′ Irving said, raising his hands. ′Enough already. Something has to tie together here. You′re telling me that you′re able to take the details of a present murder and correlate it to a murder in the past, a murder that could be as much as forty years ago, and recognize similarities—′

′Sure. Of course.′

′And you can do this with any murder case?′

Costello shook his head. ′You′re reading a lot more into this than you need to, Detective. This isn′t some psychic thing we′re talking about here, it′s a technical study. This is the result of many, many years of trying to understand why people do these things. This is an attempt to understand and appreciate what it is that makes someone do something like this.′

′And this is part of your job at the paper?′

′In a way. It′s an interest. I belong to a group that looks at such things and tries to draw conclusions from what little information we can gather—′

′A group?′

′Sure.′

′You mean there′s a group of people who study murders—′

′Serial murders, Detective, only serial murders.′

′And . . . ?′

′And we meet on the second Monday of every month at the Winterbourne Hotel, and the rest of the time we′re in touch through the internet or by phone . . . whatever.′

Irving - lost for words, quiet dismay filling his thoughts - leaned back in his chair.

′And we read the papers and watch the news,′ Costello went on, ′and some of the group have police scanners and contacts within the department, and we put two and two together and try to make four.′

′And then?′ Irving asked.

′And then what?′

′The information you′ve gathered. You come to conclusions about—′

′About nothing in particular, Detective, about nothing in particular.′

′So why do it? Surely you can′t find this sort of thing fulfilling? Reading about people who do these things to other human beings?′

′Fulfilling?′ Costello laughed. ′No, definitely not fulfilling . . . it′s simply a matter of dealing with things. For some it′s a sense of closure perhaps, for others a chance to actually meet people who have felt similar things . . . to try and make sense of what happened to them in the light of other peoples′ experiences.′

′Experiences with what, John, experiences with what?′

′With being murdered . . . or, rather, almost being murdered.′

′Murdered?′

′That′s the thing you see, Detective. That′s what the group is all about. We all have one thing in common.′

Irving raised his eyebrows.

′We all survived. One way or another we all survived.′

′Survived what, John? What are you talking about?′

′Attempted murder, Detective. We were all intended murder victims . . . victims of serial killers, and for whatever reason, a reason most of us have stopped even looking for, we survived.′

Irving looked at John Costello in silence.

Costello smiled, the simplicity of his expression almost disarming.

′You survived a serial killer?′ Irving asked.

Costello nodded. ′Most of me, Detective . . . most of me survived.′

I
rving talked with Costello for a while longer, made it clear that he was now an integral part of the investigation, that he should not leave the city, nor should he talk to people about the questions Irving had asked or the answers he′d given. Costello seemed unconcerned. Irving asked Costello for his home address and phone number, but Costello was unwilling to give either, said that he could be contacted without any difficulty at the newspaper. Irving felt he could not force the man, and so the request was dropped.

′You understand that I am not altogether convinced—′

′Convinced of what?′ Costello interjected. ′That someone could know about serial killers the way that other people know about baseball players or football teams? If I′d told you that I knew the result of every Giants game for the last twenty years, that I knew the names of players, their score averages—′

Irving stopped him with a gesture. ′Don′t leave the city,′ he said matter-of-factly.

′I have absolutely no intention of leaving the city, Detective Irving, believe me.′

Eventually there was nothing further to ask. Irving let Costello go, had no reason to detain him further, and watched as the man disappeared out of the door and headed left.

Irving walked to the corner at East 57th, took a south west route to Tenth. By the time he closed the front door of his apartment and kicked off his shoes it was nearly ten.

In the kitchen he poured an inch and a half of Four Roses into a glass, stood before the window that looked out toward De Witt Clinton Park. In the distance he could see the ghosts of piers on the Hudson, left as far as the Sea-Air-Space Museum, right as far as the Convention. Traffic snaked along the West Side Highway. The world went about its business. People opened and closed small chapters of their lives. People connected and disconnected, remembered then forgot. Within the same minute, somewhere in the world, everything was happening. Whoever had killed Mia Grant, slaughtered Ashley Burch and Lisa Briley; whoever had pummelled James Wolfe′s body until it surrendered to the hole in a concrete floor; whoever had shot two boys in the trunk of a car, and then taken a broom handle and leaned with all their weight on some poor girl′s neck . . . Person, or persons, unknown, they were somewhere. Thinking things, eating, sleeping, working things out, dealing with issues, feeling afraid - or not. Perhaps energized, perhaps uncaring and giving no second thought to what they had done.

And Ray Irving tried not to think about John Costello, because John Costello did not fit into any frame of reference Irving possessed.

John Costello, if what he said was true, was the survivor of an attempted murder by a serial killer. He belonged to a group of similar people. They met on the second Monday of every month and talked about their experiences. They talked about murders that had happened, were happening perhaps, and they drew assumptions and conclusions. And then did nothing. Except write a newspaper article. They did that, and that newspaper article was now, at least potentially, the source of unending trouble for the police department. There was nothing worse than a case delivered to the police department that the police department knew nothing about. It was an embarrassment, a political and diplomatic faux-pas. It served to raise questions, awkward moments at press conferences, discussions between the Chief of Police and the Mayor about revenue allocations, budget reconciliation, candidacy renewals. Such a thing fueled rumor, internally and externally, and gave rise to the possibility of public outcry, even panic . . .

New York had a serial killer, or killers, of which the police department was unaware.

It set precedents for the Press; they could print what they wished - supposition, scuttlebutt, hearsay, theories . . .

But Ray Irving knew this was not the case. Ray Irving knew that John Costello had touched the edges of something that held more truth than perhaps even Costello realized. Because those girls had been shot with a .25 caliber, because an anonymous call from ′Betsy′ had come in two days after the East River Park killings, because Irving knew in his heart of hearts that the anniversary killings were just that. He sensed that they were a recognition, a celebration even, a means by which someone somewhere was making a statement that no-one had yet received.

And he would keep on going until the message got through.

Wasn′t that what they all wanted? To know the world was hearing what they had to say?

And that person, that single voice out there, could that be John Costello?

Irving hoped that it was not. If John Costello was the Anniversary Man then his audacity was perhaps more terrifying than the killings themselves.

 

Over the next two weeks, the traffic that came into the Fourth never slowed or stopped. Between the 7th of August and the 10th of September there were a further nine deaths - two leapers, one drowning, a hit and run, a liquor store clerk shot at point blank range with a Mossburgh Magnum 12-gauge, formally identified by a tattoo on his earlobe (said earlobe found in the street eleven yards from the rest of his body); two suicides and, finally, a suicide-homicide: Man and his wife arguing, he threatens her with a beating, she tells him she isn′t gonna take any more of his shit, tries to leave . . . he chokes her, realizes what he′s done, gets in the car, drives eighty miles an hour down the highway and merges seamlessly with a concrete bridge support. How did they know it was vehicular suicide? No skidmarks on the road.

Mia Grant and James Wolfe stayed on Irving′s desk, but they garnered his attention only occasionally, and then only for minutes at a time between one human detonation and another.

Farraday did not speak of Lucas, Lavelle or Hayes again. There was no word from the Third, the Fifth or the Ninth. It appeared that one draft newspaper article wasn′t sufficient a threat to the status quo to justify expensive collaborations and task forces.

Irving recognized his own cynicism, but recognition didn′t change it.

Karen Langley didn′t phone him, and he heard nothing from John Costello. He had investigated Costello, found that at least one thing he′d said was true.

John Costello and Nadia McGowan. Sixteen and seventeen years old respectively. November 23rd, 1984, a Saturday evening.

And before them there had been Gerry Wheland and Samantha Merrett, before them Dominic Vallelly and Janine Luckman.

The Hammer of God killings.

Irving had found very little detail about the case, but what he′d read had left him with a disquiet that did not diminish with time. There was something unnerving about the idea. John Costello was a serial-killer victim, a survivor, and he met with other survivors who should have been dead but weren′t. And on the second Monday of every month they sat in an anonymous hotel room and talked about how someone they didn′t know had wanted to kill them.

Irving tried not to think of those people, but they were there. He knew there was depth to this thing, and it was no longer a question of whether or not it would haunt him, but for how long.

It was as if it was all waiting for him, and it would wait as long as was necessary.

He knew that it - whatever it was - had all the time in the world.

F
ifth anniversary of 9/11: that was the significance of this day. Monday, September 11th, 2006, and Carol-Anne Stowell, who had lost no-one back then but still possessed enough compassion and humanity to understand and appreciate the importance of this day, considered for a moment what would happen if she did not go to work.

Carol-Anne was twenty-seven years old. She supported a heroin addiction that cost her the better part of two hundred dollars a day. Her working name was Monique, and she no longer considered herself to be two different people. What she believed and what she convinced herself to believe were now the same thing. She′d stolen her own mother′s car and sold it for three hundred and fifty dollars. She had been raped, beaten, mugged, stabbed; she′d been arrested thirty-one times, charged and bound over, arraigned, spent three months in Bay-view Correctional, and all of it for the rush. She knew the rush. She knew it well, better than her own name. And the more she smoked the stuff the further the distance grew between herself and the rush. In its place came the nausea and vomiting, the bad teeth and inflamed gums, constipation, sweats, depression, inability to orgasm; the memory loss, insomnia and the sleepwalking, the thousand and one substitutes for the rush that were the trade-off for the thing itself. So she hooked. Had started when she was twenty-one. She trawled for traffic any place she could. Men were always looking. That′s what men did. They looked, she smiled, she walked, she talked, she sold herself, she fucked them, they paid. It wasn′t rocket science. Wasn′t much of anything. Stopped feeling a long time ago. It was fifty dollars, sometimes sixty, or eighty if they wanted bareback or anal. It was a business. She possessed a commodity. Hell, everyone was a hooker. Someone was always screwing someone else for money.

A little after midnight, early hours of Monday the 11th, Carol-Anne put on scuffed stilettos, a skirt no longer than eight or ten inches, a skin-tight nylon short-sleeved blouse. She did her make-up, all of it exaggerated, over-emphasized, as if she needed to look like a clown to be seen as normal in the dark - always in the dark. Even she - desperate and deluded - understood that in daylight she looked like death. Night-time was different. Night-time she could look like whoever they wanted her to be. They made believe anyway; made believe she was the lost love, the little girl across the street, the cheerleader, the Prom Queen. She sold a dream, they paid in dollars - and those dollars paved the way to temporary freedom.

Sometime past midnight she blew some guy in the back of his station wagon. He called her Cassie. When he was done he couldn′t get away fast enough, almost pushed her out of the car. He would drive home sick with guilt, worrying about disease despite the fact that he′d worn a rubber. He would wonder if HIV could be passed through the fingertips, through sweat, through a hooker′s clothes. He would try to remember if, in the heat of the moment, he had touched her. Carol-Anne had seen the wedding ring. He′d feel sick about hugging his wife, his kids, terrified he was now the harbinger of some virus that would decimate his family . . . As far as Carol-Anne was concerned it was only a blowjob, it wasn′t the end of the world. She had seen the end of the world, and a blowjob was not it.