The Anniversary Man (19 page)

′Nothing so far . . . still haven′t had reports in from all units, but nothing I′m aware of. Why?′

′I think there might have been,′ Irving replied. ′I′ll check the inter-precinct bulletins.′

Irving hung up, logged onto his computer.

He found two dead - one at the Eleventh, another at the Seventh. The Eleventh was a middle-aged woman, fatal GSW, still waiting on the coroner to confirm suicide or homicide. The report from the Seventh was vague, but still sufficient for him to call them.

When Irving spoke to the desk at the Seventh, he felt the hairs on the nape of his neck stand to attention.

′We got a hooker, I think. Eric Vincent was on it . . . he might still be here, hang on a minute.′

Irving waited, tension and a sense of unease in the base of his gut.

′Vincent.′

′Detective Vincent, this is Ray Irving from the Fourth.′

′What′s up? I′m on my way home.′

′Won′t take a minute. Just wanted some details on your homicide.′

′The hooker?′

′She was a hooker? You′re sure?′

Irving could hear Vincent′s sardonic smile. ′Hell, Ray, if she wasn′t a hooker then she really had a problem with taking care of herself.′

′Where was she found?′

′Down off Pier 67 . . . why you asking?′

′Think I might have something on it, but wanted to check a few of the details.′

′Sure, sure . . . whaddya wanna know?′

′She was strangled?′

′Looked like it from the bruising on the throat. Either that or she was choked unconscious and then the drop from the pier broke her neck. Have to wait for the autopsy report.′

′And her clothes?′

′Her clothes?′

′Yes . . . how was she dressed?′

Vincent paused.

It was in that pause that Irving knew.

′Well, that′s the odd thing. From what we can tell she was out working, but she had on jeans and flip-flops—′

Irving′s heart missed a beat, then another.

′And a tank-top, but that was wrapped around her wrist for some reason.′

Irving swallowed. He took a deep breath. ′Twenty-seven years old, right? And her eyes were gone.′

Vincent didn′t speak for a moment.

′Eric?′

′How the fuck do you know that?′ Vincent asked.

′Because I think it might be a serial,′ Irving replied.

′You have someone else with their eyes out?′

′No, but there′s a connection with some earlier cases.′

′So what′re you saying? You taking this one off me? Jeez, if you could do that I′d be real grateful.′

′I don′t know yet,′ Irving replied. ′I don′t know what I′m gonna do yet, I gotta speak to my captain, see if we can collaborate on this. You say you′re off shift now?′

′I got my kid′s birthday,′ he said. ′This is a big deal. This is something I can′t—′

′It′s okay. I′ll handle it,′ Irving replied. ′My captain′s gonna have to speak to the Chief. God knows how long this is gonna take, and whether or not anything will come of it . . . you know how these things are. You got a number where I can reach you?′

Vincent gave Irving his cell number.

′What was her name?′ Irving asked.

′Carol-Anne Stowell.′

′And when was she found?′

′ ′Bout six this morning.′ Vincent inhaled audibly. ′This is freaky shit now, my friend. What the fuck is this?′

′I think whoever did this was looking for a particular type of girl of a very specific age.′

′Makes sense,′ Vincent replied. ′We talked to some girls and five of them mentioned a trick in a midnight blue sedan, asked their ages, drove away until he found Carol-Anne.′

′None of them were twenty-seven, that′s why,′ Irving said. ′He needed a twenty-seven-year-old, and he took the clothes with him. Her own clothes could be somewhere, but more than likely he took them away after he′d killed her.′

′And this is a serial?′ Vincent asked. ′How many have there been already?′

′So far, as best we know, your hooker would make it a total of eight.′

Vincent whistled through his teeth. ′What the hell is this? This guy trying for the record?′

Irving smiled. ′Not a prayer, my friend. Right now I′m reading about some charmer who was supposed to have done fifty-three.′

′Well, okay, better you than me. I′m gonna go do the birthday party if that′s okay with you.′

The call ended.

Irving leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He breathed deeply, tried to stay focused on what was happening.

Mia Grant, the East River girls, James Wolfe, the two boys in the trunk, the dead girl under the Queensboro Bridge, and now Carol-Anne Stowell.

He leaned forward and picked up the pages that had been delivered that morning. He scanned through them again, found the highlighted section.

Irving knew who had delivered the pages, and why. The thing that he could not understand was how rapidly the connection had been made. The girl was found at six, would have been on the radios about seven, seven-thirty, and by nine-thirty John Costello had identified the killing, found a website, printed off the relevant pages, and delivered them to the Fourth.

He reached for the telephone to call the City Herald, and then he stopped. He wondered whether the delivered documents could give him probable cause for a formal interrogation, for visiting the Winterbourne Hotel and talking to the rest of Costello′s freak show. It was, after all, the second Monday of the month.

I
t took a while, but they figured it out.

Editorial director of The New York Times, a veteran journalist called Frank Raphael, knew there was something awry when the letter came. It was the 9/11 anniversary, and the mailroom was on alert. The New York Times had always had its share of crazies and creeps, but on such a day it paid to hire extra staff, to put anything greater than letter-thickness through the metal detector, to employ two extra guys with an x-ray machine. It was a sorry state of affairs, but it was now the way of the world.

The letter came in with the regular post. It was opened by a girl called Marilyn Harmer, and when she saw the measured, almost perfect symbols, something triggered in the back of her mind. She set the letter down as carefully as she could, took one of the clip-top baggies provided, and slid the letter and its envelope inside. She called security, handed over the document, and waited.

It arrived on Frank Raphael′s desk at six minutes past ten that morning, and by ten twenty-two he had three other editors, two columnists, a staff photographer and a political correspondent standing behind him and peering over his shoulder, all of them feeling that sense of awkward dismay that came with unidentified fear.

′Anyone know how many there were?′ Raphael asked.

′In all, I think there were twenty-one.′

Raphael looked up at one of the assistant editors, mid-thirties, sharp as a blade. Name was David Ferrell.

′You know something about this?′ Raphael asked, and then he seemed to become aware of how many people were behind him. ′For God′s sake, will you people sit down or fuck off?′

They moved quickly. The staff photographer left the office, the remainder took seats around the wide meeting-room table.

′Not a great deal,′ Ferrell said. He took a seat to Raphael′s right. ′I think there were twenty-one letters, started in mid-′69, ended in April of ′78. Then there were about half a dozen other things called the Riverside Writings, and then there was a message left on the car door of one of the victims at Lake Berryessa.′

Raphael frowned. ′How the fuck do you know this shit? Jesus, man, you scare me sometimes.′

Ferrell smiled. ′Just interested, nothing more. I′m sure as hell not an authority.′

′Okay, so we have a copycat here. Maybe this is the same cipher, who the fuck knows, but from what I remember it sure as shit looks like it.′

′So who do we call?′ Ferrell asked.

Raphael shrugged his shoulders. ′Hell, I don′t know, call the Chief of Police maybe . . . what′s the protocol on such things?′

′It′s gotta be a fake,′ Ferrell said. ′Consensus of opinion is that this guy is long since dead.′

′Whatever . . . so call the captain of the nearest precinct. Which is that?′

′The Second,′ Ferrell replied.

′So call him and tell him we are the proud recipients of the first Zodiac letter in twenty-eight years.′

 

Second Precinct Captain Lewis Proctor knew Bill Farraday - professionally rather than socially - but well enough to recognize his name when a call had come through to the Chief of Police. Proctor had been in a mid-quarterly review meeting with Chief Ellmann when Farraday had called regarding some proposed collaboration between the Fourth and the Ninth.

′You know Farraday?′ Ellmann had asked him when the call was over.

Proctor nodded. ′Some.′

′He′s after a cross-precinct investigation, some whacko replicating previous serials.′

That was all that had been said, but when David Ferrell called from The New York Times that Monday morning, an alarm bell rang in back of Proctor′s head.

First call he made was to Bill Farraday, told him the news. Farraday was quiet for some time.

′You want to go down there?′ Proctor asked him.

′You going?′

′Doesn′t need two of us.′

′I′ll take someone,′ Farraday said. ′If it looks like anything I′ll come back to you.′

′Appreciated, Bill.′

The call ended. Farraday paged Irving, found he was half a block away getting lunch.

Irving was in Farraday′s office within fifteen minutes.

′We′re taking a trip to The New York Times offices,′ Farraday told him. ′They received a letter . . . looks like a Zodiac letter.′

Irving′s eyes widened. ′You′re fucking with me.′

′I′m not, but seems like someone is,′ Farraday replied.

′This might not be related.′

′None of it might be related. We don′t know, do we? We have to go take a look. Some guy at The Times called Proctor at the Second, Proctor called me, I called you. This is what′s known as delegation. We go take a look. We find out if there′s any connection.′

Irving thought to mention the documents that had arrived earlier that morning from John Costello about Arthur Shawcross and the Genesee River killings. He stayed his hand - just for now.

 

It was after midday by the time they reached The Times building. Editor Frank Raphael greeted them, was told why people had come from the Ninth and not the Second. He called David Ferrell through, who came with the letter and envelope in the baggie and a copy of Robert Graysmith′s book Zodiac.

′I′ve deciphered the letter,′ Ferrell said. ′The entire code is in this book, pretty much . . .′

He handed the original letter to Farraday, the translation to Irving.

Farraday, unfamiliar with the Zodiac letters, scanned the neatly printed symbols.

Irving took the deciphered copy and read it out loud.

′I have been asked, Did I kill? Yes, too many times for any one person to do. I have been a god unto myself. I′ve been the judge, the jury and the executioner. I, dear people, have murdered, butchered and totally destroyed fifty-three human beings in my lifetime. Why?′

Irving paused, looked up at Farraday, at Frank Raphael. The tension in the room was palpable.

′Go on,′ Raphael said quietly.

Irving turned back to the letter:

′Picture in your mind: I was taught to sit for hours at a time and not move; I was taught to seek out and destroy the enemy as I perceived them to be.

′The prostitutes I am accused of killing were the enemy to me in their own fashion, because they can kill with social diseases and AIDS and get away with it. Do I regret it, I have been asked? My answer is, I very much regret it, to the point of wondering why I was chosen to carry out this assignment.

′The United States government taught me how to kill; what it did not teach me was the desire not to do so. I still get those feelings - but the pills I am now on dampen them to the point of calming me down. Why not before?

′Why am I like I am? Study it - seek the answer before too many people get killed. I am like a predator, able to hunt and wantonly destroy at any given time or moment. I have been pushed and threatened, but somehow the pills stop or slow down the desire to fight. I know that when I do fight there will be no control - I′ll be the predator again.

′Most people tell me I will die in prison. (So what.) Do you have a choice of when and where you will die? Many people believe that when they die they will go to heaven. Not so. Your soul waits to be called: Read your Bible if that is what you believe in. As for me, I will live again and go on to the next transition. I am a spiritualist. Death is but a transition of life. The people I have killed are in their next transition. They will live again, but in a much better way than the one they left behind.

′Every man, woman or child from ten years of age and up is able to kill knowingly. Many of you humans portray me as mad-crazy. This is your free will. What you think may not be so.

′Look to the heavens, I came from there. So did you but you won′t admit it. My time is near in this transition. I will move on shortly, I feel what I feel. If every man, woman and child had the same as everyone else, then crime and war would be nonexistent.

′Remember: watch the heavens, we are coming to rescue you from you.

′I am, or am I?′

Irving looked up at Bill Farraday, at Frank Raphael and David Ferrell.

′Fuck,′ Raphael said.

′So what do you know about this guy?′ Farraday asked.

Ferrell leaned forward. ′I studied quite a bit about it for a research project I was doing a couple of years ago. I don′t know a great deal, but from what I can see the letter has been written in the same style, cramped, blue felt-tip pen, some of the letters trailing down on the right-hand side. Whoever did this put double postage on the front of the envelope. That was another common trait. Zodiac used to put words on the outside of the envelope requesting that whoever delivered the letters did so in a hurry. Left-hand margins and the text are ruler-straight, as if he used a lined piece beneath as a guide. Zodiac wrote on a paper called Eaton bond. Have no idea if what you have there is the same, but it′s seven and a half by ten which is the same size. He began every letter with the phrase ′′This is the Zodiac speaking′′, which our letter-writer has not done, but then there is an explanation for that—′