The Anniversary Man (23 page)

′You were close?′

′Not particularly no . . . I think I was a general disappointment to him.′

′No brothers and sisters?′

′No, just me.′

′And were you a disappointment?′

′I hope not.′

′So maybe people have these little quirks and idiosyncrasies that they pick up from other people because it makes them feel safe . . . gives them an anchor to something, you know?′

′What is this?′ Irving asked. ′All of a sudden I′m in therapy?′

′No,′ Costello said. ′I was just making a point. We all do things that make no real sense at all, and most of the time we don′t even know why we′re doing them. The people that do these things to other people . . . the crazies, the psychos, the serial killers, well they′re just the same, Detective Irving. Surely they, in their own twisted way, are just doing the things that they do with no real appreciation or comprehension of why they′re doing them . . . the truth is that it doesn′t matter, it actually doesn′t matter why they′re doing it, they just know that it has to be done, and it has to be done now, and there′s no getting away from the fact that this is the way that life is. Whatever any of them do, to them it makes complete sense.′

′It′s a very simplistic view, Mr Costello.′

′Who says it needs to be complicated?′

′The other question,′ Irving said.

′Shoot.′

′This acquaintance of yours . . . the one who remembers names and dates, the one who put these connections together?′

Costello nodded.

′There is no acquaintance is there?′

Costello smiled.

′The names and dates of the Zodiac killings . . . the confirmed ones and the others. You remembered those dates, right?′

′I did, yes.′

′You remember all forty-six of them?′

′What is this, a pop quiz?′

′No, Mr Costello, it′s not. I just believe that if you want to help me with this thing then everything, from this point forward has to be completely straight.′

′Are you asking for my help, Detective?′

′Are you prepared to give it?′

′If you think I can help you, yes.′

′Then I might come back and see you after I′ve spoken with Leonard Beck. You say there′s only one in the Manhattan directory?′

′Only one that will be obvious. He′s a doctor.′

Irving rose from the chair, extended his hand and Costello took it. He believed his sense of despair was somehow mirrored in Costello′s expression. It was not an uncommon feeling, the knowledge that there were lives somehow held in limbo, that - dependent on decisions made now, dependent on actions taken - people would go on living, oblivious to the fact that some unknown person had wished them dead, even planned their death in intricate detail. And if Irving missed a clue, missed an answer, a life would be brought to a close with brutal and unequivocal certainty. Such things carried weight, and the burden grew more unforgiving with the years.

′So, we are done,′ Costello said quietly.

′For now, Mr Costello, for now.′

L
ate, a little after ten, Ray Irving located Edward Cavanaugh on the internet, and found the details of his wife′s murder. Sarah Cava - naugh, née Russell, the fourth victim of six. Kidnapped from outside her workplace, evening of Thursday, May 13th, 1999. Husband reported her missing that evening, again the following afternoon. An official bulletin was not issued until the evening of Friday the 14th. By that time the Manhattan PD Task Force - overseeing a recent spate of kidnapping-murders - realized that the MO of their perp was the same. She was found in a dumpster back of a seedy downtown hotel in the early hours of Saturday the 15th. She had been blindfolded with duct tape, her head had been shaved, her fingertips and toes had been removed with pruning shears. Cause of death had been a single puncture to the front of the throat, and she′d bled out from the jugular. As with the previous three victims, there was no indication of any sexual assault, though, on Sarah Cavanaugh′s stomach - as with the other victims - the word slut had been carved with a boxcutter. The perp, a disarmingly handsome man by the name of Frederick Lewis Cope, had gone on to kill another two, one in June and one in August. All six victims had been professional women between the ages of thirty-five and forty-one, and had worked in offices and banks in the Manhattan financial district. They drove to work in the mornings from the suburbs where they all lived, drove home again in the evenings. All were childless, all were married to stockbrokers. Why Frederick Lewis Cope felt compelled to remove the fingers and toes of Manhattan stockbrokers′ wives and leave them to bleed out in city dumpsters was never known. Cope, his work done, it seemed, cut his own throat on September 4th, 1999 with the same boxcutter he had used to embellish his victims.

Edward Cavanaugh had been a junior partner at Machin, Freed and Langham, a modest investment firm with offices in New York, Boston and Manchester, New Hampshire. After his wife′s death he was given three months′ paid leave, but never returned to work. From assorted articles and blogs he posted on the web, it seemed that Cavanaugh collapsed into himself and ceased to be the man he once was. Cope, colloquially referred to as The Slut Killer, appeared to have established himself as some sort of icon and role model for a rock band. The Slut Killers, self-styled ′anti-establishment cultural revolutionaries′, maintained a cult following across the east coast between 2000 and late 2002. Their fans wore tee-shirts carrying Frederick Cope′s image, and in some cases the images of his victims. Cavanaugh attempted to prosecute The Slut Killers, but the case was never heard. The legal stand was that the band was not responsible for the actions of their fans and, since the term ′slut killer′ was neither a trademark nor a registered brand, there were no grounds for action. Cavanaugh posted his own website.

It was this website that instigated the meeting of several surviving serial-killer victims, the handful of people that ultimately became the Winterbourne group. Irving read numerous pages, and within them found himself face to face with the ever-diminishing spirit of a broken and desperate man. Where Cavanaugh had first spoken of hope and future, where he had initially maintained some semblance of desire to work with others who might have experienced similar things, the website ultimately became nothing more than a shrine to his dead wife. Cavanaugh spoke of their life together, the fact that they had begun trying for a child only a week or so before her death. They had planned a future, and within a heartbeat that future was extinguished.

In the days before Edward Cavanaugh′s suicide he spoke of his dismay, his lack of faith in any sense of universal justice. He spoke of his upbringing, his churchgoing parents, how any belief he might once have possessed in God had long since disappeared. He spoke of chance, luck, fate, karma, of reincarnation; of the view that people were held to account for what they might have done in a former life. Many such things filled the pages, some of them passages of reasoned and sequential thoughts, others rambling dissertations and monologues. And with each entry, he seemed to slip further and further away from the world he′d once inhabited and believed in. His last post, registered an hour before his suicide on Wednesday, May 15th, 2002, precisely three years after the discovery of his wife′s body, read simply: Fuck it.

Edward Cavanaugh took forty-seven Seconal tablets and cut his wrists in the bath.

Irving leaned back in his chair and massaged his temples. He was exhausted but knew he wouldn′t sleep. He wanted company, the kind of company that Deborah Wiltshire had so effortlessly provided. He wanted meaning and purpose, he wanted space and reason, and some simple understanding of the life he was living. He wanted to know what he was doing, and why. Certain that such things were currently beyond his reach, he turned instead to the Manhattan telephone directory and found Leonard Beck, M.D. His listing was bold, as obvious as John Costello said it would be, and when he looked up Beck on the internet he found his offices in the city no more than four or five blocks from the Fourth Precinct. Beck was a heart specialist, a man with more letters after his name than in it. He would visit Leonard Beck tomorrow.

Eleven-forty p.m., and Irving shut everything down.

He sat at the kitchen table, listened to the traffic on Tenth, and thought about John Costello, a man who chose to remember the dates and locations of murders as if such things would provide him with stability and reason. Or perhaps not. Perhaps there was no reason to it at all. Perhaps - as seemed to be the case with Harvey Carignan and Kenneth McDuff, with John Gacy, Arthur Shawcross and Frederick Cope - it was just something that had to be done.

T
he building was impressive. East 37th and Madison, near the Pier-pont Morgan Library. Endless stories and a lobby like the Grand Ole Opry. Beck ran three floors all by himself. Big doctor. Big money. Big handshake when he came out to meet Irving.

′Detective Irving,′ he said, and he smiled wide and friendly, but there was something inside of that smile that indicated a cautious man.

Beck′s office was furnished out of a magazine, all planters and marble ornaments, his desk wider than Irving′s kitchen. Despite the number of executive gadgets across it they all looked lonely.

He showed Irving to a deep armchair, asked if he wanted coffee, some fruit juice, perhaps a glass of water? Irving declined.

Leonard Beck was in his mid to late forties, Irving guessed. He had the measured approach of one who was certain about his place in life. He knew it, others knew it too, and there was little beyond that that needed to make sense. There was enough money here to make any awkward aspects disappear. It had not, however, been difficult to get an appointment to see the man. One call, the fact that Irving needed some help with a case, and he was instructed to attend immediately.

′I appreciate your willingness to see me,′ Irving said.

′You′re fortunate I′m here,′ Beck said. He sat down facing Irving. ′I′ve been in the country for a few days, and tomorrow morning I′m leaving for Atlanta.′

′This is not an official inquiry, not as such,′ Irving said, ′but I got your name from someone who felt you might be able to help me.′

′A medical matter?′ Beck asked.

′No, not as a doctor . . .′ Irving paused, felt awkward. ′It′s somewhat of a strange—′

′My hobby?′ Beck asked.

Irving′s surprise was evident.

′In my line of work, Detective, I have no time to play games, much as you don′t, I′m sure. I am a cardiologist primarily, and you don′t soften blows when it comes to the heart. I have what some would call a morbid fascination with a particular area of the human condition. In all honesty I couldn′t tell you why.′ Beck smiled, crossed his legs, seemed nothing less than completely at ease. ′There is nothing in my past that would suggest a reason to pursue this line of interest, but when you train as a medical doctor you touch on certain elements of human psychology, psychosomatic ills, such things as this. It was something that seemed to warrant further study so I read a great deal, and in reading further I walked around the edges of psychiatry and psychoanalysis, and from there it was a few short steps to criminal psychology.′

Beck paused, and indicated the books to the left of his desk. ′Second shelf down, you′ll see I keep a few volumes to hand.′

Irving followed Beck′s line of sight, and there on the shelf he saw Geberth, Practical Homicide Investigation: Tactics, Procedures and Forensic Techniques; Ressler and Shachtmann, Whoever Fights Monsters; Turvey, Criminal Profiling: An Introduction to Behavioral Evidence Analysis; Ressler, Burgess and Douglas, Sexual Homicides: Patterns and Motives and Egger′s The Killers Amongst Us: An Examination of Serial Murder and its Investigation.

′A relatively harmless interest, fascinating nonetheless, but not the subject you want to discuss with me.′

Irving shook his head. ′I don′t know exactly what it is that I should be asking you, but I had the idea it might be less theoretical and more—′

′Hands on?′ Beck interjected. ′You′re talking about my collection.′

′Collection?′

Beck nodded. ′Could I ask you who gave you my name, Detective?′

′Sure, of course . . . a man called John Costello.′

′Hammer of God,′ Beck replied.

′You know him?′

′John Costello. No, I don′t know him. I know of him, but only because of the attack he suffered. He was the only survivor of that series.′

′So I believe,′ Irving said, and was struck by confusion, a sudden feeling that he was at the edge of an abyss, as if here were defined the parameters between the world with which he was familiar, and something far darker.

′You believe correctly,′ Beck said. ′November 23rd, 1984, he and his girlfriend, Nadia McGowan, were attacked by Robert Melvin Clare. She was killed, he survived. He′s part of that group, isn′t he? The one that was started by Edward Cavanaugh.′

′Yes, he is. People who have survived serial-killer attacks. They meet every month . . .′

′You look a little dismayed, Detective.′

′Perhaps,′ Irving replied. ′It appears there is a small world beneath the surface—′

′There is always something beneath everything,′ Beck replied. ′The Cavanaugh group, what I do . . . these things are nothing compared to what actually goes on. There are some people who are utterly obsessed and consumed by the subject. They spend their lives, every waking moment and every dollar they can find, tracking down artifacts.′ Beck glanced at his watch, seemed to make a mental note of something. ′You′ve heard of Truman Capote?′

Irving nodded.

′His book, In Cold Blood, about the killing of the Clutter family in Kansas. They were shotgunned to death, but the father also had his throat cut. I know a man who spent eleven years and over eighty thousand dollars tracking down the knife that was used.′