The Anniversary Man (26 page)

Irving locked Leycross′s bag of DVDs in the lower drawer of his desk. Once Leycross had gotten him into the Bedford Park Hotel meeting, those DVDs would find their way into the hands of Vice. As far as individuals such as Leycross were concerned, Irving had no compunction whatsoever about breaking his word. The scumbag would go back to Attica, no doubt about it.

Irving noted on the whiteboard those things that needed to be found. Beneath this he wrote Winterbourne Group, beneath that John Costello. To the left of the board he wrote Bedford Park Hotel, Friday 9/15/06 Timothy Walter Leycross, beneath Leycross′s name that of George Delaney, aka Dietz.

A meeting of serial-killer victims in one hotel on the second Monday of each month, members unknown. Another meeting of child pornographers, pedophiles and assorted lowlifes in another hotel. Did they connect? Were there dots that joined these people together, and was there something that would direct him toward the perpetrator he was now assigned to identify and locate?

Irving spent an hour typing up his initial report, forwarded a copy to Bill Farraday, and then searched the internet for the names and dates of the confirmed and suspected Zodiac victims dated between Tuesday, September 12th and Christmas. Thoughts of Christmas brought thoughts of Deborah Wiltshire, the fact that this would be the second one since her death. He directed his attention back to the Zodiac names before him, noted them on another whiteboard - five attacks, five victims, one survivor. Thought of Costello, how he′d survived the Hammer of God, realized that Robert Clare had done the same degree of damage in three attacks. Once again, just like the Zodiac, it had been five dead, one survivor.

He wrote down their names, the dates of their murders - September 26th, 27th and 29th, October 11th and 16th. Five dates, the closest now two weeks away. Could he find the Anniversary Man in fourteen days?

Irving had to face facts. Irrespective of the number of dead teenagers, if this case was not generating headlines and press conferences then, in essence, it was no different from any other case.

The Times and the City Herald had been advised that the NYPD and the Mayor′s office wanted a moratorium on coverage until further notice. Such a request would only hold out so long. True, the greater the lapse of time between the last murder and today′s news, the less the press would be interested. If it happened today, yesterday, then okay, they could work with it. Last week′s news was good for lining bird cages and wrapping fish. The best indication of current support and resources was the two hours he′d been allocated from Kayleigh and Whittaker. What did that tell him? That Farraday was on his side, of course. But even Farraday′s hands were tied with keeping uniforms on the streets, demonstrating a good police presence in light of the Mayor′s office statements that crime figures were down because the police were visible. And then there was Chief Ellmann, establishing his own camp for the election battle. A new mayor could mean a new chief of police. Ellmann wanted the current administration to maintain its position. Ellmann was a good chief, one of the best Irving had seen, but he sure wouldn′t be willing to sacrifice his job because of one case. Assigning twenty-five uniforms and four detectives to one case was just not going to happen. And that left what? Irving smiled grimly to himself. It left John Costello - crazy though he was and himself a suspect for want of anyone better - now helping Irving in small ways that Irving didn′t really understand. This was the short straw, the hand with no pair, no three-of-a-kind. It was now Tuesday, three days before the Bedford Park meeting, and even that might give him nothing. It was a long shot at best. He needed more leads, more lines to follow. He had to go back through everything, rearrange, reorganize. He had to sift through every detail and find the loose threads. And he wanted to know who Costello really was and why he seemed so eager to involve himself in something that did not concern him . . . apparently did not concern him.

Ray Irving sat back and closed his eyes for just a moment. What he was facing came at him like a slow-motion nightmare. The better part of everything was right there in front of him - every image, every report, every eyewitness statement that they possessed - and somewhere there was a single fact, a narrow line, and if he found it he knew it could be followed. At the end of it was the man who was doing this. It was simply a matter of finding that one thread.

Irving opened his eyes, lifted the first stack of files from the floor and started reading.

W
ednesday morning, September 13th. Irving had slept for no time at all, had spent many hours wading through every page of every case to date, had not found the thread. He had looked, and grown fatigued with looking. After a while the bad handwriting and endless typographical errors had merely served to irritate him. No-one had called while he′d been there, not even Farraday. During those early hours, the world outside the incident room had been quiet, quieter than normal, almost as if there was a vacuum within which only Irving could make a sound. The world was waiting for what he had to say.

I have it . . . I′ve got who this guy is . . . I know where he lives . . . Black-and-whites are on the way . . .

Irving had left at two-thirty a.m., perhaps a little later, crawled home and lain on the bed until four. He then showered, went back to bed, tossed and turned restlessly until six. He tried to watch some TV, but couldn′t focus.

Quarter past eight he drove to Carnegie′s. He ordered Virginia ham, ate a couple of mouthfuls, drank a cup and a half of coffee, forgot to leave a tip. He wanted to smoke cigarettes, a carton, maybe two. He was stressed, recognized the all-too-familiar route he would now travel if he failed to maintain his objectivity. In this line of work it was always life or death. Not his own, but someone else′s.

There were seven messages at the desk - three from Jeff Turner, one from Farraday acknowledging the report he′d filed, one from the dry cleaners, one from the phone company, and the last from Karen Langley at the City Herald. He called Turner first, learned that it was merely to say a photograph from the Mia Grant autopsy had been left behind and Turner was sending it over with a courier.

At nine-twenty Irving called Karen Langley, waited on hold for a minute or two, and then she came on the line and started in with a question out of left field.

′How you holding up, Detective?′

Irving was caught blindside. ′Sorry?′

′You. How are you holding up now that this thing is your baby, you know? Now that your people have pulled my story.′

′You heard that?′

′I have big ears,′ she replied, and he could hear the edge of bitterness in her voice.

′Hope you don′t have a mouth to match,′ Irving replied.

′Meaning?′

′Don′t act stupid, Ms Langley, you′re a newspaper reporter. You people are a breed all your own.′

′As are police detectives.′

′Yanking my chain is not, I′m sure, the reason you took my call, Ms Langley.′

Langley hesitated, and when she spoke the bluff tone had vanished from her voice. ′You know we got silenced, right?′

′That′s a little melodramatic, don′t you think?′

′Whatever you want to call it,′ she replied. ′The fact remains that the story got pulled.′

′You appreciate why, of course.′

′I appreciate why someone thinks it should be pulled, but what I don′t understand is why they feel it is necessary to do such a thing.′

′Because we′re not in the business of satisfying some psychopath′s ego by telling the world what a smart son-of-a-bitch he is—′

′You hold to that view?′

′What view?′

′That the people who do this kind of thing are looking for nothing more than attention?′

′I don′t know, Ms Langley, I really don′t, and to tell you the truth I′m always a lot less interested in why someone does something rather than how and when.′

For a moment she didn′t speak, and then she changed direction unexpectedly. ′John . . . he was a help to you?′

′Mr Costello?′ Irving asked. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk, one hand on his forehead, the other holding the receiver. A frown creased his brow. ′Mr Costello is . . . he′s—′

′An enigma?′ Langley ventured.

′To say the least. I have had a couple of conversations with Mr Costello—′

′And the thought has crossed your mind that he could very well be the man you′re looking for?′

′Until ruled out, everyone is a suspect—′

′But you′re wondering if he′s for real?′

′Is this just a bad habit of yours, Ms Langley?′

′What?′

′Finishing every sentence for someone?′

She laughed. ′I′m sorry, Detective Irving, I′ve just got—′

′No manners?′ Irving interjected.

′Touché.′

′So I have a question for you, Ms Langley.′

′Karen.′

Irving smiled wryly. ′Ms Langley,′ he repeated. ′We have a purely professional, and might I say very limited working relationship here . . . we′re not on first name terms, and I actually don′t think we should be.′

′You are a tough guy, Detective Irving.′

′Tougher than I look.′

′So what′s your question?′

′About John Costello . . . I′ve done some background, but not deep. What is your relationship with him?′

′He′s my researcher. Worked for my predecessor, came with the job. Been here about twenty years.′

′And would you say he was a friend?′

′Yes . . . he is a friend, but you don′t have a friendship with John Costello that′s anything like a friendship you′d have with someone else.′

′How so?′

′I don′t know, Detective. You′re asking me to be objective about something that′s very subjective. I know without any hesitation that he′s not your man. I know he wants to help you, but he finds dealing with people somewhat difficult.′

′You know about the group he belongs to, right?′

′The survivors?′

′Is that what they call themselves?′

′No, I don′t think they have a name as such. They′re just a bunch of people who meet each month and talk about things that only they could understand.′

′At the Winterbourne Hotel.′

′I don′t know where they meet. John goes to his meeting on the second Monday of every month. Nothing gets in the way, nothing takes priority. Even if we have to work late we don′t. Know what I mean?′

′Sure, yes. So what′s your take on him? Honestly.′

′Jesus, I wouldn′t know where to start. He′s smart . . . uncomfortably so if you know what I mean.′

′That′s an odd expression to use . . . uncomfortably.′

′You ever meet someone, and within five minutes you just know that they are so far beyond you in intellect that you think it might be better to just say nothing?′

Irving thought for a moment. He recalled a childhood neighbor. ′Yes,′ he said.

′John′s like that. He has the most remarkable memory, can recall a conversation we had five years ago . . . remembers names, dates, places, phone numbers . . . remembers things that there doesn′t seem to be any reason or purpose to remember, and then you need it and you ask him and he′s answered the question before you′re even through asking.′

′With anything? He can remember anything?′

′Seems that way, you know? Like, I thought he might be autistic or something . . . one of those people who are just ridiculously smart, but when it comes to actually dealing with real life - speaking to people, or keeping things together - they′re just fucking useless, can′t make a piece of toast kind of thing, but he′s not like that . . . But he does have his moments.′

′Moments?′

′Stuff he won′t do. Quirks, idiosyncrasies. We all have them, right? Perhaps John has a few more than most.′

′Such as?′

Langley paused for a moment. ′I actually don′t even know why I′m telling you this. This is personal stuff. This is about someone who is a good friend of mine—′

′Who has chosen to get himself involved in a multiple homicide investigation, and who is likely to be under intense scrutiny unless I can explain and justify why he′s doing what he′s doing. This is where we′re at right now, Ms Langley . . . talking about him as a potential suspect, and though he seems like a real nice guy, idiosyncrasies or not, he′s put himself in the firing line as far as likely candidates are concerned. I′ve even toyed with the idea of dragging him in for some pictures and a line-up—′

′He′s not your guy,′ Langley cut in emphatically.

′So if he′s not my guy I need to know who he is and, more importantly, I need to know why he seems so eager to get involved in something that really doesn′t concern him.′

′I can′t say any more right now,′ Langley replied. There was a sudden tension in her voice.

′Okay . . . then I′m going to have to pursue my own line of investigation into our friend—′

′No,′ she said, ′listen to me . . . I can′t say any more right now.′

Irving understood. ′He′s there, right?′

′Yes.′

′Okay. So what—′

′You want to go out somewhere?′

′Sure. Go get a cup of coffee or something.′

′Yes, a cup of coffee, unless of course it wouldn′t be proper for you to go out with me.′

′Proper? What d′you mean?′ Irving asked.

′I′m asking you out, you know? You understand what that means?′

′Like that kind of out?′

′Don′t sound so surprised. Jesus, anyone′d think I′d offered to shoot your mother.′

′Er . . . yes, sure . . . of course . . .′

′Don′t be so defensive, for God′s sake,′ Langley said. ′You have the look of someone who does their own ironing, so I get the idea you′re not involved with someone right now.′

′The look of someone who does their own ironing . . . what the fuck is that supposed to mean?′