The Anniversary Man (35 page)

′The girl found in the apartment,′ Costello said. ′Whoever took the PO Box had to provide ID?′

′You can take a box with a driver′s license, something like that,′ Irving said. ′Whoever it was used some false ID with the name Shawcross, and simply gave the Montgomery Street apartment as his address.′

Costello was silent for a moment, and then said, ′You see any similarity?′

′I′ve been through these things a dozen times. I′ve looked at them back to front, upside down, every which way . . . see if there was anything that stood out, and I can′t see a goddamned thing.′

′There is no signature,′ Costello said. ′He′s a chameleon. He just assumes someone else′s color.′

′Very poetic,′ Irving replied, an edge of sarcasm in his tone.

′It takes a particular kind of person to sacrifice that much of themselves, don′t you think?′

′Sacrifice?′

′Maybe not a good choice of word, but you know what I mean. Whoever this is, well he must be compelled to do this, right? This is a compulsion. These aren′t crimes of circumstance. This takes planning, very methodical, very precise as to victim, manner of death, location of the body, the position in which it′s left, all these things. He′s a perfectionist, and yet he seems able to leave nothing of himself behind. He doesn′t want us to know who he is on two levels. First, because he doesn′t want to get caught, and secondly because he believes he is superior - not only to all these previous killers - but also to us.′

′Now you′re beginning to sound like a profiler,′ Irving said. ′We don′t need you to tell us what he′s like. We need you to put your knowledge to use in determining who he will replicate next.′

Costello came down off of the desk and stepped carefully between the pictures. He picked up an image of one of the girls found by the East River Park. He looked at it for a moment, and then set it down. Next was a picture of Mia Grant, the girl found by the Thomasian twins, the Murray Hill want-ad killing.

′Harv the Hammer,′ Costello said. ′That was Harvey Carignan′s nickname. Then you have the two girls at the park killed by the Sunset Slayers. John Wayne Gacy . . . far as I know he was never given a name, nor was Kenneth McDuff. Shawcross was called the Monster of the Rivers, and lastly we have the apartment girl, Cassidy, where we′re given the most famous of them all, the Zodiac.′

′What are you looking for?′ Irving asked.

′Whatever there is,′ Costello replied. ′He chooses them for a reason, perhaps the original killers′ names, the victims′ names, the dates—′ Costello paused, looked up at Irving.

′What?′

′I want to make a list of the dates, the original dates and the new ones.′

Costello and Irving did so, factoring in the discovery of Laura Cassidy on the assumption that she was murdered on the 4th of September. Costello noted the dates in sequence all the way back to Mia Grant on June 3rd, and then he calculated the number of days between them.

′Mia Grant to the two girls, Ashley Burch and Lisa Briley, is nine days. From there to the kid in the firework warehouse is forty-seven days. From there to the girl and her two friends in the trunk of the car is eight days. Then we have a twenty-nine day gap to the fourth of September and Laura Cassidy. Finally, even though she was found before the Cassidy girl, we have a seven day break to the killing of Carol-Anne Stowell. That′s nine, forty-seven, eight, twenty-nine, and then seven—′

′Nine, eight, seven are the intervening numbers,′ Irving said. ′If we drop out the forty-seven and twenty-nine-day gaps, we have a sequence.′

′Which would mean that if there′s an intended sequence in it, he kills on some undefined date, and then kills again six days later.′ Costello shook his head. ′I don′t think there′s anything in the dates. They′re not prime numbers, they′re not all odd or all even. The numbers that are half way between the differences don′t follow a sequence.′

Irving sat on the window sill, hands in his pockets. ′He′s just taken certain killers, or certain types of murders. I don′t think it′s any more complicated than what we first suspected.′

′He simply wants to share his brilliance with the world.′

′Whatever you want to call it,′ Irving said.

′So if it′s not the victims, and if he isn′t limiting himself to killers who have been caught - which he isn′t - then it will be something else . . .′ He paused, then said, ′So we go to the crime scenes.′

′I′ll do what I can,′ Irving replied.

′And I′ll wait for you to call me,′ Costello replied. He rose from the desk and put on his jacket. ′Leave a message with Karen and I′ll call you back.′

′A question.′

Costello smiled, as if he′d known it was coming.

′You live where?′

′You know where I live, Detective Irving.′

Irving couldn′t deny it, didn′t try. ′I find it hard to understand how you can live such an insular life—′

′Insular?′ Costello asked. ′How is my life insular?′

′You go to work. The person you work for has never been to your apartment. You don′t seem to have any particular social habits. I presume you are not in a relationship currently—′

′And you feel this is a problem?′

′Well, I don′t know that it′s necessarily a problem as such, but I just figure you must be kind of lonely—′

Costello buried his hands in his pockets and looked down at the floor for a moment. When he looked up he had a calm and unperturbed expression on his face.

′Seems we′re two of a kind then, doesn′t it, Detective?′

Ray Irving watched him leave and didn′t say a word.

T
he thought kept going: A desire to define and perpetuate their own mythology.

It kept Irving awake, and the more he considered it the more it made sense.

Somewhere after two in the morning he got out of bed and went to look up the word in a dictionary. Myth. It spoke of superhuman beings, demigods, deities. It spoke of created identities, those identities employed to explain the inexplicable.

It wasn′t possible to rationalize what this man was doing. It wasn′t even necessary to rationalize it. It was merely necessary to attempt to understand him, and with understanding would come the ability to predict. What would he do next? Who would he be? And when?

Irving fell asleep close to three, woke at seven-thirty, was out of the apartment by quarter past eight.

He decided to pass on breakfast at Carnegie′s, picked up some coffee, and set out straight for the Fourth. Then he sat in gridlock on Tenth until he managed to take a detour on 42nd, which took him past the north corner of Bryant Park. Mia Grant. Fifteen years old. Dead in her tracks, Harv the Hammer-style.

Farraday was due in at nine, no word at the desk to suggest otherwise, and Irving waited in the corridor outside the captain′s office until he appeared at the top of the stairwell.

′Good, bad or indifferent?′ Farraday asked.

′I need to take Costello to the crime scenes.′

Farraday stopped, fingers holding the key. Put the key in the lock. Inhaled slowly, and closed his eyes for a moment.

′He′s not our man,′ Irving said.

′I have been thinking about this,′ Farraday replied. He turned the key, opened the door, stepped inside his office.

Irving followed him, did not sit. He didn′t intend staying long.

′Polygraph,′ Farraday said matter-of-factly.

′On Costello?′ Irving shook his head. ′Come on . . . that really is not going to fly. Those things are bullshit anyway—′

′Hear me out, Ray, hear me out.′ Farraday sat down behind the desk, steepled his fingers and looked at Irving soberly. ′Sit down,′ he said.

Irving did so.

′Okay, so he′s employed temporarily. He′s a crime researcher, he′s serving some function here. So far so good, but let′s go a different route. Let′s say this fucks up. Let′s say that it′s someone from this hotel group of his. I don′t know, I′m just throwing ideas out here, you know? I want to make sure that there is nothing that can come back at us for making this decision.′

′I am not going to polygraph this guy, Captain, seriously. Firstly, it isn′t even admissible, and if something went wrong it wouldn′t hold up as any kind of defense, and secondly . . . shit, the guy is nervous enough as it is. He′s not doing this just because he wants to, he′s doing it because he feels he has to.′

′But why?′ Farraday asked.

′Who the fuck knows. His own history? Basic human nature, maybe.′

Farraday smiled cynically.

′Let me take him round the crime scenes. It′s not a big deal. Who the hell is even gonna know? Let me take him round for a couple of hours, and that′ll be the end of that. Hell, he might even find something that we′ve missed.′

′You really believe that′s possible?′

′Well, he picked up on a couple of small points we missed before, right?′

′Sarcasm I can′t use,′ Farraday said. ′So go, do it, whatever.′ He waved his hand dismissively. ′I don′t want to hear about this from anyone but you.′

′You have my word.′

 

An hour and a half later John Costello stepped from a cab outside the Fourth Precinct and crossed the forecourt to where Irving was waiting for him. The day was dry and clear, refreshingly chill, and once again Irving was reminded of how soon Christmas would arrive, the inherent sense of loneliness it seemed to promise. He would never advise having a partner die in November.

′You okay?′ Irving asked.

Costello nodded in the affirmative. ′Where first?′ he said.

′Mia Grant,′ Irving replied, and walked Costello to the car out back of the building.

 

Bryant Park, the low overhang of trees beneath which the Thomasian twins had discovered the girl′s plastic-wrapped body. On from there to the expressway off Roosevelt Drive, adjacent to the East River Park, the two of them standing silently by the bank of trees where Ashley Burch and Lisa Briley had been found by Max Webster. Then, maintaining the crime scenes in sequential order, Irving took Costello to East 39th, to the Wang Hi Lee Carnival & Firework Emporium, the small hole in the concrete floor from where James Wolfe′s grotesque clown-painted face had stared back up at them. On they went, to the site of Caroline Parselle′s battered body, there beneath the Queensboro Bridge, and then the locale of the dark grey Ford on East 23rd and Second where the two boys had been found, at which point Costello asked about the car, where it was, what had happened to it.

′It′s in lock-up,′ Irving said. ′It had been wiped clean. Reported stolen nearly two months before, but nothing in it that gave us any direction.′

Costello nodded, asked no further questions.

Lastly they drove from East 23rd and 2nd to Pier 67 via Twelfth Avenue. Here Costello leaned over the parapet and looked down to where Carol-Anne Stowell′s body had been dumped. The water that lapped in from the Hudson was grey and cold and unforgiving. Any trace that might have been left there had long since been washed away. All memories of Carol-Anne Stowell now resided in the depths of the river, and the river would never give them up.

Irving and Costello sat in the car in silence. It was three-twenty, the sky was overcast, looked like rain was en route again.

′What do you eat on Tuesdays?′ Irving asked.

′Karen told you about that?′

Irving didn′t reply.

′On Tuesdays I eat French food.′

′Kind of French food?′

′Whatever. Bourgignon. Crepes.′

′Is Cajun food French enough for you?′

Costello laughed. ′Why d′you ask?′

′I know a great Cajun restaurant . . . we should go eat there.′

Costello didn′t speak for some moments, and then he smiled, almost to himself. He didn′t turn and look at Irving, but he nodded his head slowly and said, ′Okay, stretching it somewhat, but I figure Cajun is French enough for a Tuesday.′

 

They didn′t speak about the crime scenes. Seemed there was little to say. The effect had been sobering if nothing else. Costello said it had grounded him, but offered no further explanation. Irving had the urge to ask Costello about the attack he had suffered, about Robert Clare, about Frank Gorman - what the man was like, whether they had ever spoken of things beyond the immediate investigation - but he said nothing. Costello didn′t offer up any words, and when they were done eating Irving drove him back to the Herald offices and thanked him for his time.

′Can′t see that I was of any use to you,′ Costello said.

′I needed to do that,′ Irving said, ′and it was better not to do it alone.′

′So now what?′

′I re-interview the parents, the friends, the people who last saw the victims alive. I go see the people who found the bodies. I go through the whole thing again from the start.′

′You need me, you call me,′ Costello said. ′I′ll keep my eyes and ears open.′

′Appreciated.′

′It′s a waiting game, isn′t it?′ Costello said rhetorically.

Irving nodded. ′We watch. We wait. We hope that we′ve seen the end of it.′

Costello didn′t reply, but the expression on his face was eloquent enough.

Both of them knew full well that they had not seen the end of it.

Both of them knew that the Anniversary Man had only just begun.

 

They waited twenty-eight days.

Irving and Costello spoke on eleven occasions during that time, but it was merely a courtesy, a necessary reminder that they were still in touch, that John Costello was still looking and listening, that Irving acknowledged Costello′s presence in the loop. Irving didn′t contact Karen Langley on anything but a professional basis. Sometimes she would be the one with whom a message for Costello was left, and on one or two of those occasions they shared pleasantries, asked one another how things were, but the real questions were never asked. They both knew that for Irving there would be no breathing space until this thing was done.