The Anniversary Man (36 page)

There were meetings with Farraday, but those meetings tended to skirt around the issues. Farraday wanted to believe that the killings had stopped. Though he couldn′t prevent Irving′s continuing efforts to speak to every witness and relative, every known contact of each respective victim, though he couldn′t dissuade him from visiting with Hayes, Lucas, Lavelle and Vincent, even the on-site CSAs from the five murder scenes, there were nevertheless rumors of reassignment, of Irving taking on additional cases that could be worked alongside his primary responsibilities. Irving didn′t ask if such rumors were true. He didn′t solicit discussions with Farraday. He stayed in the incident room or went out on the road. He worked himself into solitude and quiet obsession.

W
ednesday, October 18th. As if driven by nothing more than the perverse desire to show the world what he was capable of, the killer of Lynette Berry left her body equidistant between the statues of Alice in Wonderland and Hans Christian Andersen in Central Park, near the Loeb Boathouse, there at the edge of the Conservatory Pond. She was tall, she was black, and she was left naked on the grass. Laid on her stomach in a crucifix position but with the right hand crooked over, her legs apart, she had been strangled with what appeared, from initial observations, to be a piece of cloth. She was identified by Eleventh Precinct Vice officers. They knew her name, also knew her as ′Christy′, as ′Domino′, finally as ′Blue′, as in Blue Berry, the name she used when she danced at the Showcase Revue Bar over by University Hospital.

At six minutes past ten Irving received a call from John Costello.

′They have another one in Central Park,′ he said matter-of-factly. ′Black girl. Strangled. Don′t know her name yet, but—′

Irving exhaled.

Costello stopped speaking.

Irving felt his heart drop into the base of his gut. He experienced an awkward conflict of emotions: unwilling confirmation that the killings had not ceased in September with Carol-Anne Stowell and Laura Cassidy, yet a flare of hope that this might now give them something, that a clue might have been left behind.

′Irving?′

′Yes, I′m here.′

′Like I said, I don′t know the victim′s name, but from what I can gather this is a replica of the killing of Yolanda Washington.′

′Spelled?′

′Y-O-L-A-N-D-A, and Washington I figure you′re okay with,′ Costello said. ′Original killing was October 18th, 1977, courtesy of Kenneth Alessio Bianchi, B-I-A-N-C-H-I.′

′Where′d you pick this up?′

′Scanner this morning.′

′Fuck,′ Irving said.

′Bit more public than the others, isn′t it?′

′Where are you?′ Irving asked.

′At the office.′

′I have to make some calls. Stay there. I′m gonna need to go over there and you′re coming with me.′

′I′ll be here.′

 

Irving spoke with Farraday, Farraday spoke with Captain Glynn at the Eleventh. Glynn gave it to Farraday without a fight. Farraday told Irving he should take Jeff Turner with him to co-ordinate his actions with the CSAs already present. He hesitated when Irving told him Costello would be going.

′Remember our discussion,′ Farraday said. ′This goes bad then . . .′ He left the statement incomplete.

Irving called Costello back, told him to be ready in front of the Herald office, that he would pick him up. They were going to Central Park.

 

The fog hung low despite the time of day. It was quarter past eleven when Ray Irving, Jeff Turner and John Costello walked down to the taped area by Conservatory Pond. TV crews were there, at least four, and the scene had an aura unlike any of the earlier locales. Here was a circus of media and police activity. This was Central Park, late morning; it was not some dumpster behind a derelict hotel, not waste ground under a bridge.

′He′s gone public,′ Irving said, echoing Costello′s earlier observation. Turner seemed not to hear, and went on down to speak with the CSA assigned. The coroner had been called, had not yet arrived, and Irving took his time establishing the perimeter, speaking with the homicide people from the Eleventh Precinct, insuring that foot traffic was kept to a minimum. This was the one. This had to be the one - a simple, single clue to give them the thread. Lynette Berry had to give them something . . .

Costello walked the edges of the perimeter. He made himself as inconspicuous as possible. Twice he was questioned by uniformed officers, twice he directed those questions to Irving. He stayed away from the TV cameras. He didn′t like them, didn′t want the world to witness his presence. The atmosphere was disturbing. The air seemed thick with an unidentifiable smell - neither blood, nor damp, nor anything he could define. He wondered if it was possible to smell fear, and shuddered at the thought.

Irving came back to him within an hour. ′This isn′t the primary,′ he said. ′She was killed elsewhere and moved.′

Costello nodded. ′That would fit with the Bianchi killing.′

′What was the deal with that? What was that about?′

′Hillside Stranglers,′ Costello said. ′That′s what they were known as. Kenneth Bianchi and his cousin, Angelo Buono. Los Angeles in the seventies. Killed fifteen or so between them. Young girls, hookers, coeds, whoever they took a liking to. Buono died in 2002 in Calapatria State. Bianchi, as far as I know, is still in the special housing unit in Washington State Pen.′

Irving vaguely recalled the Hillside Strangler tag, but had never read up the cases.

Costello looked back toward the location of the girl′s body. ′She give you anything?′

′Jeff is down there. He′ll find anything that′s here.′

′Can I go down and take a look?′

Irving seemed surprised by Costello′s request. ′You really want to?′

A dry smile broke on Costello′s face. ′Want to?′ He shook his head. ′Course I don′t want to. Think I need to.′

′Walk with me,′ Irving said. ′Stay close. Don′t touch anything.′

Costello responded with the expression employed when the obvious has been unnecessarily stated.

Five yards from the body John Costello felt anxiety rising from his lower gut. There was a tension in his nerves, his breathing became shallow, and he felt sweat on the palms of his hands.

′You okay?′ Irving asked. ′You look like you′re gonna pass out.′

′I′m okay,′ Costello said, his voice almost a whisper.

They moved closer, side-by-side, then Costello was looking down at the discarded body of Lynette Berry, at the human being that once was. Her tongue, black and swollen, protruded from a rictus grin. Her fingers were locked in awkward claws, her hair was matted with dirt and leaves, her skin stiff and cold, and her eyes stared back at them with an expression that was all too horribly familiar to Irving. Where were you? Why was no-one there to help me? Why did this have to happen to me?

′How old?′ Costello asked.

′Late teens, early twenties,′ Irving replied.

′Yolanda Washington was nineteen.′ Costello looked up. ′You know, he used to trawl for victims in the same area as Shawcross - up in Rochester - long before he went out to L.A. to live with his cousin. They were known as the Double Initial Murders. Victims′ first names and surnames both began with the same letter. Carmen Colon, Wanda Walkowitz, Michelle Maenza. First one was ten years old, second two were both eleven. November ′71 to November ′73. Rumor had it that the man who′d raped and strangled them had posed as a police officer, same thing that happened in L.A.′

′You′re thinking that whoever dumped this one out here might have had on a uniform?′

Costello shrugged. ′Hell, I don′t know. Police uniform is the one thing that no-one ever really pays any attention to, unless they′re a criminal.′ He looked once more at the spread-eagled girl on the grass and turned away. ′Enough,′ he said quietly, and started walking back the way they′d come.

Thirty minutes later they sat in the car.

′You think she′s going to give you anything?′ Costello asked.

′See what Jeff finds,′ Irving replied. ′He′ll get the crime scene info, and then we′ll have the autopsy report.′

′Did you actually think he might have stopped?′

′Because there′s been nothing for a month?′ Irving shook his head. ′I hoped. Hope is a pretty useless commodity I know, but I didn′t feel there was any harm in trying. Hell, I don′t know what I thought. I′ve spent the past weeks talking to everyone again, upsetting people by going back over things they thought they were done with . . .′ His voice trailed away, and he turned to look out the window toward the crime scene.

′Hillside Strangler case had eighty-four officers assigned to it,′ Costello said. ′Ten thousand leads, a reward of a hundred and forty thousand dollars posted, and like I said, the word went out that the perpetrators were posing as police officers. People wouldn′t stop for the police, they just kept on driving, so they implemented a policy that if a police car was trying to pull you over you could drive to the nearest station or precinct and stop only once you were outside the building.′

′You′re giving me a great sense of reassurance,′ Irving said.

′They got them though. They did finally get them.′

′But how many dead? That′s the point, isn′t it? How many people have to die before I actually stop him?′

Costello didn′t reply. He followed Irving′s line of sight; he counted trees, counted uniforms, counted cars as they passed.

Eventually he looked back at Irving and in his eyes was a question.

′What?′ Irving asked.

′You ever get used to this?′

′The dead people?′

′What people do to each other,′ Costello said.

Irving shook his head. ′Seems that just as I get used to what people do, they go and do something worse.′

T
he phone rang incessantly; had it not he perhaps would have slept until noon.

Irving′s body seemed to fight against him, to pull him back with some deep gravitational force. Stay down, it said. Keep on going and this kind of thing will kill you.

But the phone did not stop, and it roused him, walked him from his bed to the table beneath the window, and when he picked it up and slurred his name he was met with Farraday′s voice barking at him angrily.

′You . . . you what?′ he stuttered, and Farraday repeated himself, and Irving stood there stunned and speechless.

He was dressed and out of the apartment within fifteen minutes, hit the early morning traffic on Ninth, again on 42nd as he tried to cut across midtown. He missed his coffee, he did not stop at Carnegie′s; by the time he reached the Fourth it was still only seven-fifteen, and his head hurt like hell.

Farraday was there, as was someone called Garrett Langdon from the NYPD′s public relations liaison section, and they stood silently for a moment before Farraday held out the newspaper, and then tossed it onto the desk for Irving to pick up.

Page three of The New York Times, a good half page all told. A clear and unmistakable photograph of Detective Ray Irving, NYPD Fourth Precinct, alongside him John Costello, New York City Herald crime researcher, survivor of the Hammer of God killings made famous in Jersey in the early 1980s. They stood side-by-side near the statue of Alice in Wonderland in Central Park, in the background the crime scene tapes, the uniforms, the vaguely visible image of a black woman left strangled and naked on the grass.

′This,′ Farraday said, long before Irving had a chance to gather his thoughts, to estimate the import of this thing, to even begin to appreciate how devastated he felt, ′is exactly, and I mean exactly, the kind of thing I wanted to avoid.′

Irving opened his mouth to speak.

′There isn′t anything you can tell me, Ray,′ Farraday interjected. ′I wanted to keep this low-key, under the radar, but oh no, it′s never that simple with you, is it? I ask you to be discreet, and God Almighty if I don′t find a picture of both of you on page three of The New York Times! And that doesn′t even take into consideration the news coverage on this girl in the park.′

′Captain—′ Irving started.

Farraday stopped him. ′It doesn′t matter why, Ray, it really doesn′t. The fact of the matter is that it has happened. There′s no going backwards on this thing. I am so fucking angry . . .′ He shook his head slowly. ′Jesus God, that has to be the understatement of the fucking century.′ He sat down heavily.

Irving sat down too. Whatever he had planned to say was long since forgotten.

Langdon stepped forward. ′Damage control,′ he said. ′What we have to do now is establish a line that we use, and not digress from that line. The worst thing we can do is deny Costello′s involvement. We employed him on an official basis, but it was only temporary and only in his capacity as a crime researcher, nothing else. There is no significance to his surviving a serial attack himself, and no, there is absolutely no connection between the murder that occurred in Central Park and the Hammer of God killings—′

′For God′s sake, I′m not worried about what the goddamned newspapers say,′ Irving replied. ′My concern is for Costello—′

′Well my concern, Ray, is very much for what the newspapers say,′ Farraday interjected. ′This is page three of the goddamned New York Times. You have any idea the storm of shit that′s gonna come down about this? Jesus, man, I can′t believe you said that.′

′I have nine dead, Captain—′

′I am all too aware of how many dead there are, Ray, believe me. That makes it all the more imperative to avoid any publicity about this thing.′

′Well, perhaps we′re going precisely the wrong way. Maybe it′s time to make this thing public. He certainly seems ready to start showing the world what he′s doing.′

Farraday looked at Langdon. Langdon shook his head, carried the expression of someone at the tail end of their patience. They were faced with someone who just didn′t understand the way the world worked.