The Anniversary Man (42 page)

And there he was still, wearing the same clothes, unshaven and unslept, when a call came in from the The New York Times that another letter had arrived.

P
erhaps it was the threat, perhaps the fact that the author of the letter alluded to earlier killings. To date, it seemed that nothing had created sufficient impact to unify the thoughts and minds of those directly or indirectly involved with the investigation.

Perhaps - as Irving had earlier suspected - the simple truth was that Farraday, Chief Ellmann, others who read the reports, had convinced themselves that there was such a thing as coincidence. Coincidence, they had decided to believe, had played a part in this. There was no serial killer; it just appeared that way.

The letter that arrived at the offices of The New York Times on the morning of Wednesday, November 1st, 2006, was compelling - and it was detailed enough to vanquish any doubt anyone might have possessed about the nature of this thing.

On a single sheet of cream-colored vellum, in the same generic typeface as the note that had arrived with the Irving-Costello Central Park photograph, the letter spoke of how Mia Grant had gone oh so very quietly into that long goodnight; of two girls in halter-tops and jeans who begged like sorry-ass bitches, telling me how they weren′t guilty of anything, that they were innocent, and I listened to what they had to say, and I made them beg a while longer, and then I shot them both dead right where they knelt and that was the end of that. He spoke of John Wayne Gacy, called him a faggot motherfucker piece-of-shit loser who couldn′t get what he wanted without sticking a gun in someone′s face. And then he spoke of hookers, how they were nothing better than animal filth, worse than animal filth, the base dregs of humanity, carrying their disease and absence of morals. Finally he quoted Isaiah, Chapter 60, Verse 24, and he wrote, ′And they shall go forth and look on the dead bodies of the men that have rebelled against me; for their worm shall not die, their fire shall not be quenched, and they shall be an abhorrence to all flesh.′

And he closed the letter by carefully explaining what he wished, and what would happen if his desire was not satisfied.

Print this on the front page of your New York Times, he wrote.

Print this in capital letters for all of New York and the world to see.

I AM THE CLEANSING LAMB OF CHRIST.

I AM EARTH AND AIR AND FIRE AND WATER.

SEEK FORGIVENESS, REPENT YOUR SINS, AND I WILL SET YOU FREE.

And then he gave instructions that the photographs of all his victims be printed beneath his words, with the final caution:

And if you do not do this I will send another family of sinners to Hell.

At least six.

Perhaps more.

And after that it will become personal.

The letter was not signed, there was no attention-getting alias.

And the collected gathering of men who stood in the boardroom of The Times and looked down at that letter - among them Ray Irving and Bill Farraday, the paper′s editor, assistant editor, news-desk co-ordinator, two lawyers on contract to The Times who were permanently stationed on the premises - men who, between them, had seen and heard a great deal of life, were somehow diminished and incapacitated by the chilling simplicity and brutal frankness of the letter.

Irving wanted to know who had touched the letter, and he called the Fourth to have someone come over to take prints for elimination purposes.

Farraday spoke to the precinct desk sergeant, told him to call the assistant district attorney and Chief Ellmann, to find whatever homicide detectives might be within the city limits who were not actually busy at a crime scene, and bring them all together at the Fourth for eleven a.m.

The paper′s lawyers took the situation under advisement, initially concurred with Farraday′s instruction that no such headline be printed, said they would take orders from the DA′s office on this one. This was not a situation with which they were familiar. They handled slander and libel litigation, they were experts in such matters, not in criminal law. Here, there were lives at risk. They backed out of the office and disappeared.

Irving and Farraday left the meeting close to ten. They′d arrived in separate cars and departed the same way, Farraday carrying the letter in a clear plastic envelope, and he drove it directly to Jeff Turner who would supervise the analysis and organize a copy of it for Farraday to take to the meeting at the Fourth.

Irving and Farraday met again in the incident room at quarter of eleven. Homicide Detectives Ron Hudson and Vernon Gifford were present, and within moments Irving heard Assistant DA Paul Sonnenburg making his way up the stairs, cellphone in hand, arguing with someone about ′the unalterable fact that they have nothing more than circumstantial evidence, for God′s sake.′ He ended the call with a dismissive grunt as he stepped into the room, and after nodding an acknowledgement to those present he asked who else was due.

′Just the Chief,′ Farraday said, and indicated where he should sit.

Ellmann arrived four minutes late. He made no excuses, took his chair and read the copy letter. He handed it back to Farraday, leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers.

′How many have you got that can work on this?′ he asked.

′Right now three,′ Farraday replied. ′Irving here. You′ve read his reports. He′s been at this since the beginning. Hudson and Gifford can be reassigned.′

′Who′s on the original letter?′

′Jeff Turner.′

′Isn′t he doing the tunnel girl?′

′Done already,′ Irving interjected. ′Autopsy and crime scene reports are on their way.′

′Your take?′ Ellmann asked Irving.

Irving shook his head. ′I don′t doubt that he′ll do what he says. It′s simply a matter of how long before it happens.′

′And is there anything in this letter that you think can help us?′

′Maybe,′ he replied. ′I think everything he does is done for a reason. I think every word of that has been chosen—′

Ellmann cut across him. ′What do we have to do to get it out of think and into know?′

′Give me a little time . . . ? ′ Irving said, a questioning tone in his voice.

Ellmann looked at his watch. ′I have meetings,′ he said, and started to rise from his chair. ′Back here at two, and I need answers by then. Nothing goes in the papers, nothing at all.′ He indicated that Farraday should follow him from the room. Words were exchanged at the top of the stairwell before Ellmann left.

Farraday stepped back into the room. ′So?′ he asked Irving.

′Let me deal with the letter,′ Irving said. ′I need a little time with this.′

′To do what?′

Irving rose from his chair. ′To figure out what it really means.′

′You think it means something other than what it says? Seems pretty damned simple to me. Print this bullshit or he kills another six.′

′That′s what I′m going to find out.′

′Don′t disappear, do not switch your phone off,′ Farraday said. ′Back here by one. And I need some progress, okay?′

Irving was already dialing Karen Langley′s number as he left the room; it was ringing before he reached the top of the stairs.

′T
he only question,′ John Costello said, ′is whether he′s in fact a T religious nut, which I seriously doubt, or is all this simply a misdirector? ′

′And the second thing,′ Karen Langley said, ′is who does he mean when he says that after this it′s going to get personal?′

The three of them - Irving, Costello and Karen Langley - were seated in Langley′s office. By the time Irving had arrived it was already eleven-forty.

Costello reached for the letter again, read through it once more, closed his eyes for a moment.

′The Shawcross letter, the one in the Zodiac cipher, was simply a transcription of an already extant letter. The Henry Lee Lucas letter, the one with the word missing, was exactly as Lucas wrote it but with the girl′s name removed. This one—′

′Is all his own work?′ Irving asked.

′I′m certainly not familiar with anything that looks or sounds like this,′ Costello said, ′but that doesn′t mean that someone else who knows more about letters and written testimonials of serial killers wouldn′t recognize it. Someone like Leonard Beck, maybe.′

′The letter collector, yes. Maybe he would know,′ Irving said.

′And I tell you who else might be able to shed some light on this,′ Costello went on. ′If only from the viewpoint that there could be any number of hidden meanings in it.′

′Who is that?′

′The people from the Winterbourne meetings,′ Costello said.

′You think—? ′

Costello got up from his chair and walked to the door. ′You call your guy,′ he said. ′I′ll call mine.′

 

Leonard Beck was pleased to assist, though he was on the far side of the city and had a meeting to attend. He remembered his discussion with Irving in September, was somewhat concerned to hear that Irving was still investigating the same case.

′They don′t go away,′ Irving said. ′Not until you actually find the truth.′

′So I don′t know how I can help you,′ Beck said.

′I have a letter,′ Irving explained. ′It has Bible references and references to earlier murders, and there′s a threat at the end of it that says if we don′t do a certain thing that the author requires then there will be further killings.′

′Well, well, standard egotistical shit,′ Beck said sarcastically. ′And what do you want from me?′

′I would like you to take a look at it, see if it reminds you of any earlier letter you might have come across.′

′Don′t you guys have entire units that deal with this sort of thing? Doesn′t the FBI have profilers and document analysts and—′

′They do,′ Irving said, ′but this isn′t a federal case. The only line they could come in on is the kidnapping angle, and right now we have nothing more than circumstantial evidence to suggest that any victims were kidnapped.′

′You have access to a computer and a scanner?′

′I can get one.′

′So scan it and e-mail it to me . . . I′ll take a look.′

′You′d need to do it now, Doctor Beck . . . before your meeting.′

′So send it now. You got a pen?′

′Sure.′

Beck gave Irving his e-mail address. Irving hung up, gave the document to Karen who scanned it, attached it, sent it to Beck.

′And if your captain finds out that you did this?′ she asked as she watched the e-mail go.

′Then I don′t have a job,′ Irving said, ′and you′ll have to take me in.′

Moments later Costello appeared in the doorway. ′You′ve got five of them,′ he said breathlessly. ′One of the women is out of town, but the others are willing to help . . . not here, though, and not at a police station. There′s a hotel on 45th near the Stevens Tower. They′ll meet us there at quarter of one.′

Irving was shaking his head. ′I′m supposed to be back at the Fourth by one.′

′So you′ll be late,′ Costello said.

Irving glanced at his watch. ′We need to leave in the next ten minutes,′ he said, and then his cell rang.

′Detective Irving?′

′Doctor Beck. You got it?′

′Got it, looked at it . . . doesn′t seem familiar to me. Truth is that there are thousands of letters with Bible references, but as far as it being the same as any letter I′ve seen . . .′ He left the sentence incomplete. He didn′t need to say anything further.

′Doctor Beck?′

′Yes.′

′I need you to do something for me.′

′You need me to delete the e-mail from the computer, and this conversation never happened, right?′

′Right,′ Irving said.

′Consider it done, Detective, and good luck with this thing.′

′Appreciated, Doctor Beck, really appreciated.′

Irving ended the call and looked up at Costello. ′We′re out of here then,′ he said, to which Karen Langley responded by reaching for her jacket.

Irving raised his eyebrows.

′You don′t think I′m gonna sit here and wait while you pair run around the city do you?′

′Karen—′

She raised her hand, a clear and emphatic gesture. ′Not another word, Ray. I′m coming.′

Irving looked at Costello, who smiled, shrugged his shoulders. ′Not my war,′ he said. ′You fight your own battles.′

T
he five available members of the Winterbourne group arrived punctually, no more than a handful of minutes between the first and the last. Irving hadn′t known what to expect - anxious and subdued individuals showing an abundance of nervous traits perhaps, but that was not what he got. The people who entered the room one after the other appeared no different from the thousands of professionals who travelled daily on the subway, or drove to work, who raised families all over the city. John Costello introduced them and each one shook hands with Irving, with Langley, and then took a seat around the semi-circular meeting table in the center of the room.

Three women - Alison Cotten, early thirties, an attractive brunette not dissimilar in appearance to Karen Langley; Barbara Floyd, half a dozen years older than Alison, short hair almost too severe for her face, but a relaxed and natural manner that gave her the appearance of one accustomed to listening; lastly, Rebecca Holzman, mid- to late twenties, blonde hair, green eyes, a little too much make-up disguising a rash of acne that covered the lower half of her face and much of her neck. Of the two men present, the first - George Curtis - was in his early to mid-fifties, with a shock of grey hair that gave him the look of a math professor or somesuch. Beside him sat Eugene Baumann, immaculately dressed in a midnight blue three-piece suit, white shirt and pale blue tie - the kind of man who would manage a bank, or make senior partner in a substantial city law firm. Nevertheless, Irving imagined that how they appeared and who they really were was more than likely worlds apart. If nothing else, John Costello was testament to the fact that appearances belied reality.