The Anniversary Man (7 page)

Authors: R.J. Ellory

BOOK: The Anniversary Man

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FG:
How so, Robert?

RMC:
Because even the bad ones, you know . . . even the bad ones are given a chance. They′re given a chance, and they take it, and all I had to do was go there and fix it so they′d get their chance when it was right.

FG:
So what happened after the second attack? What did you do?

RMC:
I went home and took a shower.

FG:
You took a shower?

RMC:
Right.

FG:
To wash off the blood?

RMC:
No, because I always take a shower. Every night before I go to bed I take a shower and then I have a glass of milk, and then I go to bed. I can′t sleep if I feel dirty.

WH:
So you went home and took a shower and went to bed?

RMC:
Right. Oh, wait. No, I took a shower and had some milk and I watched TV for a little while.

FG:
What did you watch, Robert?

RMC:
I watched The Rockford Files.

FG:
And this happened the same way with the next couple?

RMC:
What did?

FG:
The sequence of events . . . you went out, you attacked them, and once you were done you went home and had a shower and watched TV?

RMC:
The third time I didn′t watch TV. I went to bed early and read a book.

FG:
Which book?

RMC:
I was reading Raymond Chandler. I like Raymond Chandler. Do you like Raymond Chandler, Frank?

FG:
Haven′t read any, Robert.

RMC:
You should, Frank, you should . . . being a detective and everything. You should read Raymond Chandler.

JERSEY CITY TRIBUNE

Thursday, 27 December 1984

′Hammer of God′ Killer Suicide at Elizabeth Facility

Robert Melvin Clare (32), arrested and charged with five counts of murder and one of attempted murder, was this morning found dead in his room at the Jersey State Psychiatric Facility in Elizabeth. Initial reports suggest Clare hung himself with a rope fashioned from strips of sheeting. Head of the Facility, Dr Mitchell Lansden, was unavailable for comment, but a spokesman for the Facility said that a full and complete inquiry would be instigated immediately to determine how such an event could have taken place. Clare had already been questioned by Detective Frank Gorman, head of the Jersey City Homicide Task Force, regarding the recent ′Hammer of God′ murders and had been bound over to the care of the Jersey State Psychiatric Facility for evaluation regarding fitness for trial. When asked for comment, Detective Gorman was reported as having been disappointed that Clare would not be tried for these murders. He also allowed that he was certain of Clare′s guilt, and that with his suicide the State would not have to bear the cost of a trial, and the families of the victims would not have to endure the heartbreak of seeing their sons′ and daughters′ names and pictures in the newspapers. No official statement has been made by the District Attorney′s Office.

′You heard what happened?′ Gorman asked.

′Heard he killed himself.′

′He hung himself . . . made a rope by tearing a sheet into strips, and then he wound them together like a rope.′

′Where did he hang himself from?′

′Lifted up his bed and leaned it vertically against the wall. Truth was that he didn′t so much as hang himself as choke himself to death. He had to keep his feet up off the ground.′

John Costello was silent for a while. With difficulty he turned his head and looked toward the window. ′You think he was the one?′

′No doubt about it,′ Gorman replied.

′He confessed?′

Gorman was quiet for a few moments. ′I′m not supposed to say anything about his interrogation but yes, he confessed.′

′He say why he did it?′

′He did, yes.′

John smiled weakly, turned his head and looked at Gorman.

′It was crazy stuff, John. There was no reason. Of course there wasn′t any rational reason. You can′t rationalize irrational behavior.′

′But he had a reason he believed in, didn′t he?′

′He did.′

′You wanna tell me what it was?′

′No, of course I don′t want to.′

′But you will, right?′

′You think it′ll do any good?′

′To me?′ John asked. ′No, I don′t think so. Like you said, it′s crazy stuff. I mean it would have to be crazy, wouldn′t it? Sane people don′t go out and smash peoples′ heads in with a hammer.′

′He thought he was doing something good,′ Gorman said. ′He thought that he was helping the people that he killed get into Heaven.′

John smiled sardonically. ′That′s just crazy.′

′Sure it is.′ He paused a few moments, then said, ′Anyway, we′ll talk some more later. Get some rest. You look like you′re on the mend.′

′You look like you never sleep.′

′I don′t.′

′Maybe now, eh? Now it′s over.′

′Sure, kid. Maybe now.′

JERSEY CITY TRIBUNE

Friday, January 4th, 1985

′Hammer of God′ Cop Death

Detective Frank Gorman, head of the Jersey City Homicide Task Force, most recently engaged in the investigation of the Hammer of God murders, died yesterday evening in the restroom of a city restaurant from what was believed to be a heart attack. Gorman (51), a Police Department veteran of twenty-eight years, unmarried and without children, was understood to have been dining alone. Chief of Police Marcus Garrick this morning gave a statement to the effect that Gorman was a diligent and committed officer who will be sorely missed. His funeral will be held at First Communion Church of God on Wednesday, 9th January. Instead of flowers, Chief Garrick has asked that donations be made to the Jersey Police Department Widows and Orphans Beneficiary Fund, care of the Mayor′s office.

John Costello became the sort of person who finds safety in routines. In counting. In making lists.

He is not afraid of the dark, for he carries all the darkness he needs inside him.

See him in the street and he looks like a million others.

Talk to him and he appears to be just like you.

But he is not.

And never will be.

ONE

JUNE 2006

T
he Carnegie Deli and Restaurant at 854, Seventh Avenue, with its faded yellow sign, its red arched awning, and the fact that they had always cured and smoked and pickled their own, was a little slice of heaven. And once inside, the aromas of salt beef, pickled herring and chicken soup with kneidles, the pictures on the walls, the veteran waiters, their famous rudeness countered only by smiling waitresses, gave a feeling of welcome familiarity.

Ray Irving, Fourth Precinct Homicide Division, was not himself Jewish, but believed his stomach was a hot contender.

From the extensive kosher-style menu came his breakfast - bologna omelette, pancake-style, perhaps Virginia ham, thick-cut, with eggs. Other times called for kippered baked salmon with cream cheese, lettuce, Bermuda onion, a bagel on the side, Elberta peaches, chocolate, fruit and nut babka, pumpernickel toast and cranberry juice.

For lunch there were sandwiches, but these were no ordinary sandwiches. These were the renowned salt beef sandwiches big enough to feed a small family, the Gargantuan Combos with names like Fifty Ways To Love Your Liver, Ah, There′s The Reuben, Beefamania and Hamalot. And for dinner there was Meatloaf and Baked Short Ribs, Vermont Turkey Platter, Roumanian Chicken Paprikash, pastrami served open-faced on homemade potato knishes with melted Swiss cheese. You wanted a salad, they′d make you a salad: Central Park, Julienne Child, George Shrimpton, Zorba the Greek, AM-FM Tuna, the Hudson Liver, and Ray Irving′s all-time favorite - Salmon Chanted Evening.

Irving owned an apartment in a three-story brownstone on the West Side at 40th Street and Tenth Avenue. He was not married. He had no children. He did not cook. The Fourth Precinct house was on Sixth at 57th, and thus his route from home to work and back again allowed him to take in Carnegie′s: park behind the Arlen Building near the 57th Street subway station, a short walk, and he was there. They knew him by face and by name, and they didn′t treat him like a cop. They treated him like family. They took his messages when he could not be reached at his home or the precinct house. He ran a tab and paid it monthly. They never asked, and he was never late. Had been this way for years, no reason to change. Amidst the horror that was his life, the things he saw, the part he played as witness to the brutality that human beings were effortlessly capable of perpetrating one against the other, he believed that some things should remain inviolate and unchanged. The Carnegie Deli & Restaurant was one of them.

Ray Irving slept well, he ate well, and until seven months earlier he had visited a woman called Deborah Wiltshire in her apartment on West 11th near St Vincent′s. They′d talked of nothing consequential, they drank bourbon and played cards, they listened to Miles Davis and Dave Brubeck, they made out like teenagers. Deborah was thirty-nine, a divorcée, and Ray believed that she might once have been a hooker . . . or maybe a dancer. He had known her for nine years, met her on a routine house-to-house after a teenager was found murdered in back of her building. She′d had no information that helped him, but when he was done asking questions she′d looked at him with that light in her eyes and told him to come back if he needed anything else. He′d gone back the following day to ask if she was single, to invite her for a drink. They saw one another for some months, and then he′d started in on what the lawyers would call ′a request for further and better particulars′.

′You ever want to make this thing more—′

′More what?′ she′d said. ′More serious?′

′Sure. You know, like—′

′Like you want me to move in with you or something?′

′I don′t mean that, no. Not unless you wanted to, of course. I just meant—′

′Hell, Ray, why mess it up? We′re good for each other. We′re good company. Figure if we saw each other any more often we′d most likely discover all those little idiosyncrasies that end up being the reasons you leave someone. This is good. I′ve been through this enough times to know that this is better than any other arrangement I′ve had, and I like it this way. If I didn′t I wouldn′t do it.′

He hadn′t asked again.

Little had changed for the better part of a decade, and then Deborah Wiltshire had died. Late November 2005, sudden, utterly unexpected, a hereditary weakness in her heart. Down and gone. Dropped like a stone.

Ray Irving took the news like a head-shot. He′d been useless for a month, and then had somehow clawed his way back to reality.

In the final analysis, the thing that heralded Irving′s return to the real world was a child murder. The killing of children could never be explained or justified. Didn′t matter who did it or what the circumstances, the supposed reason and rationale back of it, a dead child was a dead child. The case had been arduous, had lasted months, but Ray′s diligence and commitment had resulted in the successful conviction of an irredeemable man.

In the subsequent six months Irving had used his job as an anchor and, with the stability it offered, he had pulled himself back from the brink of the abyss. He would never forget Deborah Wiltshire, would never wish to forget her, but he had begun to believe that the small world within which he existed still required his attendance. There was no easy way out of grief - that much he understood - and so he stopped looking.

Ray Irving′s apartment looked the same as the day he′d moved in eleven years before. Eight trips in a station wagon from his previous place of residence, armfuls of belongings, no boxes, no packing crates. Those possessions had assumed their rightful positions, and had remained there for the duration. His mother did not visit because she had died of emphysema in early ′84. His dad played dominoes and mumbled baseball scores in a nursing home other side of Bedford-Stuyvesant. There was no-one to tell him that he should live differently. This was how things were. This was how he believed they always would be.

Morning of Saturday, June 3rd, a little after nine, Ray Irving took a call-out. Rain had varnished the streets and sidewalks. Inadequate distance between earth and sky. It had been overcast all week and the atmosphere was close, brooding, impenetrable. The weather seemed raw and unfinished, perhaps served some purpose for farmers and horticulturalists, but to Irving it was simply trouble. Rain obscured evidence, turned earth to mud, washed things down, erased partials.

By the time he reached the edge of Bryant Park, back of the library and close enough to Fifth to smell the money, the uniforms had taped the scene. The grass was flat, the ground was oatmeal, and already the traipsing back and forth had chewed the perimeter ragged.

′Melville,′ the first officer said, and then spelled his name.

′Like Herman, right?′ Irving asked.

Melville smiled. They all wanted to be remembered. They all wanted the call from Homicide or Vice or Narco: You done good, boy, you gonna get the badge.

′What we got?′

′Girl,′ Melville replied. ′Teenager I′d say. Head staved in. Body wrapped in black plastic and left under the trees down there.′

′Who found her?′

′Couple of fat kids from across the street. Twins. Fourteen years old. I have someone over there with the parents.′

′Did the kids know the vic?′

Melville shook his head. ′Not from her clothes. Head is too fucked-up for a facial ID.′

′Walk with me,′ Irving said.

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