The Devil's Teardrop (17 page)

“Is that good?” Kincaid interrupted.

“
My
present picture matches ninety-two percent,” Nance responded. “I’ve got longer hair now.” She continued. “Employment record through Social Security Administration and IRS shows him working as a journalist since 1971 but some years he had virtually no income. Listed his job those years as free-lance writer. So he’s taken plenty of time off. Not living on his wife’s salary either; he used to be married but his filing status is single now. Paid no quarterly estimated this year, which he’s done in the past. And that suggests he’s got no reportable
income at all this year. Ten years ago he had very high medical deductions. Looks like it was treatment for alcohol abuse. Became self-employed a year ago, quit a fifty-one-thousand-dollar-a-year job at the Hartford paper and is apparently living off savings.”

“Quit, fired or took a leave of absence?” Kincaid asked.

“Not sure.” Nance paused. She continued. “We couldn’t get as many credit card records as we wanted, because of the holiday, but he’s staying at the Renaissance under his name. And he checked in after a noon flight from Hartford. United Express. No advanced purchase. Made the reservation at ten
A.M
. this morning.”

“So he left just after the first shooting,” Lukas mused.

“One-way ticket?” Kincaid’s question anticipated her own.

“Yes.”

“What do we think?” Lukas asked.

“Goddamn journalist is all, I’d say,” Cage offered.

“And you?” She glanced at Kincaid.

He said, “What do I think? I say we deal with him. When I analyze documents I need every bit of information I can get about the writer.”

“If you
know
it’s really the writer,” Lukas said skeptically. She paused. Then said, “He seems like a crank to me. Are we that desperate?”

“Yes,” Kincaid said, glancing at the digital clock above Tobe Geller’s computer monitor, “I think we are.”

* * *

In the stuffy interrogation room once more, Lukas said to Czisman, “If we talk off the record now . . . and if we can bring this to a successful resolution . . .”

Czisman laughed at the euphemism, motioned for the agent to continue.

“If we can do that then we’ll give you access to materials and witnesses for your book. I’m not sure how much yet. But you’ll have some exclusivity.”

“Ah, my favorite word. Exclusivity. Yes, that’s all I’m asking for.”

“But everything we tell you now,” Lukas continued, “will be completely confidential.”

“Agreed,” Czisman said.

Lukas nodded at Parker, who asked, “Does the name Digger mean anything to you?”

“Digger?” Czisman shook his head. “No. As in gravedigger?”

“We don’t know. It’s the name of the shooter—the one you call the Butcher,” Lukas said.

“I only call him the Butcher because the Boston papers did. The
New York Post
called him the Devil. In Philadelphia he was the Widow Maker.”

“New York? Philly too?” Lukas asked. Parker noticed that she was troubled by this news.

“Jesus,” Cage muttered. “A pattern criminal.”

Czisman said, “They’ve been working their way down the coast. Headed where, don’t we wonder? To Florida for retirement? More likely the islands somewhere.”

“What happened in the other cities?” Parker asked.

“The International Beverage case?” Czisman responded. “Ever hear of it?”

Lukas was certainly current on her criminal history. “The president of the company, right? He was kidnapped.”

“Details?” Parker asked her, impressed at her knowledge.

Czisman looked at Lukas, who nodded for him to continue. “The police had to piece it together but it looks like—nobody’s exactly sure—but it looks like the Butcher took the president’s family hostage. The wife told her husband to get some money together. He agreed—”

“Was there a letter?” Parker asked, thinking there might be another document he could examine. “A note?”

“No. It was all done by phone. Well, the president tells the kidnapper he’d pay. Then he calls the police and hostage rescue surrounds the house, yada yada yada, the whole nine yards, while the president goes to his bank to get the ransom. But as soon as they opened up the vault a customer pulls out a gun and begins shooting. Killed everyone in the bank: the International Beverage president, two guards, three customers, three tellers, two vice presidents on duty. The video camera shows another man, with him, walking into the vault and walking out with a bag of money.”

“So there was nobody in the house?” Lukas asked, understanding the scheme.

“Nobody alive. The Butcher—the Digger—had already killed the family. Looks like he did it after she called her husband.”

Parker said, “He hit them at the weakest point in the kidnapping process. The police would have the advantage in a negotiation or in an exchange of the money. He preempted them.” He didn’t say aloud what he was thinking: that it was a perfect solution to a difficult puzzle—
if
you don’t mind killing.

“Anything in the bank’s security video that’d help us?” Cage asked.

“You mean, what color were their ski masks?”

Cage’s shrug meant, I had to ask anyway.

“What about Philly?” Lukas asked.

Czisman said cynically, “Oh, this was very good. The Digger starts taking the bus. He’d get on, sit next to someone and fire one silenced shot. He killed three people, then his accomplice made the ransom demand. The city agreed to pay the ransom but set up surveillance to nail him. But the accomplice knew which bank the city had its accounts in. As soon as the rookies escorting the cash stepped outside the door of the bank the Digger shot them in the back of the head and they escaped.”

“I never heard about that one,” Lukas said.

“No, they wanted it kept quiet. Six people dead.”

Parker said, “Massachusetts, New York, Pennsylvania, Washington. You’re right—he was on his way south.”

Czisman frowned.
“Was?”

Parker glanced at Lukas. She told Czisman, “He’s dead.”

“What?” Czisman seemed truly shocked.

“The partner—not the Digger.”

“What happened?” Czisman whispered.

“Hit-and-run after he dropped the extortion note off. And before he could collect his extortion money.”

Czisman’s face grew still for a long moment. Parker supposed he was thinking: There goes the exclusive interview with the perp. The huge man’s eyes darted around the room. He shifted in his chair. “What was his scheme this time?”

Lukas was reluctant to say but Czisman guessed. “The Butcher shoots people until the city pays the ransom. . . . But now there’s nobody to pay the money to and so the Butcher’s going to keep right on shooting. Sounds just like
their MO. You have any leads to where his lair might be?”

“The investigation is continuing,” Lukas said warily.

Czisman stared at one of the prints. A pastoral landscape. He kneaded the water mug manically.

Parker asked, “How did you follow him here?”

“I read everything I can find about crimes where somebody has no qualms about killing. Most people do, you know. Unless their raison d’être is killing—like Bundy or Gacy or Dahmer. No, most professional criminals will hesitate to pull the trigger. But the Butcher? Never. And when I’d hear about a multiple homicide that was part of a robbery or extortion I’d go to the city where it had happened and interview people.”

Lukas asked, “Why hasn’t anybody made the connection?”

Czisman shrugged. “Isolated crimes, small body counts. Oh, I told the police in White Plains and Philly. But nobody paid much attention to me.” He laughed bitterly, waved his arm around the room. “Took—what?—twenty-five dead before anybody’d perk up their ears and listen to me.”

Parker asked, “What can you tell us about the Digger? Hasn’t
anybody
gotten a look at him?”

“No,” Czisman said, “he’s a wisp of smoke. He’s there and then he’s gone. He’s a ghost. He—”

Lukas had no patience for this. “We’re trying to solve a crime here. If you can help us we’d appreciate it. If not we better get on with our investigation.”

“Sure, sorry, sorry. It’s just that I’ve lived with this man for the past year. It’s like climbing a cliff—it could be a mile high but all you see is a tiny spot of rock six inches from your face. See, I have a theory why people don’t notice him.”

“What’s that?” Parker asked.

“Because witnesses remember
emotion.
They remember the frantic robber who’s shooting someone in desperation, the cop who’s panicked and firing back, the woman screaming because she’s been stabbed. But you don’t remember calm.”

“And the Digger’s always very calm?”

“Calm as death,” Czisman said.

“Nothing about his habits? Clothes, food, vices?”

“No, nothing.” Czisman seemed distracted. “Can I ask what
you’ve
learned about the accomplice? The dead man?”

“Nothing about him either,” Lukas said. “He had no ID on him. Fingerprints were negative.”

“Would you . . . Would it be all right if I took a look at the body? Is it in the morgue?”

Cage shook his head.

Lukas said, “Sorry. It’s against the regs.”

“Please?” There was almost a desperation to the request.

Lukas, though, was unmoved. She said shortly, “No.”

“A picture maybe,” Czisman persisted.

Lukas hesitated then opened the file and took out the photo of the unsub at the accident site near City Hall and handed it to him. His sweaty fingers left fat prints on the glossy surface.

Czisman stared for a long moment. He nodded. “Can I keep this?”

“After the investigation.”

“Sure.” He handed it back. “I’d like to do a ride-along.”

Where a reporter accompanies police on an investigation.

But Lukas shook her head. “Sorry. I’ll have to say no to that.”

“I could help,” he said. “I might have some insights. I might have some thoughts that’d help.”

“No,” Cage said firmly.

With another look at the picture Czisman rose. He shook their hands and said, “I’m staying at the Renaissance—the one downtown. I’ll be interviewing witnesses. If I find something helpful I’ll let you know.”

Lukas thanked him and they walked him back to the guard station.

“One thing,” Czisman said, “I don’t know what kind of deadlines he”—Czisman nodded toward Lukas’s file, meaning the unsub—“came up with. But now that he’s gone there’s no one to control the Butcher . . . the Digger. You understand what that means, don’t you?”

“What?” she asked.

“That he might just keep on killing. Even after the last deadline.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because it’s the one thing he does well. Killing. And everybody loves to do what they do well. That’s a rule of life now, isn’t it?”

* * *

They huddled once more in the surveillance room, in a cluster around Tobe Geller and his computer.

Lukas said into the speakerphone, “How ’bout the other crimes he mentioned?”

Susan Nance responded, “Couldn’t get any of the case agents in Boston, White Plains or Philly. But the on-duty personnel confirmed the cases are all open. Nobody heard of the name Butcher, though.”

“Forensics?” Parker asked, just as Lukas started to ask, “Foren—?”

“Nothing. No prints, no trace. And the witnesses . . . well, the ones who
lived
said they never really saw either the unsub or the Digger—if it was the Digger. I’ve put in requests for more info on the shootings. They’re calling case agents and detectives at home.”

“Thanks, Susan,” Lukas said.

She hung up.

Geller said, “I’m getting the other analysis . . .” He looked at the screen. “Okay . . . Voice stress and ret scans—normal readings. Stress is awfully low, especially for somebody being cross-examined by three feds. But I’d give him a clean bill of health. Nothing consistent with major deception. But then, with practice you can beat most polygraphs with a Valium and a daydream about your favorite actress.”

Lukas’s phone rang. She listened. Looked up. “It’s security. He’s almost out of primary surveillance range. We let him go?”

Parker said, “I’d say yes.”

“Agreed,” Cage said.

Lukas nodded. She said into her phone. “No detention for subject.” She hung up then glanced at her watch. “The shrink? The guy from Georgetown?”

“He’s on his way,” Cage said.

Now Geller’s phone rang. He answered and spoke for a moment. After he hung up he announced, “Com-Tech. They’ve found a hundred and sixty-seven working Web sites that have information about packing silencers and full-auto machine-pistol conversions. Guess what? Not one of ’em’ll hand over e-mail addresses. They don’t seem inclined to help out the federal government.”

“Dead end,” Lukas said.

“Wouldn’t do us much good anyway,” Geller noted.
“Com-Tech added up the hit counter totals from about a hundred of the sites. More than twenty-five thousand people’ve logged on in the last two months.”

“Fucked-up world out there,” Cage muttered.

The door opened. Len Hardy walked inside.

“How’s Moss?” Lukas asked.

“He’s okay. There were two hang-ups on his voice mail at home and he thought they might’ve been death threats.”

Lukas said, “We should have Communications—”

Hardy, eyes on the elaborate control panels, interrupted. “I asked one of your people to check ’em out. One call was from Moss’s brother. The other was a telemarketer from Iowa. I called ’em both back and verified them.”

Lukas said, “That’s just what I was going to ask, Detective.”

“Figured it was.”

“Thanks.”

“District of Columbia at your service,” he said.

Parker thought the irony in his voice was fairly subdued; Lukas didn’t seem to notice it at all.

Parker asked, “What’re we doing about that map? We’ve got to analyze the trace.”

Geller said, “The best one I can think of is in the Topographic Archives.”

“The Archives?” Cage asked, shaking his head. “There’s no way we can get in there.”

Parker could only imagine the difficulty of finding civil servants willing to open up a government facility on a holiday night.