A Killer's Essence Page 8

  Joe Ramirez wandered over to my desk with a decent cup of coffee for me that he had brought in from outside. I was surprised to see him. His shift ended at six AM and he should’ve been in bed getting some sleep, but it made sense with his knowledge of the case for Phillips to have included him on the task force. I grunted out some thanks for the coffee, and while I sipped it I told him my theory about how this pretty much left us with a serial killer.

  “Maybe,” he said. “Then again, maybe not. We could have some joker trying to cover up a murder with a second one.”

  I drank more of the coffee and shook my head. I noticed Joe peering at my leg bouncing up and down and I forced myself to sit still.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “Gail Laurent was murdered out in the open. Hers was probably the riskier of the two, and we would have had him if we caught any sort of break with our witness. So far I haven’t seen any reason why someone would want to hurt her. If he was trying to cover up this new murder, he would’ve been more careful with whoever he selected afterward. My gut’s telling me the first murder was experimental, with him seeing how easy it was and how much he enjoyed it. With Gail Laurent he was more emboldened and more reckless.”

  Joe Ramirez shrugged, not convinced. “Maybe,” he said, giving me a long hard look. “So what’s the deal? How come you can’t sit still?”

  “Because I can’t be here,” I said. I looked away from him. “I’ve got tickets to the Yankees game in Boston tonight. I’m planning to take Stevie and Emma to the game.”

  I didn’t tell him the rest, that I was afraid I was losing my kids and that this damn baseball game could very well be the last shot I had with them. He seemed to sense what I was thinking, though. He’d gone through his own divorce a few years ago, which was the main reason he agreed to take the graveyard shift. Working the hours he did was better than sitting alone in his apartment at night staring at the walls. Knowing Joe the way I did, if he’d been doing the latter, he probably would’ve swallowed a bullet by now.

  Joe said, “You don’t need to be here. I can handle the debriefing. If you like I’ll talk to Phillips.”

  I shook my head. “Wouldn’t do any good.”

  My eyes stayed glued on my hands folded in front of me. I could feel Joe staring at me.

  “Stan,” he said. “The hours suck, but if you ever want to move under my command I’ll see what I can do. I’d be glad to have you.”

  “Thanks,” I said, forcing a smile. “I appreciate it, but you’re right, the hours do suck and I’m not quite sure yet where things stand with my girlfriend. It might be over already, but if it isn’t taking the graveyard shift would be the final nail. And things aren’t that bad between me and Phillips. Besides, I can understand his point in wanting me here.”

  “I didn’t hear things were rocky with your girlfriend. Nice-looking girl. Brandi, right?”

  “Bambi. It just happened.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Stan.” Joe placed a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure your kids will understand if you miss an inning or two of the game.”

  I nodded and waited until he walked away before shifting my gaze upward. Time dragged painfully as I waited for the debriefing. Not much new came out of forensics other than that they had determined from the way the blood had smeared along the victim’s clothing that he had been wrapped in something, probably plastic, before being moved to the dumpster.

  Once three o’clock came we sat around the meeting room and waited another forty minutes for the FBI agents to show up. Phillips had brought in six other detectives from the unit for the task force, and the FBI sent two field agents and a profiler. After the agents showed up and got settled with coffee and doughnuts and introductions were made, Phillips started the debriefing by going over what we had for the second killing. Time dragged as I kept mentally calculating how much time I needed to get my kids to the baseball game in Boston. Each time I went through my calculations I’d slice more time off to make it doable.

  It was a quarter past four by the time Phillips finished up and started taking questions, and that chewed up another eighteen minutes. I was brought up next to give my dog and pony show, and as I looked at the faces of the detectives and FBI agents watching me, I once more tried to figure out how I was going to get my kids to the game without missing too much of it. Two of the younger detectives sat at attention while I gave a rundown on the basic facts of the case and my take on Rachel Laurent. The other detectives from the department made no attempt to hide their boredom. The FBI agents looked mostly uninterested. For a short while I thought I was actually going to be able to get through it quickly, but that changed once I got to Zachary Lynch. I could see them all paying attention then as I explained about Lynch and his condition. Jack Hennison, who had been on the force over twenty years and had seen it all, was having a hard time sitting still.

  “Bullshit!” Hennison exploded at last, his ears tinted a bright crimson. “What are you telling us? This guy’s brain damaged so he can’t see what people look like but he can tell you what they’re wearing?”

  “That’s what he says. That’s what his neurologist claims also.”

  “And you believed that crap?” Hennison demanded, his face having turned the same beet red as his ears under his military-style buzz cut. He stared around the room to see how many others were buying what I was saying.

  Before I could comment the FBI profiler interrupted, asking for clarification on something I had said. This was the first time she had spoken since entering the room and it was almost like the old EF Hutton commercial the way all eyes turned to her. You couldn’t blame anyone. She was an exceptionally attractive woman in her thirties with piercing green eyes and blond hair pulled back, and she reminded me of Helen Hunt from the TV show Mad About You except her features were harsher and more angular.

  “Mr. Lynch is able to process photographs of a person normally?” she asked, her face screwed up into a quizzical expression.

  “That’s right.”

  “But if he were brought to this same person, he would see something entirely different?”

  “That’s what I’m being told.”

  “Really?” She rubbed her forefinger lightly across her lips while she considered this. The time she was taking for her next question was maddening. Finally she asked, “How did he describe the assailant?”

  “He refused to. His neurologist claimed it wouldn’t help us, so I didn’t push him.”

  That brought a loud snort from Hennison. From the corner of my eye I could see Phillips’s jaw locked into a bulldog expression as he stared bullets my way. The FBI profiler turned to an FBI colleague sitting to her right—a thick-shouldered college linebacker type wearing a suit jacket that was too tight across his chest—and told him that they should try hypnosis on the witness, that maybe they’d be able to unlock something from his unconscious.

  “I brought that up with Dr. Brennan,” I said. “He claimed it wouldn’t do any good. The way he explained it is that Lynch’s problem isn’t caused by any psychological or emotional issue, but by the way his brain processes visual inputs, so hypnosis wouldn’t do us any good since there wouldn’t be any memories to unlock.”

  “According to one of your reports, there’s no actual documentation of this so-called scarring of Mr. Lynch’s occipital lobe.”

  “Yeah, well, that type of documentation would have to wait until he’s dead so they could do an autopsy on him. Give it fifty years or so and they’ll be able to tell us for sure.”

  That brought a laugh from Joe Ramirez and a slight smile from her.

  “Detective Green,” she said, “my background was in psychiatry before joining the Bureau. Perceiving someone differently in photographs than in person wouldn’t be something that could be explained by occipital lobe scarring. There has to be an emotional or psychological component to this. Not all doctors are infallible. Some have been known to make mistakes, even noted neurologists. We’ll try hypnosis, assuming Mr. Lynch has no
objections.”

  I almost told her fat chance since I could guess how Zachary Lynch would respond to that type of request, but I kept my mouth shut. I just wanted to get on with this. A quick glance at my watch showed it was five ten, and I was anxious to wrap things up so I could get out of there. I asked if there were any more questions, hoping to hell there weren’t. The FBI profiler’s smile became more amused as she asked for my take on the killer.

  “I don’t know,” I said. Another glance at my watch showed that one more minute had ticked off. I looked back at her and tried hard to ignore the tightening in my stomach. “I don’t have enough information yet. My gut’s telling me these were random killings and that our boy was out there having fun. He’s probably holed up now, worried that we have a description of him. Once he realizes that we don’t, he’ll be out hunting again. That’s my take on it. Anything else?”

  She showed me more of her amused Cheshire Cat–type smile and asked me why I thought our killer was shooting his victims in the back of the head post-mortem. Christ. This could go on all day if I let it. I told her I didn’t want to offer any further conjectures, just facts, and besides, she was the trained profiler, not me. Without looking at Phillips, I could just about feel his glare burning a hole through me. I started shuffling my notes together to let the room know I was done. A few more questions came from Hennison and the other detectives from the precinct. Then the linebacker FBI agent had to pipe up and ask why I was the only detective assigned to the first murder.

  “Is that usual procedure here?” he continued. “This was an exceptionally brutal murder done in broad daylight. I would’ve thought there would be more detectives working this.”

  “I’ll leave that for Captain Phillips to answer. If there’s nothing else, I have another engagement.”

  With my head bowed I nearly sprinted toward the door, raising up my hand at the last moment to flick a wave to the room. Phillips, who had been sitting stunned at my quick departure, barked out that he wanted me there for the rest of the debriefing. Joe Ramirez, bless his heart, spoke over him, announcing that I had already briefed him and that he’d be able to fill in for me for the rest of the meeting. I could sense some of my fellow detectives were annoyed that I was leaving early, but I got out of there before any of them could voice their displeasure.

  I couldn’t help feeling an uneasiness in the pit of my stomach as I made my way out of the room and through the building, kind of like I was a kid who was caught playing hooky from school and was going to catch hell later. By the time I reached my car I was sweating hard. I was filled with so many mixed emotions, worrying about both getting to my kids on time and the way I had walked out of that room—and I couldn’t help feeling as though I had let down my fellow officers. I also didn’t trust Phillips. A lot of heat was going to be coming down on this case, especially once the papers realized the two murders were connected, and now he had his scapegoat. I was the lead detective on the case who couldn’t show enough dedication to sit through a debriefing meeting.

  I sat paralyzed in my car, wanting to drive away from there but also feeling pulled back to the meeting. When I looked at my watch I was stunned to see it was already a quarter to six. I decided to quit playing the games I’d been playing and be realistic about the situation. If I left now, I just didn’t see how I could get to the ballpark any earlier than ten o’clock. By then Emma would be cranky as hell and Stevie would be hating me for missing half the game.

  My cell phone rang. Caller ID showed it was Phillips. I didn’t answer it. Instead I sat for a long time with my head in my hands trying to figure out what the fuck to do. I felt so damned tired right then, and when I had got up enough energy to look up again another twenty minutes was gone. I had no choice. As much as I hated doing it I called Cheryl.

  “I’m so sorry,” I started. “An emergency came up at work—”

  She hung up on me. I started to get out of my car to head back to the meeting. Instead I got back behind the wheel and drove uptown. I was able to park on West 67th, and from there I entered Central Park. It was becoming dusk out. Most of the tourists and locals were gone. I walked for a while before sitting on a bench. I turned my cell phone off. The last thing I wanted right then was to get another call from Phillips—or, worse, from Cheryl reading me the riot act.

  My thoughts kept fading in and out on me while I sat there. At some point I started thinking about a conversation I’d had with Mike over a year ago when I had first found out that Cheryl was moving to Rhode Island. We were having some beers at a dive bar on Flatbush Avenue, and Mike kept asking me what I was going to do. I didn’t have an answer for him. I had been dating Bambi for several months and Cheryl’s news of moving out of the city took me completely by surprise. Mike tilted back his longneck until he had the bottle drained, then signaled the bartender to bring us another round. After the bartender dropped off a couple of fresh Buds, Mike asked me again what I was going to do.

  “What can I do? According to my lawyer I can’t keep her from moving, and I’ve got little to no chance for joint custody. So you tell me, what can I do?”

  Mike, his eyes half-closed, took a long pull on his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Providence is near Cumberland, right?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. So?”

  “It’s a city,” he said. “They’ve got crime, corruption, violence, all the stuff you live for. They must need cops.”

  “It’s not that easy,” I said. I looked away from my brother. The place was mostly empty, just a few hardcore drinkers scattered about. I took a long drink of my Bud to keep up with my brother and settled my gaze back on him.

  “You can’t walk into a department and get a job just like that,” I said, snapping my fingers for emphasis. The noise caught the attention of several customers in the room who turned our way for a moment before huddling back over their drinks. “It doesn’t work that way,” I continued, keeping my voice low. “Even if I could get a job in a department near where Cheryl’s moving I’d be throwing away fourteen years toward a pension. I’ve got obligations, for Mom and child support payments for my kids. Mike, it’s not worth discussing.”

  “I think it is,” my brother argued stubbornly.

  “Chrissakes, Mike,” I said, still keeping my voice low, not wanting to share my life story with any of the alkies sitting nearby. “I’ve lived my whole life in Brooklyn. What do you want me to do, chase after Cheryl to some podunk town in the middle of nowhere? Even if I was able to get on the force there, knowing her she’d just pack up and move somewhere farther away.” I shook my head, trying to end the discussion. “Besides, Bambi and I are starting to get more serious. She’s moving in with me next month. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “We’re talking about your kids, Stan. About whether you’re going to be in their lives.”

  “I’ll be in their lives. Don’t worry about that. I’ll be calling them four times a week and driving up whenever I can. And three weeks a year I’ll have them back in New York.”

  “I’m not the one who has to worry about this.” Mike’s jaw fell slack as he stared at me. “You’ll be two hundred miles away. It won’t work, Stan. You’ll lose them.”

  I shook my head and looked away from my brother, staring instead at my hands as I rolled a beer bottle between them.

  “There’s nothing else I can do,” I said, shrugging.

  Neither of us spoke for several minutes. Mike broke the quiet by telling me it came down to which was more important to me, my kids or being a cop. I said something again about it not being that simple, and that I’d make sure I wouldn’t lose my kids. We spent the next hour drinking in silence before calling it a night.

  * * *

  It had started getting dark. Off in the distance I spotted what had to be someone selling drugs. From his appearance and that of his customers, I was guessing he was dealing either meth or ecstasy. I got up and walked over to him. The kid was in his early
twenties, with long greasy hair and that cranked-out meth addict look about him. He tried staring me down, knowing full well I wasn’t one of his people. The last thing I wanted right then was to have to spend the night booking anyone, so I showed him my badge and scared him into handing over his product and beating it. It turned out it was meth. I found a place to dump it and then ground it into the dirt with my heel. After that I gazed off into the dusky haze searching for something—I’m not sure exactly what. Whatever it was I didn’t see it. I then headed back out of the park.

  Chapter 11

  I drove back to Flatbush and ended up in a sports bar a few blocks from my apartment. The place was filled with Yankee fans, and there was a lot of excitement over the game—the Yankees were absolutely killing Boston. Every few minutes there’d be a roar in the place, and I’d look and watch the Yankees scoring more runs. I could barely concentrate on the game, though. My mind just kept drifting on me. Mostly I sat slowly drinking one beer after the next. At one point I took out the tickets I had gone three thousand dollars in debt for and placed them on the bar in front of me. I smiled bitterly at them and at the thought of spending all that money I didn’t have only to disappoint my kids more than I already had. The guy on the bar stool to my right noticed the tickets and asked if they were genuine. My voice catching in my throat, I told him they were.

  “Fuck, man,” he said, a big grin breaking over his face. “You could’ve been at the game giving all those chowdaheads shit over the beating they’re taking? What the fuck’s wrong with you?”