Patterson Array - NYPD Red

Lexi had found his hiding place months ago. It was in the desk. His desk-the one piece of furniture he had brought to her apartment.

She had been looking for the stapler, opened the bottom drawer too fast, and pulled it out completely. The drawer was half the length of the others. It had a false back.

And there they were, stashed in his secret space. Letters. Lots of them.

Obviously they had to be from other women. Gabe had girlfriends before he met her. Still, it pissed her off that he had saved them, and worse yet, hid them from her.

She put the drawer back. The letters were none of her business. She made a vow never to read them. That lasted about ten minutes. She came up with a compromise. She’d read two or three just to get the flavor of the other girls. Maybe see how she stacked up. That would be enough. Unless any of them were written after she and Gabe were a couple. Then there would be hell to pay.

She pulled out the drawer and grabbed a handful of envelopes. They weren’t from women. They were business letters. From movie studios, television networks, production companies, directors, actors. She read a half dozen.

Dear Mr. Benoit,

Thank you for your recent submission. However, at this time we are sorry to say…

Unfortunately, your story is not one we would like to pursue at this…

Regretfully, our production schedule for next season has already been…

They were all the same-thanks but no thanks. Rejection letters. Hundreds of them, some more than ten years old. How sad.

In the months that had passed, she hadn’t said a word. She wished she could talk to him about the letters, maybe make him feel better about himself, but that would mean admitting she had read them.

And now, she had made his life even more miserable. She bungled the robbery scene. She so much wanted to be a part of his movie, and as soon as he said yes, she screwed up.

She had to make it up to him. She would make it up to him. And then, sitting at her computer, surfing the best sites for the latest Hollywood dirt, it hit her. Inspiration. Brilliant actually, because this would completely tie in to the rest of the movie.

She clicked on Microsoft Word, opened a new document, and began typing.

ALT. SCENE:

Captain Delia Cates sat in silent meditation with her right elbow digging into the arm of her desk chair, her mouth and chin resting on the knuckles of her right hand. It’s the classic pose of Rodin’s statue The Thinker, which also happens to be the squad’s favorite nickname for her.

And when the boss lady is in statue mode, everyone else in the room shuts up and gives her time to think. Which is exactly what Kylie and I were doing.

“He’s making a movie,” Cates said for the third time. “Without any camera equipment.”

“He’s making it in his head,” I said, also for the third time.

“That’s the part I’ve been wrestling with. It doesn’t make sense.”

“The man is crazy, boss,” I said. “We can’t expect sense from a guy whose last known address is a loony bin.”

“What about the Ian Stewart murder and the Brad Schuck bombing?” Cates said. “That’s not in his head. Both of those are on film.”

“Yeah, but for the most part he’s acting everything out live.”

“That’s called a play, Zach, not a movie.”

“We will happily point out the difference to Mr. Benoit when we arrest him.”

“And when will that be?” Cates said. “You’ve got his name, you’ve got his photo, you’ve got a lead on his girlfriend-how long before you nail this maniac?”

“Captain, we’re working on it around the clock, but he’s smart.”

“No, Detective, you were right the first time. He’s crazy. Talk to Cheryl Robinson and see if she can help us figure out what’s going on inside his head. Where would he hide, where could he strike next? Run it all past her.”

“I’ve already left messages at her office and on her cell,” I said. “If she doesn’t get back to me tonight, I’ll catch up with her first thing in the morning.”

Cates turned to Kylie. “You’re in the biz. What do you make of all this?”

“I’m not ‘in the biz.’ That’s my husband,” Kylie said. “But I’ve met hundreds of people who are totally immersed in it, and most of them are riddled with insecurity. They walk around as if they’re always being judged. And you know what, Captain-they are.”

“We’re all being judged,” Cates said.

“Not like this,” Kylie said. “Let’s say you sell cars for a living. Someone takes a test-drive, and when it’s over, they look you in the eye and say, ‘This car sucks. I’m not buying it.’ That doesn’t mean they hate you. They just don’t like your product. But in show business, the product most people are selling is themselves.”

“So they take every rejection personally,” Cates said.

“Exactly. And Gabriel Benoit has been kicking around the fringes of this business for years-overlooked, undervalued, ignored, rejected, tossed aside. He keeps on trying, but he’s never broken through.”

“Well, he sure as shit is making up for it now,” Cates said. “Find him.”

Kylie and I know an exit cue when we hear one. We both stood up. But Cates held up her hand and waved us back down in our chairs.

“I’ve been thinking,” The Thinker said. “Maybe Mr. Benoit isn’t so crazy after all. Maybe he is shooting a movie.” Cates paused. “Okay, maybe not shooting it, but laying it all out. Writing the script for it. Right now, millions of people are caught up in his story. It’s got action, drama, suspense, and everyone is on the edge of their seat waiting to see how it ends. Overnight, this overlooked, undervalued extra person has gone from show business loser to world-famous serial killer.”

“But he’s the only one who gets to see himself in the movie,” Kylie said.

“For now,” Cates said. “But by the time we get to the final act, don’t you think that every studio on both coasts will be offering up millions to buy the rights?”

“Captain, he would never see a penny of it. It’s the Son of Sam law. A criminal can’t profit from-” Kylie stopped short. “Oh shit! How did we not think of that?”

Cates smiled. “It looks like Detective MacDonald just had a come-to-Jesus moment.”

“And I’m about three seconds behind her,” I said. “Benoit doesn’t care about the money. He doesn’t need any camera equipment. He’s writing a script. Somebody else will make the movie.”

“His movie,” Cates said. “Starring Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp or George Clooney as Gabriel Benoit. And from the looks of things, he’s well on his way to getting it made.”

“Captain,” Kylie said, “if you’re right, then we’re just in the middle of Act Two, and I’m willing to bet he’s got a hell of a blockbuster finale planned out for Act Three.”

Nobody took the bet.

Kylie and I holed up in the office and started digging into all things Gabriel Benoit. We were eating sandwiches from Gerri’s Diner when we got word that Brad Schuck died without ever coming out of his coma.

It didn’t change anything. I updated his file and went back to work. It was after 9:00 p.m. when Cheryl Robinson finally returned my call.

“Zach, I just got your message,” she said talking loudly. The background was noisy. Happy noisy. “I’m out to dinner, my phone was buried in my purse-sorry. What’s going on?”

“We’ve got a suspect, and Captain Cates would like you to jump in and try to get inside this guy’s head.”