Alex Barclay - The Caller

She straightened up and looked across at Barnes amp; Noble and felt the pull of a morning spent drinking coffee and flicking through design books of faraway houses on stilts in the ocean or on beaches or cliffsides. A shiver ran up her spine. She took a deep breath and walked towards the W Hotel. She stood at the window and saw everyone gathered in the early morning darkness of the bar. She recognized the back of Marc Lunel’s head, his long, black shiny hair, the red tab on his Prada shoes. She saw four models, two makeup artists, two hair stylists, the intern from Vogue Living… everyone waiting for her guidance. She saw her reflection in the glass, her tired eyes, her downturned mouth, the sheen of sweat on her forehead. She turned away. She started walking. And she hailed the first cab that passed by.

When Joe got back to his desk, a white envelope lay there, stamped and addressed to him. Most of the mail he got was yellow-envelope inter-departmental. He picked it up. It was light but bulky; cheap paper with no return address. He grabbed a ruler from his drawer and sliced through it. The thin white pages were folded in half and sprang open, both sides covered in scrawled writing and short sentences: Dear Detective Lucchesi, The noise this morning was almost unbearable. I could try to create it in letters and words. I got out of bed. I wouldn’t know how. Two directions. And it’s agony. I get anxious sometimes if I do. And actually what I need is peace to find my way through everything. There was no point in just laying there. One forward, one back. I made coffee and fixed myself scrambled eggs. I still know how to do that. I’m not sure which is harder. But it was loud. Not everyone else does. I don’t think I can figure it all out without quiet. Bass and drums. There are times when I’m nearly there…

Joe paused, rubbing his temples. He flipped the page over and kept reading. On it went, a random series of thoughts and the vague sense that there was a story inside, one that only the writer knew. It was a complexity of simple facts, observations, theories and descriptions. What Joe read on the sixth page made it relevant to him. Vertically, in the right-hand margin was written: Lying, badly beaten. Lowry is the result. I don’t know if I could have done anything differently.

Something cold shot up the back of Joe’s neck. He scanned quickly through the pages that followed, through writings about rooms and stories and calculators and theatres. It ended after sixteen pages, signed off namelessly: More will come. Captured at the right time.

‘Jesus,’ said Joe. ‘What the fuck was that?’ He called the others over.

‘Guys, I just got a letter about Ethan Lowry.’

‘A letter?’ said Danny. ‘From who?’

‘A randomer,’ said Joe.

‘Who’s Arrandoma?’ said Rencher.

‘Randomer. A random person. Person unknown. It’s something I picked up from one of Shaun’s friends in Ireland.’

‘OK, what’s this randomer saying?’ said Rencher.

‘A little and a lot,’ said Joe.

‘Don’t be fooled by the rocks that I got,’ said Danny.

Joe ignored him and looked down at the letter. ‘OK, so we got a lot of information on exactly where the salt is in the kitchen for when the guy is microwaving his eggs in the morning, a bunch of other stuff about what he likes to do – major detail there…

‘Did he sign it?’ said Rencher.

‘Yeah, sure he did,’ said Danny, ‘with his address too, that’s why we’re all sitting around here, trying to figure out who could have sent it.’

‘Yeah, I meant with anything-’

‘What? Like, From the killer…?’ said Danny.

‘Shut the fuck up,’ said Rencher.

‘Shut the fuck up all of you,’ said Joe. ‘Let me read this out to you.’ He read through the letter and waited in the silence that followed.

‘Are we taking this seriously?’ said Rencher.

‘I think we should be,’ said Joe.

‘But “ lying badly beaten ” – you could get that from a media report, that’s no insider information there,’ said Rencher.

Joe looked down again at the letter and shrugged. ‘I think there’s something in this. Let’s just take it that there is.’

‘“ More will come, captured at the right time ”,’ said Danny. ‘More victims?’

Joe shrugged. ‘Or more letters?’

‘Maybe,’ said Danny.

‘I mean, what is the point of this letter?’ said Martinez.

‘Someone is reaching out,’ said Rencher.

‘But are they trying to help?’ said Cullen. ‘Are they giving us any information?’

Joe glanced down at the pages. ‘I think somewhere in here there’s information. I think they’re trying.’

‘Seriously, could it be from the perp?’ said Rencher.

‘Doesn’t sound like a psycho, but then, “ Lowry is the result. I don’t know if I could have done anything differently ”.’

‘Yeah,’ said Joe. ‘That could be talking about anything. I don’t know. Look, I’ll go ahead, copy this a few times, if anyone has any ideas, get back to me.’

‘Will Question Documents be able to tell us more?’ said Rencher.

‘Probably not a whole lot,’ said Joe, ‘Looking at this, the paper, the envelope, the pen don’t look like anything special. If we get another letter in, they can tell us if it’s from the same guy. And if there’s any problem when we track him down, they can use samples of his writing to match it up. That’s about it. First thing is to get it to Forensics, see if we can get some prints.’ He pointed to his notebook. ‘I mean doesn’t whoever wrote it get that it’s pretty fucking easy to trace? I’ve got the time and place where it was mailed right here from the stamp. I’m going to get in touch with the post office, see if we can get any video. Bobby, can you pass me the Ortis file?’

‘Sure,’ said Bobby, handing it to him.

The others were talking among themselves as Joe slowly started to flip through the pages.

‘You got the VICAP form?’ said Joe. He looked up at Bobby.

‘For Ortis?’

‘Yeah,’ said Joe.

Bobby shrugged. ‘I guess I didn’t fill one out.’

‘You didn’t fill out the VICAP form, Bobby?’ Joe’s voice rang loud in the room.

‘Yeah, like, you fill them out every time?’ Bobby glanced around at everyone. ‘Come on, a hundred bullshit questions that are no use when, like, the whole fucking country isn’t filling them out too? Everyone knows that. Spending hours answering questions when I could be out on the street getting somewhere?’

‘So you don’t see how making a link here might have helped Ethan Lowry?’

Bobby snorted.

‘And to answer your question, yeah, I did always fill out the form,’ said Joe. ‘And I still do…’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ said Bobby.

‘Nothing,’ said Joe. ‘If I’m working with a squad detective and they haven’t filled one out, I have to do it for them.’ Joe was looking down, his tone neutral.

Danny got up. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘On that VICAP bombshell-’

Nervous laughter broke out, but died away just as quickly.

William Aneto’s mother Carmen lived above the grocery store she owned on 116th Street in East Harlem. Martinez had rung the bell, but there was no answer. The door was freshly painted bright green with a gold knocker he slammed against the wood.

‘Nice smell,’ said Danny, glancing into the store. He reached out to ring the doorbell again.

Martinez slapped his hand away and did it himself. ‘This is my show.’

Mrs Aneto opened the door and gave them a weary look. She was a small woman in her early fifties, dressed in a navy blue suit and low heels. Her hair was held neatly in a bun at the base of her neck. She wore no makeup. Martinez greeted her in Spanish, introducing himself and Danny.