James Patterson - Tick Tock

"Don't worry. We don't have to put him in a hockey mask or anything," Gaffney said with a small grin. "In the six years I've been here, he's been nothing but a model prisoner. Runs a prayer group now. He even helps blind inmates back to their cells."

"I heard about his religious conversion. Do you believe it?" I said.

"I limit my belief to things outside these walls, Mike, but who knows?" he said, lifting a radio out of the charger behind him. "If you're ready, I'll walk you over."

I met Berkowitz in a bright and airy secure visitors' room in a cell block across the concrete yard behind Gaffney's office.

What struck me first was how surprisingly unthreatening he was. Short, paunchy, and middle-aged, with white hair, he reminded me of the singer Paul Simon. He was clean-shaven and his hair was freshly cut. Even his green prison clothes seemed excessively neat, as if he had had them dry-cleaned. He bore little resemblance to the wild-eyed sloppy young man on the front cover of all the newspapers when he had been apprehended in 1977.

He actually smiled and made eye contact as he sat on the opposite side of the room's worn linoleum table.

"Hi, David. My name's Detective Bennett from the NYPD," I said, smiling back. "Thank you for agreeing to speak with me this morning."

"Nice to meet you," he said, taking a small Bible from his pocket. He placed it directly on the table before him. "How can I help you, sir?"

"Well, I was wondering if you might be able to give me a little insight into a case I'm investigating right now," I said.

Berkowitz's eyes narrowed as he cocked his head.

"It must be some case for you to come all the way up here from the city."

"It is, David. It seems a person is committing crimes similar to the ones you were involved with back in the seventies."

I reluctantly used the term "involved with" instead of "viciously and cowardly committed" because I needed his cooperation.

"A girl in Co-op City was stabbed, and two people were shot in a lover's lane in Queens with a forty-four-caliber weapon," I continued. "We even received a letter from someone claiming to be you."

Berkowitz stared at me wide-eyed. He looked genuinely shaken.

"That's terrible," he said.

"Do you know anyone who might want to do these things?"

"Not a soul," he said immediately.

"C'mon, David. I know in the past you've made reference to other people who might have been involved in your case. Other satanic cult members, wasn't it? Have you had any contact with any of those people lately?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, Detective, I don't know how helpful I can be in that area," he said, staring at the Bible. "You see, what I remember of that tragic time is really all a blur now."

How convenient for you, I thought.

He began to fan the Bible pages with his thumb as he continued.

"I was deep into the occult back then and not really in my right mind. In fact, ever since giving myself over to Jesus Christ, more and more of those memories seem to fade every day, thankfully. That's the incredible power of Jesus. His forgiveness can cleanse even a man like me."

I looked across the table for a beat. Berkowitz had his eyes closed and hands clasped in silent prayer. He seemed pretty convinced that Jesus Christ was now his personal savior.

I wasn't so sure. I knew that one of the things serial killers tended to crave was manipulation. They exulted in their superiority over people and liked to lie for the sheer pleasure of it.

"You said you weren't in your right mind," I continued in order to keep the conversation flowing. "Do you think I should look for a person with mental instability? Talk to some psychiatrists maybe?"

Berkowitz nodded, opening his eyes.

"Sure, sure," he said. "Though, like myself, there are a lot of lost individuals out there who never receive any formal psychiatric help."

That's when I dropped my payload, the thing I was truly interested in.

"Does the name Lawrence mean anything to you?" I said, staring into his eyes. "Think hard, David. Someone from your past or maybe someone you met in jail?"

He cocked his head again and squinted up at the ceiling.

"No," he said slowly after a few seconds. "Should it?"

"Have you ever received any correspondence from anyone named Lawrence? An admirer perhaps?"

I kept staring into his eyes.

"Not that I remember," he said, looking back at me serenely. "It is possible though. I do receive a lot of mail."

I nodded as I let out a sigh. That was about it. Either Berkowitz wasn't aware of anything or he wasn't going to tell me. There was no connection, no lead. I'd arrived at yet another dead end.

"Thanks, David," I said, frustrated as I stood and nodded at the guard outside. "I appreciate your time."

"Good luck and God bless you, Detective Bennett. I hope you catch the poor soul who's out there hurting people," Berkowitz said as the guard led him away.

Poor soul? I thought, rolling my eyes as Gaffney came in. Yeah, I couldn't wait to catch the poor, tragic, homicidal wayward lamb myself.

"Does he get a lot of mail?" I asked Gaffney.

"It's amazing," Gaffney nodded. "From all over the world."

"I know you guys read the mail, but you wouldn't happen to have a record of Berkowitz's correspondence, would you?"

"That we do. For Diamond Dave, we read and make a copy of everything coming and going. Even the stuff we won't let him have."

Maybe my trip wasn't such a bust after all.

"Do you think I could see it?"

"Confidentially?" Gaffney asked with a wink.

"But of course," I said.

"We actually scan everything now. I'll e-mail you the whole ball of wax. Hope you have a big hard drive. Anything else?"

"Just one thing," I said, hurrying behind him toward the block's electric gate and the free world. "Where do I get my gun back?"

To the clack of kitchen plates, the pale, elegant brunette weaved her way around the dim room's empty linen-covered tables and climbed the little corner stage to reach the ebony Steinway Concert Grand. After a moment, a slow and pretty impressionistic piece began to drift out over the room, Debussy or maybe Ravel.

At the opposite end of the wood-paneled room, Berger nodded with approval. Then he carefully tucked his damask napkin into his shirt, closed his eyes, and inhaled.

Invisible ribbons of hunger-inflaming scents from the vicinity of the swinging kitchen door behind him invaded his quivering nostrils. He detected nutty sizzling butters, meat smoke, soups redolent of mushrooms and leeks, decanted vintage wine. His palate was so sensitive, he felt he could actually distinguish the separate odors dissolving against the postage stamp-size tissue called the olfactory epithelium, high in his nasal cavity.

"Now, sir?" whispered the bug-eyed tuxedo-clad maitre d' at his back.

The arrangement was that only the maitre d' could serve or speak to him. Berger never spoke back, but rather indicated his wishes with a series of predetermined head and facial gestures. He had even asked that the shades be drawn to keep the dining space as dark as possible.

Berger waited a moment longer, holding in the glorious aromas, a junkie with a hit of crack smoke. Then he gave a subtle nod.

The maitre d's finger snap was like a starter pistol, and in came the white-jacketed waiters with the plates. They were actually more like platters. There were mounds of brioche, caviar, quiche, a roast duck, a creme brulee, oysters, a gravy boat filled with a saffron-colored sauce, and more. It was hard to tell which meal was being served.

It was actually all of them, a montage of breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Berger immediately tucked in. The first thing within his grasp was a still-warm baguette. He ripped off a hunk in a detonation of flaky crumbs, stabbed it into a tub of white truffle butter, and slammed it into his waiting mouth. More crumbs went flying as he chewed with his mouth open. He loudly slurped at a glass of Cabernet, spilling much of it. Arterial-red rivulets dripped unnoticed off his chin as he reached for the plate of oysters.