Oliver Stark - American Devil

Harper looked at her suspiciously. ‘I don’t believe you. There’s more, isn’t there? I’ve been to those training sessions with the FBI and I couldn’t have predicted his behaviour like you did.’

‘It was a lucky shot.’

‘Bullshit.’ Tom looked into her eyes. ‘I’m sorry to call so early, but if we can’t track down how these women knew the killer then we need to work out where he stalks his victims. I want to do a reconstruction. I want to run through the murder at the Elizabeth Seale crime scene and I need you there. I need that talented head of yours. You might see something everyone else has missed. What do you think? Might help? Would you?’

Denise’s eyes widened. ‘Get out of here, Tom.’

‘Come on. I need some fresh thoughts. You predicted his behaviour. You understand him. I’ll keep you safe. It’ll be okay.’

‘Visiting a murdered girl’s apartment at dawn with a cop I’m supposed to be treating — are you kidding?’

The door to the bedroom opened and Daniel walked in. ‘Lot of commotion for six a.m. Are we in trouble?’

‘Sorry,’ said Denise. ‘We’ll try to keep it down.’

‘Is that coffee I smell?’

‘Yeah. I’ll get you some. This is Detective Harper, North Manhattan Homicide. Tom, this is Daniel Mercer.’

‘Morning,’ said Tom. ‘I’m sorry I disturbed you.’

Denise walked through to the kitchen to fetch the coffee. Daniel stood looking at Harper. ‘My girlfriend under arrest, Detective?’

‘No.’

‘Early for a house call, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You’re talkative, aren’t you?’

‘I’m on police business, sir. Got nothing to say.’

‘What do you want with Denise? She’s a psychotherapist, not a cop.’

‘It’s confidential business, sir. I can’t say.’

Denise arrived back with the coffee. ‘Daniel, we’re kind of in the middle of something. Would you give us a minute?’

‘Sure, but it all sounds very secretive to me. Hope you’re not getting in too deep, Denise.’

‘Hey, if I wanted a handler, I’d be wearing a collar.’

Daniel took his coffee and left the room. Harper looked across to Denise. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had someone here. I’ll go. I’m just not thinking straight. My apologies.’

‘What about your reconstruction?’

‘I can go through it alone. We can talk later.’

‘You think I can help?’

‘It might make the difference.’

‘It’s a long shot,’ she said, breathing in the aroma of her coffee. ‘I’ve never even been to a crime scene.’

‘It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?’

‘And what do I do?’

‘You’re the victim.’

‘Oh, that’s just terrific. I’m typecast on my first case.’

‘I’m not much good in heels. And I need to walk in his shoes a while. I got to feel this guy think. But don’t feel you ought to.’

‘Don’t you worry about me. I’m coming,’ Denise said. ‘But no weird shit. Give me ten minutes.’ She drank the espresso down in one.

The Laker Building

November 22, 6.48 a.m.

Denise and Tom drove over to the Laker Building in silence. Daniel had not been in a good mood when she went back into the bedroom to dress, but she just ignored it. It was the only way to deal with his unfounded jealousy. She put on her jacket, and then, as an afterthought, took a little photograph of her father and put it in her pocket. He’d come with her. She might need some moral support.

There were reasons why Denise knew the criminal mind and it wasn’t from anything she’d learned at Quantico. Throughout her childhood, she had come to know the inside of a prison well. She had come to know about the dangerous criminals who inhabited the same strange rooms as her father. He told her the stories. No lies from her old man. He told his little girl, straight. Never romance or euphemism. He pointed them out — the rapists, the murderers, the child molesters he did time with. He told her what they’d done, why they’d done it and what they were like. He told her that’s why they were locked up. Her father had told her everything she ever needed to know about the criminal mind from behind a perspex screen.

He also told her that he never meant to kill Albert Mack and she believed him. He told her he regretted it every day, but you had to live with your mistakes.

Her mother was long gone by the time Denise got to know her father. The little girl lived with a collection of relatives in a small tenement building. It was not bad. It was limited, sure, they had nothing, but they were good people, all of them. And they looked after her.

When Denise Levene got a scholarship to university, she was the pride of her family. Her old man cried for the first time in his adult life. It was the only time they’d ever got sentimental with each other and it didn’t last long. Cancer was burrowing up through his gut by then and he only had a year to live.

So Denise was left with a legacy. She was not afraid of criminals or their mental states. She was fascinated by the darkness that took those lives and destroyed them. She was just about brilliant enough to end up at Quantico, but her family’s criminal background meant that she didn’t get through the first round of interviews.

But you pick yourself up and try again. And then again and then again. And that was her philosophy: get off your knees.

She looked across at Harper, firmly gripping the wheel. She could see from his eyes, his attitude, that he could easily have been on the other side — some maverick, hard-ass criminal. She thought he maybe saw something in her too. Some basic recognition. You know it when you meet someone who’s actually lived. You see it. You just have to look down a little to catch it. People with scuffed knees.

They arrived at Elizabeth Seale’s apartment just before 6.50 a.m. Harper’s police shield got him through the doors, and Marvin was still sitting on the desk.

Tom flicked on the lights. Denise was feeling her heart beat heavily in her chest. ‘Kind of spooky to think the poor girl came in like this and was dead an hour later.’

‘Medical report says he kept her breathing for as long as he could. He sat there and held a plastic bag round her neck until she nearly died, then he opened up the bag. Over and over again, just playing with her life like it’s some toy.’ Tom walked further into the apartment. ‘I like to do reconstructions. Run through the scene, see if it brings anything to light.’

Denise looked around. The apartment was cold. It already had the feel of an abandoned place. She shrugged. ‘What do I do?’

‘I’ll hide in the wardrobe, just like he was. You come in, put your bag down. Come into the bedroom.’

‘Got it. Then you kill me, right? It’s just like a first date.’

Tom nodded and went into the bedroom. He moved inside the wardrobe. The chair that the killer had used was still there. Tom sat down. He tried to calm his breathing. It was definitely spooky. He could see through the thin gap between the wardrobe doors. A thin line of light. This was how the killer had seen his victim. This was where he sat, excited and demonic. What was he doing in the wardrobe? Was he daydreaming? Anticipating? Thinking of how he was going to kill her?

Denise went outside the apartment. Half of her was thinking, what the hell am I doing? Still, if it might help, she was willing to try it. She wondered if the hardnosed Detective Harper was just plain old-fashioned lonely and needed a good excuse for company. She suspected that he was.

She re-entered Elizabeth Seale’s apartment, but this time she was on her own. She looked into the dark and silent room and switched on the lights. She felt the apprehension that Elizabeth Seale would not have felt and tried to act casual. She did what she would’ve done, which was to toss her bag on the polished mahogany side table in the small hallway. Elizabeth was probably a lot more refined. She probably had a handbag storage system. Denise shivered. She shouldn’t make light of it. Poor Elizabeth Seale had no idea that there was a killer lurking in her home. A killer who had been tracking her movements for months, who was waiting in the shadows, waiting not only to kill her but to slowly torture her to death.