Oliver Stark - 88 Killer

‘I know. Where in Queens?’

‘North Shore Marine Transfer Facility.’

‘And what happens to the trash at the North Shore?’

‘It gets loaded into a container. When it’s full, it gets put on a barge and it sails away, to where I do not know or care.’

‘What about last night’s garbage? Will it have gone already?’

‘Hey, what do you think I do, keep tags on my garbage? I’ve no fucking idea, Detective.’

‘That’s okay. I can find that out.’ Harper took out his cell and called Eddie. He answered on the first ring. ‘You at the Station House, Eddie?’

‘Still chasing down these leads, but getting nowhere fast.’

‘I think I might know where the killer dumped his kill kit.’

‘What are you thinking?’

‘This killer is smart,’ said Harper. ‘And if he’s smart, he’s going to dump it somewhere we won’t find it.’

‘They checked the storm drains, the sewage, the trash, the streets, the houses, the roofs, the alleys; they’ve been everywhere, Harper,’ said Eddie.

‘I’ve been wondering why he waited until three-thirty a.m. to shoot this guy. It’s risky, right?’

‘It’s damn risky.’

‘Maybe he was waiting for Department of Sanitation.’

‘How so?’

‘Garbage trucks, Eddie. On Saturday, they collect around three-thirty a.m., and all our killer has to do is take his bloody clothes, the barbed-wire spool, the gloves and maybe even the murder weapon, put it out on the sidewalk and watch the city pick it up and take it away for him. Then he walks.’

‘That’s brilliant. Where are you now?’

‘In a garbage truck on the way to the North Shore Marine Transfer Facility in Queens. Meet me there in one hour with Blue Team and Crime Scene Unit. See if you can get the Logistics and Operational Manager for the Facility. We need to trace last night’s garbage.’

‘I’m on it, Harps. They work the same routes each night, right? We just need the truck number and the dumpsite. It’s going to be a dirty night’s work for someone in the Crime Scene Unit.’

North Shore Marine Transfer Facility, Queens

March 8, 2.23 a.m.

Harper arrived at the huge blue warehouse at the North Shore Transfer Facility. Eddie Kasper, the team and two CSU trucks were sitting there waiting. Harper thanked the driver and jumped off. The air was cold next to the river, and in the distance he could hear the industrial hum of hundreds of loaders, dump trucks and garbage trucks transporting New York’s waste to someplace else.

‘Quick work, Eddie, what have you got?’

‘Dogs are on their way. We’ve got David Capske’s jacket coming across from the OCME to give them something to work on, but the handlers aren’t sure how they’ll cope. Depends on how rancid the trash is.’

‘That’s great, Eddie. What about the location of our load?’

‘We’ve dragged the Logistics Supervisor out of bed, the Operations Manager and the roll-on team. We’ve got tonight’s team on hold. Nothing leaves until we find our trash.’

Harper looked at the tired faces of the people in front of him. Two men who looked like they just got out of bed stood shivering in the wind. Behind them, three more of the team from the Transfer Facility. Their faces were cynical and bored.

Harper walked across. ‘This is a homicide investigation, gentlemen. I apologize for the disturbance, but we need your help. You’ll go back to bed when this is over, but our victim never will. So no wise-ass bullshit. We’re serious about finding that kill kit and we’ll keep the whole plant closed down until we do. Understand?’

The men nodded one by one. ‘That’s good. Now let’s locate the dock and the barge.’

He turned as the CSU trucks started to unload. Several men and women all wearing white suits tramped across the concrete.

‘First up, what happens when the trash gets here?’

The Operations Manager took Harper through the routine. Eddie Kasper took the Logistics Supervisor back inside with the truck number.

Within fifteen minutes, they came back together. Harper gathered the team.

‘We’re in luck,’ he said. ‘Our garbage is sitting on a barge in Dock Four. It’s due to leave later tonight, so we just made it. The garbage truck unloads in one of bays sixteen to twenty-two, which means the trash will be on the right section of the barge. We’ve been through the options. There’s no way we can jump on board and start sifting. We’re going to crane the rubbish back on shore, and sift it load by load. Any questions?’ There was silence. ‘Well, let’s get going.’

Harper searched with the team throughout the night, staring out over the vast mountains of trash as far as the eye could see. It seemed like an impossible task. At six, he lay down on a bench in the warehouse and closed his eyes. An hour later, he felt someone pushing his shoulder. He looked up.

‘Eddie, what’ve you got?’

‘We got something,’ said Eddie. Just then, Rick Swanson burst in. His blue suit was stained at the knees with dark wet patches, his hands were black with dirt, his jacket was covered in unpleasant-looking detritus. Behind him, Mary Greco was a five-foot-two picture of perfect cleanliness in a plain white tank top and jeans. She was wearing gloves and holding a plastic bag high in the air.

‘Five fucking hours in Harlem’s shit for forty-two-thousand dollars a year, Harper! No sleep, no nothing. It smells worse than a body in that dump,’ said Swanson.

Harper clapped. ‘But you found it! You’re a hero.’

‘Six fucking hours.’

‘You said five,’ said Eddie. ‘Either I’m not hearing things right or that’s one quick hour.’

‘Fuck you,’ said Swanson. ‘Six or seven hours, what’s the difference?’

‘How comes he’s all dirty and you’re clean, Greco?’

‘They offered us white suits, but Mr Macho found the onesies a little effeminate.’

‘I’m not wearing a fucking Babygro.’

‘No, you’re wearing cabbage and diapers by the smell of you.’

‘You got it, though, am I right?’ said Harper.

‘Yeah, we got it, all right,’ said Swanson.

‘What’s in there?’

Swanson took off his jacket and threw it straight into the bin. ‘I can’t wear this no more. It’s going to remind me of stamping through a container of putrid Harlem crap.’

‘What’s in the bags, Swanson? Focus.’

‘He’s not as smart as he thinks,’ said Swanson. ‘He’s bagged the lot together. We weren’t getting anywhere until the canine unit brought in the sniffer dogs.’

‘We would’ve been another twelve hours,’ said Mary. ‘And this macho pig moans like a girl with a broken nail. Every five seconds. I couldn’t stand it any more.’

‘We got a rag of Capske’s blood from Forensics and they found it. You know what? I hate being second to a dog.’

‘In every way, Swanson,’ said Mary Greco. ‘In every way.’

Rick Swanson muttered something. He pulled off his shoes and put them in the trash too. ‘The fucking canine unit… if they’d come first, I wouldn’t have ruined my suit and shoes.’

‘The department will clean your suit,’ said Harper. ‘For the last time, what’s in the bag?’

‘The whole shebang. Gloves, remnants of wire on a wooden spool, knife and overalls.’

‘Weapon?’

‘No gun.’

‘Let’s get it straight to the lab.’ Harper looked at his team. ‘That’s good work, guys. Real good work. Let’s hope they find something for us to go on.’

North Manhattan Homicide

March 8, 11.30 a.m.

Denise Levene was wearing a smart black suit, a white blouse and glasses. She breathed slowly, trying to control the nerves that were making her hands tremble. It was impossible to know if what she was doing was right for her, but it no longer mattered. She needed progress.