Oliver Stark - 88 Killer

Denise felt the power of the session. Somewhere inside each of their minds, they were beginning to remember those events, those terrible events, but now, they were facing them not with the terror of being unable to defend themselves, but with the questions: What could I have done? How and when?

Apartment, Lower East Side

March 9, 6.07 p.m.

The walk up Essex was unremarkable. It was an ugly stretch of road with a huge municipal parking lot opposite the retail market. The sidewalks were busy with young Asian students and the odd guy with seemingly nothing better to do. Harper crossed Rivington and Stanton and found Detective Jack Carney’s building opposite a bright public-school playground. The kids were all at home and the playground stood empty.

Jack Carney worked Brooklyn Hate Crime and had lived on the Lower East Side for most of his life. The city had changed a great deal since he grew up on the streets of Lower Manhattan, but Jack insisted that there was nowhere else that felt like home.

Harper took out the address, which was scribbled on a small scrap of brown envelope. He looked up at a dirty black building. Under all the grime it was quite an ornate piece of architecture. But the carbon emissions had brought it down to earth.

Tom Harper pressed the buzzer. He had called Jack in advance, to let him know he was coming by. Jack was off shift for two days, but didn’t mind helping out an old colleague. He waited and pressed again. Then he checked the address. After a couple of minutes, a voice came through the speaker.

‘That you, Harper?’

‘This is me, Jack.’

Jack Carney laughed. His voice was deep and filled the tinny speaker until it crackled. They’d never been close, just went through training together, remaining aware of each other, the way two lions are.

‘You know it all comes flooding back. Come on up.’

Harper pushed the door and found his way to a small elevator. He reached the fifth floor and walked down the dark corridor to Jack’s apartment. The door was open.

‘Come right in, buddy.’

Jack Carney and Tom Harper were of similar height, but apart from that they were about as different to look at as you could get. Harper was big, strong in the shoulder and with strong features. Carney was like a dark wiry animal you’d find surviving some terrible arid landscape on scraps. He was hardened Brooklyn stock.

‘Jack.’

‘Tom.’

‘I could’ve met you somewhere.’

‘No need, I don’t want to put you to any trouble. How’s Dr Levene?’

‘She got pretty shaken up by those four thugs.’

‘They don’t play by normal rules,’ said Carney. ‘Been dealing with them for years and they continue to surprise. We’ve got all our ears to the ground down at Hate Crime. Is that where your investigation is heading?’

‘Lukanov is involved. We also got an 88 moniker at the crime scenes of David Capske and Abby Goldenberg. You ever seen that?’

‘Sure, neo-Nazis use it. Means Heil Hitler.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I understand. We’re going to need your help, Jack.’

‘Any way we can.’

Harper looked directly at Jack. He looked good. Still sharp. ‘Shit, you look ten years younger than me.’

Jack’s blue eyes searched Harper’s face. ‘You think? Maybe it’s just because you look like shit.’

‘I got my ass kicked in the ring.’

‘You could handle yourself better than that — what happened?’

‘Shit happened.’

‘I guess. Was he that good?’

Harper smiled. ‘No, he wasn’t. I was that bad.’

‘Now that’s what I’ve been telling people all over. There’s something up with the world. The strong are being ousted by the weak, you know. Who was it, Tom?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Someone took the focus and fight out of you — who was she?’

‘There wasn’t anyone, just had a bad night.’

Carney smiled. ‘Sure. I’ve had bad nights like that plenty of times. You want a drink?’

‘No, thanks. I want to find out about these fucked-up groups. These neo-Nazis.’

‘They come out of the woodwork. America has lost its confidence, right? An economic ecosystem, just like the dust bowl — you take too much and the whole thing turns to desert. People are losing their livelihoods out there. So they find someone to blame.’

‘You notice it in Hate Crime?’

‘Sure do. The economy goes down, hate crime goes up. Being rich is the only way to fight against racism.’

‘Horrible thought.’

‘The worse things get, the more scary the politics get, the worse it is on the streets. Low-level frustrations tipping over into full-scale turf wars. Poverty and desperation are only half of it.’

‘And the other half?’

‘Politics. The rhetoric from the government, the ruddy-eyed American dream. People on the streets hear it and it creeps into their blood, but it’s nowhere to be found where they live, so they get to think that someone stole it from them.’

‘Understandable.’

‘Leo Lukanov. People like that. They’re told that the Mexicans or the Koreans or the Jews have taken their dream. You need to look carefully at dreams, Tom. Yours too. The dream is always a fake, and the man who sold it to you is long gone, so you need someone to blame.’

‘Yeah, I guess.’

‘Someone once told you that you’d be happy, didn’t they? But it went belly up, right? The girl left, the world became gritty and real. It’s called waking up. Hardest thing in the world is waking up.’

‘Waking up isn’t hard, it’s keeping clean once you see how things are.’

‘Damn right,’ said Carney.

Harper looked around the apartment. ‘You push two ends of a piece of metal and at some point, it buckles. That’s all it is. We’re the buckle.’

‘Hey, I like that, Tom. Look at us. Old buddies.’ Jack laughed. ‘Where the hell did it all go wrong? You married, Tom?’ And when Harper shrugged: ‘That’s what I’m talking about. The dream didn’t turn up, did it? I’m living in this tiny room and working my ass off for less than 40K. Happy? When did the pursuit of happiness get so fucking hard, Tom?’

Harper shook his head. He felt it too. It was hard. Life had fragmented — communities blistered and split apart in the heat of poverty and need. Everyone was on their own. There was no community.

‘If I could afford it, you know what I’d do?’ Jack went on.

‘No.’

‘Buy a plot of land and farm the soil.’

Tom laughed. ‘I just can’t see you as a farmer, Jack.’

Jack smiled. ‘Maybe you’re right. All dreams are bullshit.’

There was a silence. ‘Enough of that,’ Jack said finally. ‘Let’s talk about your case.’

‘We’re not sure about Lukanov.’

‘You’re not sure it’s him or you think there are others involved?’

‘He attacked Abby and Denise, there’s no question about that, but we’ve got nothing on the Capske shooting. And it seems a different crime altogether. Much more brutal.’

‘Except the barbed wire? That’s a physical link between Lukanov and the crime scene, right?’

‘Not quite. The print was on the post, not the barbed wire. It wouldn’t hold up in court. We’re trying to match up some fibers.’

‘What kind of fibers?’

‘Looks like wool. Left on the barbed wire. Probably from the killer’s coat.’

‘You ransacked Lukanov’s place?’

‘Yeah. He’s a member of this neo-Nazi group. We haven’t got the name.’

‘They’re called Section 88,’ said Carney. ‘They’re new or it’s a new set-up. We’ve not got much on them.’

‘But there’s something more. Lukanov’s scared.’