Oliver Stark - 88 Killer

‘What of?’ asked Carney.

‘Something, someone — not sure. Maybe the organization itself. Any evidence they hurt their own?’

‘It happens, yeah. Usually in prison, if word gets around that someone’s talked.’

‘No big player out there frightening these lowlifes?’ asked Harper.

‘Unless it’s the leader. But we’ve not been able to infiltrate the hierarchy. They’ve kept themselves hidden and they never talk even if they get caught.’

Harper stood up and walked about the small apartment.

‘There’s something else,’ said Jack. ‘Let’s have it.’

‘I want to talk about Esther Haeber.’

‘Who?’

‘Esther Haeber. Two months ago, you were involved in the investigation. I spoke to the Investigating Officer, Hilary McCain from Brooklyn Homicide. She’s a tough investigator, but she’s not stupid. Far from it. She got a prosecution out of it, but she wasn’t a hundred per cent on it. She said you knew the case. The perp was one of your regulars.’

‘That’s right. So what’s the problem?’

‘I don’t think your man did it. I think it’s one of our guys. You know what else? I went to see the crime scene and guess what I found?’

‘I don’t know, Tom.’

‘An 88 scratched into the concrete, about twenty yards from the body. This killer can’t help himself.’

‘Come on, Tom. An 88 that could have been scratched there by any lowlife. The perp was good for this.’

‘I don’t buy it. Esther Haeber goes walking late at night wearing gold jewelry in a part of Brooklyn that she should’ve avoided. Just like Capske. She’s carrying five hundred dollars that’s not taken from her purse. And yet, the story is, this killer follows her, then tries to rob her. She struggles. Maybe she screams. He gets scared and pulls out a gun.’

‘He panicked.’

‘Panicked? He left five hundred dollars on the body and before he shot her, he cut off each of her fingers, one by one. That’s not panic, Jack, that’s fucking pathological.’

‘I remember. He cut off her rings. They were worth something.’

‘Then he shoots her. The bullet goes right through her carotid artery, shatters her seventh cervical vertebra and lands in a beautiful brand new Porsche Carrera on the side of the street.’

‘Yeah, that’s right. The owner was sick — that’s an eighty-thousand-dollar car,’ Jack Carney said.

‘Detective McCain didn’t find any leads to anyone else, but this guy fell into her lap.’

‘It was a homicide. Wasn’t my case.’

‘Why did they bring you in?’

‘Homicide wanted to see if there was evidence of hate crime. Someone heard some racial slurs about a half-hour before the murder. We looked into it. Impossible to get anywhere, and by the time we’d done the rounds, they had their man.’

‘Was there any racial motive?’

‘The killer was a racist, but he seemed to want money more than anything.’

‘How confident were you that the suspect was the killer?’

‘He had a history. They found her jewelry in his apartment. Still blood-smeared.’

‘Yeah, I’ve been through the case. Careless to keep that kind of thing.’

‘Damn right.’

‘But the crime scene left nothing. No prints, fibers, nothing. The bullet was in no shape to be analyzed. Seems incongruous.’

‘Mind that can cut someone like that isn’t thinking straight,’ said Carney.

‘Anything odd about the crime scene?’

‘I wasn’t at the crime scene, Tom, I was just advising. I was looking for evidence of hate crime.’

‘The killer who worked on David Capske wasn’t new to the game. He’s killed and hurt people before. I think Esther Haeber was one of his kills.’

‘Shit, you really think they jailed the wrong guy?’

‘I can’t be sure. But if you can remember any more detail, Jack…’

‘I’d need to revisit the case-files, try to jog my memory, see what I can come up with,’ said Carney.

‘I’d appreciate it.’

Jack nodded. ‘You’re either inspired or you got too many bumps to the head, Tom. Not sure which it is.’

‘Me neither. But Esther Haeber is supposed to have been mugged — yet the killer cuts off her fingers for some cheap jewelry and takes a fur coat, but he leaves her purse. I read the report, it doesn’t add up.’

‘He got spooked maybe. It happens.’

‘I’ll tell you what’s bugging me about this case. Simple as this — staging.’

‘What?’

‘This woman is staged to look like she’s been mugged but she hasn’t. But the cops look around, there’s no other motive so they’ve got nothing else to say. So they guess she struggled or he got scared and didn’t get to finish the job.’

‘She fought him, he reacted.’

‘I looked at the report. No scuff marks, nails unbroken, hair wasn’t even messed up. No sign of a struggle or fight. She must’ve been unconscious when he cut off her fingers. Else, there’d be more to see.’

Carney shrugged.

‘He had Capske out cold while he rolled him in wire. One more question. Did she have anything tattooed or written on her chest?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘I just want the truth, Jack. The truth.’

‘You look long enough into the abyss, it starts to look back at you.’

‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You seem wired. Keep things in perspective, Harper. You’re under a lot of pressure here and nothing’s breaking. Lukanov’s been found. Don’t go looking for the extravagant theory, when you’ve got your man in the can.’

‘I know, I know, I’ve had all those doubts myself, but I can’t stop thinking that there’s more to it.’ Harper pressed his hand on Carney’s shoulder, then headed out the door.

Midtown, Manhattan

March 9, 6.43 p.m.

They had not found her yet. The thought pleased him. She was still there, tied to the post and dragged by the currents. He had submerged Marisa in the East River in the dark night, sat by her side as the cold water stripped away her body heat. He had read much about these experiments, he had absorbed every detail, every statistic, but nothing compared to the cold reality. He had kept his stopwatch close to his eyes as her lips turned blue and her head shook above the water. She wanted to submerge herself, to drown, but he wouldn’t allow it. Death belonged to him, not her. How long would she last? Would she die first or ask for salvation?

Under forty-five minutes. It had surprised him. She hadn’t lasted as long as he had anticipated. Hypothermia was a curious death. Dying while fully clothed as the traffic roared by on FDR Drive. He could still remember the distinctive sound of her teeth chattering above the water.

It was his need, to take these people apart, to absorb their life as they died, to feel them slip away as he grew stronger. She managed only minutes before she was blue with cold. Then he fished her out, revived her on the wooden platform until she showed signs of life. Then he put her back in.

It took three submersions until Marisa was nearly unconscious with the cold. He smiled as he shot her through the top of her head. Orders were orders.

The smoke twirled in his car; he stared out, excited by the experiments, the slow precision of his deaths, the fear that grew as the knowledge that there was no escape ripened in their minds. These inferiors wanted you to want something — sex, revenge, money, something tangible. They couldn’t conceive or cope with the glaring eye of impartial observation, or the brutal logic of the fanatic. They were not human to him, they needed to suffer as a means to his own survival and to the growth of knowledge.