Oliver Stark - 88 Killer

‘I’m on my way. Any movement?’

‘No one in or out. He’s probably still sleeping.’

Harper and Eddie drove over. Eddie explained what he’d done so far. He had passed the information about the typewriter to Ratten, who had gone out over eBay and two or three Internet groups asking for a 1934 Torpedo Portable Typewriter. He’d already had two hits. Someone who had one and someone who might have one soon.

‘He’ll have a list of dealers by the time we get back.’

‘Good. But I doubt we’ll be able to trace it. If this guy’s really delusional, he could’ve bought it years ago.’

They turned into the street and saw Swanson and Greco’s car. They pulled up and got out. Greco and Swanson drove up to them.

‘Good luck,’ said Swanson.

‘Which is his room?’ said Harper.

Greco pointed. ‘Third-floor corner.’

Harper stared up. ‘Windows open all night?’

‘Yep. Lights went off at 5.27 a.m.’

‘Strange,’ said Harper.

‘Why?’

‘People close their drapes to sleep.’

‘His bedroom is at the side,’ said Greco.

‘I know,’ said Harper, ‘and the drapes aren’t drawn.’

‘Maybe he sleeps heavy,’ said Swanson.

‘You see anyone come and go?’

‘Not a thing. Just other residents.’

‘How many?’

‘Several. We got pictures, if you want.’

‘You kept an eye on the back entrance?’ Harper asked.

‘Sure. There’s two cops there.’

‘They say they saw anyone come in or out?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Girlfriend?’

‘No.’

‘Anyone else?’ said Harper.

‘A cop.’

‘What cop?’

‘The guys at the back saw him. They didn’t see him go in, but a cop came out with a perp in cuffs this morning.’

‘One cop?’ said Harper.

‘Yeah, one cop. Suppose the second cop was in the car.’

‘You said he was leading a perp?’

‘Yeah.’

‘They get a good look at that perp?’

‘No. He had a hoodie on.’

‘Fuck,’ said Harper.

‘What? It was a cop.’

‘Maybe it was a cop, maybe it was Leo and one of his crew.’

‘No, they were sure it was a cop.’

‘You don’t know that. Let me ask you.’

‘What?’

‘How many cops do you see making arrests from the projects on their own?’ The two detectives shook their heads. ‘Is that never? Or do you want more time?’

‘Hardly ever,’ said Greco.

Harper sighed. ‘Come on, he’s gone. Somehow, he’s fucking gone.’

Harper and Eddie ran up to the house, Swanson and Greco behind them. They entered the building, raced up the stairs to the third floor.

Harper stared at the door. ‘Who’s done this? Who kicked this in?’

‘You did,’ said Swanson.

‘I barged the door. The Crime Scene team bolted the door. It’s been kicked open. Careful, there might be prints.’

Harper pushed open the door. He called out, ‘Police.’

Not a sound came back. They stopped still. Were hit by the smell of urine.

They opened the door fully. ‘Looks like he’s gone,’ said Eddie.

‘How fucked up do we want to be? We lost our one lead,’ shouted Harper. He moved through to the bedroom, pushed open this door in turn. ‘Shit,’ said Harper. ‘I don’t think he’s gone.’

‘What? He’s sleeping?’

Eddie joined Harper. There was Lukanov, lying naked on the bed. Gunshot wound to the head. Feathers everywhere, a pillow marked black with residue. His torso was ripped across with the number 88 in large bloody tracks. A small black and white cat was licking at the wounds. It paused and stared at them.

Harper turned and pushed past the two detectives. ‘They killed him,’ he said. ‘He didn’t come or go, you fucking imbeciles, but someone fucking did.’

‘Who? We were supposed to tail the guy, not fucking nurse him. We weren’t looking for someone going in, were we?’

‘I guess not. Another fucking dead end.’

The body was pale, the blood dried black. Covered with Nazi tattoos from neck to ankle. The red calling card ripped across it.

‘A foot soldier,’ said Harper. ‘Dispensable. Someone they knew had betrayed them.’ He turned to Eddie. ‘We’re getting close.’

‘How do you figure?’

‘Serial killers who attack random victims according to type are difficult to trace because there’s no connection between the motive and the victim. There’s only the unlucky fact that the victim was the type.’

‘I know that.’

‘But this is no random victim — this man was killed because he knew, because he was a threat.’

‘So what?’

‘We’re in his lair, Eddie, we’re right in the heart, in the control center, with links and evidence.’

‘That’s good, right?’

‘Sure, that’s good.’

‘You don’t have the face of a man who thinks it’s good.’

‘No. He’s playing a different game now. Either he’s going to pack up, go quiet, move town and hope we never catch up with him, or…’

‘Or?’

‘Or he’s going to feel our breath on his neck and start enjoying it, like it’s some game, and then things are going to escalate fast. So fast, I’m scared.’

‘Why?’

‘Because, Eddie, these people think they’re right, and if he feels he’s pushed into a corner, if he feels that there’s no way out, he’s going to start thinking about doing some permanent damage, maybe on a different scale.’

‘A kill spree.’

‘Yeah. That’s what I’m worried about. Three kills in three days. He’s not just a pattern killer, he’s a deluded soldier who thinks the war’s fucking started. And he’s in New York.’

Lock-Up, Bedford-Stuyvesant

March 10, 5.05 p.m.

The door was yanked open and he stood in a rectangle of moonlight. The darkness of the garage made him pause for a moment. The smell of mold on clay bricks, the human smell somewhere in the background. His hand moved out and flicked an old plastic switch. Lights flickered dimly in the gloom below.

The killer stepped into the garage. He moved sideways past piles of bricks and scaffolding poles. At the side of the room stood an old desk facing a mirror. An old-fashioned reel-to-reel tape recorder sat on the desk with a small square-headed microphone attached.

The killer put his notebook beside the tape recorder and stared into the mirror. His hair was slicked flat to his skull, and he was wearing a uniform, a full uniform, with the blue eagle on the arm. The uniform made him feel stronger.

He stood in front of the mirror and tried not to look at his face. His uniform couldn’t disguise his features. He was no Aryan, but in the low light he could believe it more than usual. There had never been, to his knowledge, a connection between the expression on his face and the feelings and thoughts beneath.

His whole life he had played a calm game, smiling and getting by, but everything was conditional, nothing was absolute. Perhaps it was just like that with some people. Even as a child he experimented with faces, hiding the feelings below with a mask. With the uniform and the formality of the army, it was different. You were what you appeared to be.

He appeared to be an SS officer because he was an SS officer. He could kill when he liked. When Jews were in the ghetto, when they were out of the ghetto, during the day, during the night. If they broke the rules by being out after curfew or by wearing fur coats or gold rings. All of this was illegal. He could dismiss a Jew with a ragged bullet-hole in an instant. Feeling was action. The manifold between the two worlds had never been complete until now.

He loved this new life he had created. His reanimated life. The life of the past, of past certainties, of past glories, of power, hunger and the Third Reich.