William Diehl - Seven ways to die

“That really narrows it down.”

“C’mon, we know more than that.”

They knew that the people who frequented the sex clubs to which Handley most likely was attracted had a lot of money. Men set the rules, as one informant told them. Solo women were not allowed although, curiously, a man with two attractive females was. Many of the participants were married couples or couples who lived together or men with their mistresses or, perhaps in Handley’s case, men who brought attractive women with them. There were some daytime clubs for guys who liked matinees but most were nightclubs. They could pop up behind a club or restaurant. Or in a basement. Or in somebody’s apartment or condo. Just about anywhere where comfort and discretion would permit. The rules seemed to vary somewhat with one exception: gay men were out. That was a different clique. They had their own turf.

Because of the time element, DeMarco and Ryan had pretty much narrowed down the location to a square block bordered on the south and north by 10th and Charles and on the west and east by Hudson and Bleecker.

They headed down 10th toward Hudson. Ryan stopped about halfway down the block. He looked around, turned up his jacket collar, studying the street. DeMarco walked a little farther down toward Hudson, checking the landscape. Ryan cupped his hands over his mouth, breathed on them, and then rubbed them together.

“It got cold all of a sudden.”

“Hell, it’s almost November. You should know better.”

“You sound like my Aunt Mabel.” He leaned forward, squinting up and down 10th Street. He was visualizing the big board back at the Loft and the satellite shot of the area. They were on the north side of 10th. The limo had dropped Handley off near the corner of 10th and Hudson, which was to his right. And Handley had caught a cab on Bleecker, which was a half block to his left and around the corner to the south.

“I dunno, kid. You know what Cody always says, if you can’t think it, talk it out.”

“Uh huh. Then he goes off and has a chat with a friggin’ squirrel.”

“Whatever works for him. There isn’t an alley on the other side of the street.”

“I noticed that.”

“So he gets dropped off near the corner a half a block down there on Hudson and gets picked up a half a block that way on Bleecker. And he’s all dolled up and stands out like a kid with a black eye at First Communion.”

“And he’s gonna get where he’s going without dancing in the street like Gene Kelly.”

“My thought exactly.”

“Straight and narrow.”

“We gotta start somewhere, Wow. I say we make some maybes into positives to start with. Like he comes down here to meet a dame. A classy dame. Not a pimp. He isn’t into hookers, that’s why he goes to these clubs.”

“Somebody he’s met before, man. Maybe to set up that gig in his apartment.”

“Yeah. This somebody, this chick, is gonna meet him and he’s coming in from Cincy so the setup has to cover for a late arrival. A classy dame isn’t gonna sit around some club or restaurant alone.”

“But one of these sex clubs, that works, right? She’ll be comfortable if he’s a little late. And she checks on the flight, see if it’s late.”

“Good thinking. Know what, Wow? I don’t think it’s in an apartment. Too many people going in and out. A doorman, too, probably. That’s too risky for Handley.”

“That’s good, Butch, that’s real good. So she goes to this club, wherever the hell it is, about the time he’ll get there.”

“Right. And he isn’t going anyplace and hang out waiting for her. I mean, this guy’s all class. He’s gonna be noticed at that time of night with his three thousand dollar coat and killer briefcase. So he’s gonna go straight to the club, too.”

“And it’s more likely to be in an alley than on a main street.”

“Jesus!” Stinelli said. “What the hell kind of wacko are you dealing with?”

Hue and Cody had just run the entire Handley briefing for him, but the commander’s eyes were fixed on the photograph of the death scene. Stinelli and Cody stood at the back of the operations room as he stared at the main board. Simon and Hue were at their posts, Kate Winters was sitting at her desk and Charley was asleep on the cot in Cody’s office. The rest of the crew was in the field.

“Si, can you elaborate a little bit for the commander,” Cody said.

“A conundrum,” the little man said.

“That’s obvious. A little more than that.”

“I’m still working on a couple of things,” Simon said. “I have a lot of blanks to fill in.”

“Just give him the general profile for now, Si.”

“Well, we’re not dealing with a wacko in the sense I think you mean, Chief. Not like, say, Richard Trenton who believed he had to drink his victim’s blood to stay alive. He was a true psychotic. Our killer is a psychopath. The murder has all the indicators of a serial killer-who are mostly white, male, psychopaths between the ages of twenty-five to forty-three. Average age thirty-four. Only five percent are psychotic and, of the entire lot, only about one percent are women. So for the sake of this discussion let’s just say this killer is a white male who appears to be normal, probably follows a routine-a civil servant or blue collar person although he could be a doctor, lawyer, or college professor. He shows minimal bizarre behavior in everyday life but harbors a secret need to dominate and control others, has a constant need for sexual stimulation and gratification, has no conscience, knows good from evil but feels no guilt or remorse. He’s a hedonist. No worse, a sybarite. Cynical, often impulsive. And a contact killer because he enjoys inflicting pain and killing. It’s an addictive obsession. Normally he would have left a trophy or some kind of signature because he’s proud of his accomplishment. So far we haven’t found one.”

“But, maybe he didn’t need to. The slaying itself is unique,” Cody added.

Si paused for a moment and said: “The scariest thing about these killers is they usually take a cooling off period after a kill. Weeks, months, sometimes years. Until something prods their appetite.”

“So how can you be sure this is the work of a serial killer?” Stinelli asked.

Nobody answered for a minute or two.

“Look at the picture, Chief,” Cody said. “This is a sadist at work. He controlled Handley and tortured him. He dominated the scene. The whole set up was manufactured. This killing was brilliant. No clues, no prints or DNA that we can determine. It was not impulsive, the killer had it planned and timed perfectly and had the prerequisite biological knowledge to pull it off.”

“The simple answer is because there’s too much joy in this kill,” Si said.

“Joy?”

“He obviously enjoyed every minute of it.”

“We call the killer Androg because it could be a male or female,” Cody added. “Either way, this killer’s addicted.”

“And brilliant,” Si said. “Most serial killers commit their acts in the same way. John Wayne Gacy is typical. His trademark was that he stuffed his victim’s underwear down their throat so they’d gag and die in their own vomit.”

“This one?” Cody said. “This one’s all over the map.” “He’s the guy next door, Commander,” said Winters. “Hiding in plain sight. And waiting to kill again.”

“I hope to hell he’s not living next door to me,” Stinelli growled. “How about a motive?”

“The motive is Androg’s compulsion,” Simon said.

“And you’re expecting more,” Stinelli said flatly.

“That’s Wolf’s appraisal and we all agree. Frank and his team are working the neighborhood. Bergman is checking the company where Handley worked. I’ve got my three best street cops working the West Village hoping to find out where Handley spent the missing thirty minutes on his way home.”