Линкольн Чайлд - City of Endless Night

For almost two weeks, New York has been gripped by fear of a murderer. Three people have been brutally killed, their heads removed and spirited away, by an unknown perpetrator or perpetrators. Six others, security guards who apparently got in the way, were also murdered.

The NYPD are stymied. They have admitted they do not know if it is one murderer, or two — or even three. They don’t have a motive. They don’t have solid leads. The investigation has been desperately seeking a connection among the chief victims — any connection — without success.

But is this a classic case of not seeing the forest for the trees? An exclusive Post review of the evidence does suggest a connection, and the very motive, that the police have been floundering to find.

The Post analysis of the evidence lays out certain facts about the primary victims.

Victim one: Grace Ozmian, 23-year-old party girl with no greater aspiration in life than to spend Daddy’s cash, indulge in illegal drug use, and lead a parasitic lifestyle when she’s not in court getting slapped on the wrist for the hit-and-run killing of an eight-year-old boy while driving drunk.

Victim two: Marc Cantucci, AG turned mob lawyer, 65, who’s raked in millions protecting New Jersey’s most notorious crime bosses, a man who’s beaten every grand jury investigation of his activities from embezzlement and extortion to racketeering and murder.

Victim three: Viktor Bogachyov, Russian oligarch, 51, who made his living by brokering decommissioned nuclear weapons via China, who then left his native country to take up residence in a massive Hamptons estate, where he promptly embroiled himself in lawsuits for nonpayment of taxes, stiffing employees, and riding roughshod over town regulations.

Can anyone look at these three “victims” and claim there is no connection among them? The Post analysis shows the glaring commonality: all three are utterly lacking in human decency.

These three “victims” are exceedingly rich, flagrantly corrupt, and entirely reprehensible. You don’t have to be an expert in criminal profiling to find the thread that unites them: they have no redeeming value. The world would be better off if they were dead. They are the very embodiment of the worst of the ultra-rich.

So what is the motive to murder three such people? That now seems obvious. These killings may well be the work of a person who has taken upon himself the role of judge, jury, and executioner; a killer who is certainly a lunatic, perhaps also a religious or moral absolutist, who chooses his victims precisely because they embody the most depraved and dissolute aspects of our contemporary world. And what better place to find such icons of excess than among the one percenters in New York City? And what better place to sow vengeance — to, quite literally, turn Gotham into a City of Endless Night?

While the three victims were murdered by various means, all were then decapitated. Decapitation is the most ancient and pure of punishments. The Decapitator smites his victims with the sword of righteousness, the scythe of God’s wrath, and sends their souls to perdition.

What, then, is New York to learn from these killings? Perhaps the Decapitator is preaching to the city. The killings are a warning to New York and the country. That warning has two parts. The first is made clear by the lifestyles of the victims, and it says: ye one percenters, mend your ways before it’s too late. The second part of the warning is evident in the way the Decapitator selects his victims from the most invulnerable, protected, and bodyguarded in our midst. And that warning is:

No one is safe.

D’Agosta never liked hospitals. It was more than a dislike; as soon as he entered one, with all the bright surfaces and fluorescent lights and bustle and beeping and the air laden with the smell of rubbing alcohol and bad food — he started to feel physically sick himself.

It was especially annoying to have to come in on Christmas Day at 5 AM in order to question a crazy cop-shooting motherfucker. As much as Laura understood — she was an NYPD captain, after all — it didn’t stop her from getting resentful that he was out half the night again and again and could do nothing but crash when he got home, then get up and go off yet again — on Christmas morning, no less, not even lingering for coffee — and with only a few hastily purchased presents for her, to boot.

He had found Lasher in a room in a special lockdown wing of Bellevue, with four cops guarding him and a nurse hovering around. The wacko’s gunshot wounds had been severe, and the doctors had taken more than twenty-four hours to stabilize him sufficiently to be questioned. He’d be fine. On the other hand, D’Agosta’s own man Hammer was in the ICU, still struggling for his very life.

Lasher was weak, but the injuries hadn’t taken the bullshit out of him. For the past fifteen minutes, for every question D’Agosta had asked, no matter how mundane, the answer had quickly veered off into chemtrails, the JFK assassination, Project MKUltra. The guy was fucking nuts. On the other hand, he had no alibi for Cantucci’s murder. He’d contradicted himself several times as he tried to explain his whereabouts and activities on the night of the murder and the day preceding. D’Agosta was almost sure he was lying, but at the same time the man was so crazy that it was hard to imagine him pulling off a slick murder like Cantucci’s, techie or not.

On top of that, Pendergast had pulled another one of his disappearing acts, not answering texts, emails, or phone calls.

“Let’s go over this again,” said D’Agosta. “You say that on December eighteenth, you spent the day in the apartment, online, and that your Internet records will prove that.”

“I told you, man, I—”

Overriding him, D’Agosta said: “Well, we looked at your Internet records for that day and the computer was scrubbed clean. Now, why would you erase those records?”

Lasher coughed, grimaced. “I go to great lengths to keep my browsing history secret, because you government people—”

“But you said the Internet records would, quote, ‘prove I was online all day and night.’”

“And they would! They would, if I wasn’t forced by government drones, digital wiretaps, and brain-wave transmitters to take extreme measures for my own protection—”

“Lieutenant,” the nurse said, “I warned you about exciting this man. He’s still very weak. If you press him, I’ll be forced to end the interrogation.”

D’Agosta heard some murmuring behind him and turned to see Pendergast at the door, being logged in to enter. Finally. Ignoring the nurse, he turned back to Lasher. “So your proof is no proof at all. Now, is there anyone in the building who could confirm you were there all day?”

“Of course.”

Pendergast had now entered the room.

“Who?”

“You people.”

“How’s that?”

“You’ve been shadowing me for months, monitoring my every move. You know I didn’t kill Cantucci!”

D’Agosta shook his head and turned to Pendergast. “You got anything you want to ask this asshole?”

“Not directly. But allow me to ask you, Vincent: did you get the results of the blood work on Mr. Lasher?”

“Sure.”

“And did he test positive for methamphetamine hydrochloride?”

“Hell, yes. High as a kite.”

“I thought so. Shall we step out into the hall?”