Andrew Vachss - Footsteps of the Hawk

"Yes. You read about it in the papers?"

"Sure," I replied— it was close enough to the truth.

"She'd been raped. First. Then the killer…cut her up."

"And they made a homicide against this guy with nothing more than somebody seeing him coming out of her apartment?" I asked, letting an organ stop of sarcastic disbelief creep into my voice.

"There was more…I guess. His…fingerprints. But he said he knew the woman— he'd been inside the place before. A few weeks before. When he picked her up. In a bar. Right around the corner.

"And…?"

"And there was a…'signature.' At least that's what they called it."

"If they were talking signature, there had to be more than one."

"That's just it! They didn't have more than one. Just that woman. They didn't have any more until…"

"What was the signature?" I interrupted, trying to get her focused.

"A piece of ribbon," she said. "Red ribbon. Nothing special. The kind you could buy in any dime store."

"And the killer left this with the woman? On her body? What?"

"He left it…inside of her."

"And they found some of this ribbon when they tossed this guy's place?"

"Yes! But it's a common type— you can get it anywhere. It doesn't mean anything by itself."

"Sounds shaky to me. What happened, the jury didn't buy his story?"

"He didn't get to tell his story. He didn't have Fortunato then, he had a Legal Aid. He had priors."

"But not for sex cases?" I asked her.

"No."

"What then?"

"Assaults, like. He was…crazy, once. He was 730'ed out years ago. They said he tried to push a woman onto the subway tracks."

Every working cop knows about 730 exams. The court can force any defendant into a psych evaluation, not to see if he's crazy— that wouldn't be any big deal— but to see if he's competent to stand trial. "If he was found unfit, they couldn't use that later," I said.

"I know," she answered. "That was only that one time. But there were a couple of other times too. And then he was found guilty. On other things. Before he went into the hospital. But he's been okay for years. Years! There was a perjury rap too…something about a corporation he was in charge of…I don't know too much about it."

"So what makes you so sure he was bum–beefed on the homicide? He don't sound like any prize package to me."

"Since he's been away…there's been other murders…two others. But he was never charged with them…how could he be?"

"Two more murders?"

"Two more murders. Two women. Both raped. And, listen, both with the same signature. So how could— ?"

"Copycat crimes," I interrupted.

"Burke, the signature, it never made the papers."

"A red ribbon…"

" Inside them," she said, watching me steadily, hands on her knees.

"So why don't you…"

"I can't," she said flatly. "I can't do anything. The other murders, they're in an open file. You ask the detectives who caught it, they'll tell you it's still working. They've got two homicides. Linked, you understand? You know the way the Department does it— three all–the–same crimes, it's a Pattern Case. Three big crimes, then the papers give the guy a name…like the Silver Gun Rapist or the Subway Stalker or some other bullshit thing. And then the fucking brass calls a press conference and appoints a task force, just so the public thinks we're serious all of a sudden."

She was good at it, mixing truth in with the lies, making you swallow the whole pie if you wanted a taste. "When did these others happen?" I asked.

"Why?"

"Just tell me."

"The first one was right after he was arrested. Maybe two, three weeks later. The next one was a few months later. Before he came to trial."

"So why didn't the Legal Aid— "

"They didn't know, I'm telling you! By the time I found this out, he was already sentenced."

"So tell Fortunato. He can subpoena— "

"Burke, I did. I did that. And you know what he found when he looked in the file? Nothing! Not a thing. The whole business? About the red ribbons? It was gone. Wiped out. Far as NYPD's concerned, it was different guys, understand?"

"No. I don't fucking understand. Why go to all this? I know how the Man works…They pop some chump for one burglary, they throw every damn Unsolved they got on the books at him, right? He pleads to the whole mess, they go light on the sentence, everybody's happy. But they can't do that here— the crimes happened after he was inside, right? No way he got bail on a rape–murder."

"That's right. He didn't make bail. And I don't know why they're doing it— I just know that they are. And I know George didn't do it."

"George?"

"George Piersall. That's his name. I know…a lot about him now."

"Because…"

"Because I've been visiting him," she said, tilting her chin up defiantly. "At the prison. In New Jersey. I told him— "

"Hold up a minute. If the crime took place here, how come he's locked down in Jersey?"

"For assault," she said, her head cocked, listening to my breathing, checking if it changed. " Sex assault, all right? It was across the river, just the other side of the Tunnel. At a truck stop. The…victim was a hooker. She said George took her to a motel. That's where it…happened."

"So she saw him, right?"

"No. I mean, she couldn't make a positive ID. It was a shaky case. The woman was buzzed at the time, on downers, before it…happened. And she had a long sheet herself. Extortion, badger game, you know?"

"Yeah, but how— ?"

"He pleaded guilty, all right?" she said, her tone somewhere between hostile and defensive. "He had a lousy lawyer. And they offered him a plea bargain. He only got three years. The lawyer told him he shouldn't gamble on the trial. He'd be out real soon that way— it wasn't worth the risk."

"So…?"

" So… no murder, no red ribbon. But after Jersey nailed him, then New York got brave and charged him with the murder on University Place. He waived extradition. I mean, he knew he didn't do it, so…"

"But he was— "

"Yes. Convicted, like I told you."

"What'd he get?"

"He got it all," she said, chin tilted up again, this time like she was ready for a fight. "The Book. Twenty–five to Life."

"So when he's done in Jersey…?"

"That's right. They slapped a detainer on him. When he wraps up in New Jersey, they're going to bring him over here. Forever."

"So you go over there to visit him? What'd you tell him?"

"I told him the truth— that I was investigating the cases. He was glad to see me. He'd be glad to see anybody now."

"He knows you're a cop, right? Didn't he think you were working him for more evidence?"

"We got that straight in front. I told him, if he wanted me to really look into it, he'd have to do something for me first— take a lie–detector test."

"You got that done? Inside?"

"Sure. His lawyer got a court order. And you know what? He passed. With flying colors, the examiner said. He's the wrong man. And the right man, he's still out there."

"Go to the papers," I suggested. "Hell, go to one of those trash–TV shows. They'd be glad to jump on it. Nothing they like better than a man falsely accused of rape…unless it's an innocent child–molester."

"I tried. They don't care…One of them told me psychopaths pass polygraphs all the time. Without the red–ribbon evidence, it's nothing."

"Look, I…"

"I want you to do it," she said, her eyes aiming somewhere above mine, stitching a line of rivets across my forehead. "Find the killer. That's the only way George's going to get out. I talked to a couple of private eyes. They both said they weren't going to take on NYPD— they were on the job once themselves. And they know what would happen. Those guys live on leaks— they go ahead on something like this, the faucets all get turned off, you understand? You know how hard it is to work without a friend on the force? You need somebody to run a plate for you, check a file, all that stuff. You work PI too, right? Off the books, I know. No license, all that. But I can fix it. Fortunato says anyone can work as a PI if they're working for a lawyer. He says it would be okay for you to be working for him. He'd cover for you and everything."