MESSENGER
BY
Al Lamanda
PROLOGUE
Marion Razzano opened her eyes to the sound of the air conditioner on the blitz again, rolled over in bed and glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand. 5:40 am, twenty minutes before it was set to go off, there was no point in waiting so she got up and went to the bathroom to wash the sheen of sweat off her face because the Goddamn AC wasn’t working again.
She put slices of bread in the toaster, set coffee to brew, washed her face a second time, brushed her teeth and threw on shorts, tank top and the brand new Nike running shoes she picked up last week but had yet to wear. A hundred and seventy dollars, they had better be comfy.
At the kitchen counter, Marion
In the lobby, Roberto the doorman held the door open for Marion
“Morning, Bob,” Marion Marion
At the reservoir, the path was already filling up with runners and she let a group go by before entering the dirt tract that circumvented the reservoir in a 1.5-mile loop. Normally, Marion
First up on her long list was a meeting with the mayor’s advisors on urban development at City Hall. With seventeen years experience in insurance archaeology, Marion London
At five foot three and one hundred and thirteen pounds, Marion
Coming to the close of the second loop, Marion
As she started the third loop, she passed a bum on a bench. A greasy looking scumbag, he watched her as she passed by and it creeped her out a bit, but there was a group ahead and another behind, so she dismissed the thought.
At the half way mark of the third loop, Marion
As she closed in on the third loop, it was funny but she felt relief at not seeing the bum on the bench. Not a good spot to beg for change, she reasoned, as most joggers don’t carry anything with them except a house key, a water bottle and cell phone.
Walking it off, Marion
The advisors for urban renewal had an eye for the ankle, so she thought the power suit with the skirt that ended two inches above the knee would do the trick. Some expensive lotion to smooth out and add sheen. One of them was sixty-eight or nine and a horny old goat, but he had the mayor’s ear, so if she had to do a little knee rubbing under the table, so be it. No woman ever died of that.
The overseas flight to London
Her other option was…
The bum from the bench popped up from behind some Bramble bushes and came directly at her. Standing, he was for more imposing than when seated. At least six foot two, maybe three, wide shoulders, deep set, dark eyes, scruffy beard. He wore a tattered jacket that he reached inside for something.
From inside the jacket, he pulled out the biggest Goddamn knife she’d ever laid eyes on, a wicked looking thing with a spiked grip like brass knuckles that he slipped his hand into as he kept coming.
Run.
Don’t fuck around.
Just run.
When she was still married to shithead, they went to a high school basketball game once to watch his nephew play point guard. The kid was slow as molasses, but he had what shithead called quick. In the game, Marion
That’s what this fucking bum had.
Quick.
Just like that, he had her arm in his left hand. She tried to spin to her right to break the grip, but the son of a bitch was strong as a bull and he yanked her backward.
“I have money,” Marion
The bum’s eyes were on fire as he looked at her. He didn’t want money. He wanted something else. That look said rape.
“I have my period,” Marion
With his grip of steal, he bent her around and slightly upward so that her neck was exposed. “Please,” Marion
For a fleeting moment, Marion
Then he yanked the knife free and let her fall to the ground, turned and walked back up the soft rolling embankment toward the reservoir.
ONE
Thirty minutes after the fact, Lieutenant Nick Green slammed the phone on his desk so hard, the plastic casing cracked. “Goddamm mother fucker!” he yelled on the way out of the special task force squad room, passing detectives at their desks that refused to look at him for fear he would vent upon them.
Green took a car from the lot, hit the lights and wailer and raced uptown to Central Park using Broadway, skirting over to Central Park West at Columbus Circle. From there, it was a strait run up to 89th Street where he left the car next to a hydrant.
A uniformed cop on horseback greeted Green at the park’s entrance. “Got a dozen blues on crowd control, Lieutenant,” the cop of horseback said. “Want I should wait for the lab boys?”
“Yeah, and don’t let anybody in,” Green said. “I don’t give a fuck if it’s the mayor himself, nobody goes in until I clear the area.”
Green walked across the park to the hoard of uniformed cops that stood at the bottom of a slight hill below the reservoir. Not even 8:30 in the fucking morning with this shit, he thought.
Two detectives from Central Park West were already on scene. They were drinking coffee from deli containers. “It’s not pretty, Nick,” one of the detectives said.
“When is it ever?” Green said. He noticed a box of coffee containers on the ground, scooped one up, pulled the tab and took a sip. “Show me what we got?” he said.
“We got a good looking woman, forty to forty five, out for a morning jog around the reservoir,” a detective said.
“She finishes her run, starts for home and winds up here with her throat cut,” the second detective said.
“Like the other four?” Green said.
“Yeah, like the other four,” the first detective said.
Green sipped coffee as he knelt down beside the dead woman to inspect her and the immediate area around her body. Two sets of footprints in the soft dirt, one smaller and made from running shoes, the other about a size twelve, made from men shoes judging from the heel imprint.
Green turned, looked up the embankment, took a sip of coffee, looked down at the woman. She did her thing around the reservoir and started for home. She’s taken by surprise by her assailant and he cuts her throat and leaves her for dead. Then he….Green paused to search the ground…walks east and disappears.
In a park full of people in broad daylight.
Green stood up and pulled four uniforms out of the circle. “Hit the reservoir and see if anybody there remembers her. Maybe somebody knows who she is. Also check if anybody suspicious was hanging around, maybe in the bushes or on a bench.”
“Suspicious, Lieutenant?” A uniform said. “In Central Park ?”
Green pulled out his pack of smokes, removed one and lit it with a paper match from a book. He blew smoke and looked at the uniform. “A hundred people in gym clothes on a hot morning, they see a bum in six layers of clothes on a bench, they might just fucking remember him. Right, asshole?”
The uniform nodded.
“Then what the fuck are you standing around for?” Green said and blew smoke in the uniform’s face.
“Hey, Lieutenant,” another uniform said. “Count Dracula’s here.”
Green spun around and looked at Doctor Vladimir Gall, the chief examiner for the department and city. Romanian, his name was shortened from Gallovits because he grew tired of being thought of as a gum disease. A few years from retirement, Gall was a tall, thin man, with little hair and sharp, blue eyes. His crew, carrying cases of equipment, marched behind him as they approached the scene.
“Nick,” Gall said.
“Doc,” Green said.
“Is this number five?” Gall said.
“You tell me.”
Gall turned to his crew. “Break out the party favors, let’s go to work.”
Green looked at a uniform. “Where’s the lucky ones?”
A uniform pointed to a bench a hundred yards to Green’s left. “Mr. and Mrs. Morita. They like to walk in the morning.”
“Not anymore,” Green said, tossed the smoke, turned and walked to the bench where the Morita’s sat. Mr. Morita was Japanese. Mrs. Morita was not. In their fifties, they appeared visibly shaken by the morning’s events and who could blame them.
“I’m Lieutenant Nick Green,” Green said as he flashed his shield. “Can you tell me what happened?”
The Morita’s looked at each other. Mrs. Morita leaned forward and started to dry heave. Mr. Morita placed his arm around her shoulder. “My wife is a bit upset,” he said.
“Understandable,” Green said.
“We’re both school teachers,” Mr. Morita said. “We have the summer off and we like to walk the park in the morning. We live on east 87th Street off 5th and usually do four or five miles every morning. We came around the corner there.” Mr. Morita paused to point to the road. “And we saw the woman on the ground. We thought she fell. I went over and…there she was.”
“Did you touch her, move her in any way?” Green said.
“I don’t think I came within three feet of her,” Mr. Morita said. “The amount of blood, I knew she was dead.”
“Did you call 911?” Green said.
“No,” Mr. Morita said. “We didn’t bring our cell phones. We started screaming for help and a police officer on horseback came riding by and we flagged him down.”
“Did you give your information to an officer?” Green said.
“Yes.”
“Take your wife home,” Green said. “Someone will stop by your home later today to take a statement.”
Mr. Morita nodded, stood up and took his wife by the hand.
Green sat on the bench, pulled his cell phone, set it aside to light another cigarette, then called the mayor at his residence in Gracie Mansion
“Gracie Mansion
“Lieutenant Green for the mayor,” Green said.
“Hold,” the female voice said, not sounding so cheery now.
A moment of silence, then Mayor Ralph Richardson came on the line.
“Lieutenant,” Richardson
“Number five, Mr. Mayor,” Green said.
“Central Park by the reservoir near 89th Street."
. “No mistake?”
. “No mistake?”
“Unless we have a copycat?”
“Which we don’t?”
“No.”
“Yes, sir,” Green said. He hung up and smoked the cigarette and when he looked to his right, Gall was waving him over.
Green walked back to the scene. “Number five?” Green said.
Gall nodded. “No question about it,” he said. “Same weapon, same MO.”
“Except that three of the victims were men, two white, one black,” Green said. “Two women, both white. Ages of the five vary from twenty-seven to sixty. What about her?”
“Forty two or three, no more than that,” Gall said.
“Any ID on the body?” Green said.
“Apartment key, no markings.”
She probably lives on the west side since it looks like that’s where she was headed,” Green said. “Now all we have to do is knock on about two hundred thousand doors.”
“Hey, Lieutenant?” a uniform said.
Green turned to look at the uniform. “What should we do about them?”
Green looked past the uniform and the horde of reporters approaching the scene. “Keep them the fuck back, what do you think?”
Gall turned to his team. “Wrap it up. Let’s get her downtown.”
Green walked away from the scene and pulled out his cell phone again. He dialed a number, waited for a dispatcher to answer and said, “This is Lieutenant Nick Green of the mayor’s task force. I need a list of 911 calls for the past two hours concerning a missing woman aged forty to forty-five, north of Columbus Circle to 110th Street, east to west. Call me back at this number.”
Green went to a bench to sit and wait. The reporters were cramming the scene, giving the uniforms a hard time. Already cable and network news crews were setting up shop, going live. How the fuck do they know? Fucking vultures of society, feeding off the misfortunes of others, Green thought.
“Hey, Lieutenant?” a uniform to Green’s right called.
The uniform had four men dressed in jogging clothes with him. Green stood up and met them half way. “They remember the woman and that’s not all,” the uniform said.
“We saw her alright,” one man said. “She passed us doing a good seven minute mile. We know because we used stop watches to clock our time. We usually average a 7.5, so she went by us at a good clip.”
“Do you know her name?” Green said.
“No.”
“What’s the, and that’s not all?” Green said.
“Our second loop, we saw this bum on a bench,” the man said. “He was gone our third time around.”
“Bum?” Green said.
“That’s what he looked like,” the man said. “Old, filthy clothes, hair all greasy, you know the type.”
“Have a seat,” Green said and pointed to a bench behind them. “I’m calling in a sketch artist while your memory is still fresh.”
“Right now?” the man said. “We have to go to work.”
“Call in late,” Green said. “Better yet, take the day off. Tell them the city needed you.”
The four men looked at each other, then took seats on the bench. “How long is this going to take?” a man asked.
“Depends on your memory,” Green said. He looked over at the scene and Gall had the woman on a trolley. He walked to the uniforms and said, “Take a walk around. Stop, detain any homeless bums you come across. I want them for questioning.”
The uniforms dispersed, leaving a very angry crowd of reporters with unanswered questions. “Statement, Lieutenant?” a reporter shouted.
Green lit another cigarette as he looked at the reporters. “I think The Yankees have a very good chance this year, what do you think? That bullpen has really come together the last few weeks, just in time. Ya gotta go to Mo. Anything else?”
Green turned away when his cell phone rang.
“Lieutenant Green?” the dispatcher said. “We took a 911 from a doorman who said his tenant hasn’t returned from her morning run in the park.”
Mayor Ralph Richardson looked across his desk at Police Commissioner Xavier Wallace and Lieutenant Nick Green.
“I need to make a statement to the media in one hour,” Richardson
Wallace looked at Green.
“Victim number five was killed by the same man who killed the first four,” Green said. “We know that for certain. We know the same knife was used to kill all five victims. We don’t know what type it is yet, but its one large bastard. Possible a military bayonet.”
“Bayonet?” Richardson
“Not as uncommon as you might think,” Green said. “Novelty shops around Times Square sell all kinds of military crap, as does Army/Navy Stores. I have a team checking sales. We also have a person of interest, possibly a homeless man. I have men with sketches all over the city and…”
“Can I see it?” Richardson
Green pulled a folded copy from his jacket pocket and gave it to the mayor. “Wears a size 13 shoe. Gall figures about two twenty, two thirty and the witnesses back that up.”
“Six two or three,” Green said.
“We’re colorizing it according to the witnesses’ description,” Green said.
“What about the fifth victim?” Richardson
Green pulled his notebook and flipped pages. “Marion Razzano. Age is forty-three. Divorced, no children. College graduate after a late start in high school. Works as an insurance archeologist for AAG Insurance. VP of something or another. Runs the reservoir every day before work. Her doorman called 911 when she was an hour late returning from her run. She’s a good-looking woman, but I doubt that’s why she was chosen. We placed a call to her ex in New Mexico
“Razzano, Italian?” Richardson
“French.”
“You don’t think her looks were a factor?” Richardson
“All he does is cut their throats,” Green said. “No rape or molestation of any kind on any victims.”
“So how does he choose his victims?” Richardson
“I think the urge hits him and he kills the first person he sees,” Green said.
“Christ,” Richardson
“Mr. Mayor, there’s something else,” Green said. “Something off the record.”
Green looked at Wallace.
“Say it,” Wallace said.
“All five victims were killed exactly the same way,” Green said. “No deviation even though no two were the same height, weight, age.”
“Are you saying this…are you telling me this man knows how to kill as if he’s had some kind of special training?” Richardson
“Before I came on the job, I spent four years in the Marine Corps,” Green said. “There’s two methods taught with a knife or bayonet.” Green stood up. “You come up behind the victim, left hand over the throat, knife in right hand held up, arc it down into the left side of the neck. In, out, death is almost instantaneous. I believe he’s using this method.”
“So we have a crazy Marine Corps veteran running around our city killing people whenever the fuck he feels like?” Richardson
“We’re checking it, Ralph,” Wallace said. “We have to.”
Green stood up and looked at Richardson
“You call me with anything new,” Richardson
Green had a team of detectives reading witness statements, including Mr. and Mrs. Morita for possible missed details. Another team read statements from Marion Razzaro’s neighbors, co-workers and the doorman who made the 911 call. Another team worked the locations angle of the five victims, hopping for a link of some kind.
As he sat behind his desk, fuck the rules, Green lit a cigarette and sipped coffee from a deli container. He read Gall’s report for the tenth time, willing himself to catch something he’d missed.
Held, stabbed in a downward motion. Death came within ten seconds or less. Other than his footprint, nothing was found on the scene of the perp. The knife/bayonet, whatever he used was at least eight to ten inches long from the handle and razor sharp the way it cut flesh, bone and tendon.
Who fucking uses a weapon like that?
A kid could buy a handgun on any street corner, this bastard uses a fucking sword like some medieval asshole.
Green’s phone rang and he scooped it up, saying, “Green.”
“Lieutenant, it’s Brown from the west side,” Detective Brown said. “You pulled me last week for the task force.”
Green did a shift through his mental rolodex. About five ten, a bit on the heavy side, black with a thin mustache, got it. “Go ahead,” Green said.
“I’ve been checking pawn shops, Army/Navy Stores, novelty stores like you said and I think I got something you’d like to see,” Brown said.
“Where are you?” Green said.
“Do you know the Quest Army/Navy Store on 42nd and Eighth?” Brown said.
“On my way,” Green said and hung up.
Green looked at the owner of the Quest Army/Navy Store. “You the owner?”
“Marvin Pitts, who are you?”
Green flashed his shield. “Well, Marvin, you look like a total scumbag to me, you know that?”
“Hey, I pay my taxes and mind my own business,” Pitts said.
Green turned to Detective Brown. “Why am I here?”
“World War One Trench Knife,” Brown said. “Show’em.”
Pitts reached under the counter for the knife that was wrapped in a towel and set it on the glass counter. Green moved the towel and looked at the savage looking knife. Fourteen inches of blade set in spiked brass knuckles, the knife served a duel role for the soldiers of World War One.
One role was as a bayonet at the end of their rifles for stabbing the enemy at close range. The second was in hand-to-hand fighting. Held brass knuckle style, it could be used for punching or thrusting. A more brutal form of combat, Green couldn’t imagine.
“You sell this fucking thing?” Green said.
“It’s legal,” Pitts said. “I don’t advertise them, but collectors are always in the market for the genuine stuff.”
“Collectors?” Green said. “You mean fat mama’s boys who live in their parents basement, collect weapons, canned food and water waiting for the big one to drop, you mean those guys?”
“Yeah, those guys,” Pitts said.
“Did you sell one of those,” Green said and set the sketch on the counter. “To this guy?”
Pitts studied the sketch for several seconds.
“About a month ago,” Pitts said. “A man who looks a lot like the sketch came in and purchased one. He paid cash. Seventy five dollars in small bills.”
“Did you see his ID?” Green said.
“I didn’t ask for one,” Pitts said. “He’s over eighteen and the knife doesn’t require any special permit like a switchblade.”
“Okay, let’s start from the top,” Green said. “I need to know everything you remember about this man. How his voice sounded, what he said, anything and everything.”
“From a month ago?” Pitts said.
“You’d be amazed what you remember when you try,” Green said. “Question is, do you want to try here or in my office?”
“One thing I remember, he was a big bastard, but soft spoken,” Pitts said. “Talked almost in a whisper.”
“How big?” Green said.
“Six two maybe, wide shoulders, huge hands,” Pitts said. “Like that.”
“How was he dressed?”
“Normal like,” Pitts said. “Clean. Nothing fancy.”
“He say why he wanted the knife?”
“No and I didn’t ask,” Pitts said. “Who tells the truth, anyway. Oh, wait, you know what was funny?”
“Enlighten me,” Green said.
“He didn’t come in shopping,” Pitts said. “He came in and asked for it by name. I remember he said something like, I want a 1918 trench knife, something like that. I remember that because I don’t keep them on display and somebody would have to know their knives to know this one.”
Green picked up the knife and wrapped it in the towel. “I’m taking this one.”
“Yeah, who pays for it?”
“The city.”
“Yeah, right,” Pitts said.
“Send me a bill, I’ll mail you a receipt,” Green said and walked out with the knife under his jacket.
“Jesus Christ, what the fuck is that thing?” Richardson said when Green set the knife down on the mayor’s Gracie Mansion
“That is a 1918 World War I trench warfare bayonet,” Green said. “Standard GI Joe issue for the time and used for close quarters fighting.”
“And you’re showing me this because?” Richardson
“I believe this is what he used to murder his victims,” Green said. “Gall agrees that it’s a strong candidate for the murder weapon.”
“Have you told anybody else yet?” Richardson
“Just Wallace by phone,” Green said. “One of my detectives knows, but I clamped him down.”
“I know,” Green said.
“Go home and grab some sleep,” Richardson
Green walked into the townhouse he once shared with his wife and felt the coldness of the walls close in around him. Once cheery and bright, the seven-room townhouse was now just a place to sleep, shower and change. It was hard to believe four years had passed since Michele packed her bags and walked out on him.
Irreconcilable Differences, the divorce papers read. Eleven Goddamm years of marriage, Michele springs that shit on him out of nowhere. He got off easy, his lawyer said. No alimony payments, no child support, just a friendly parting of the ways. His lawyer said.
His lawyer didn’t take into account heartache.
Michele took half the furniture, including the king size bed, sofa, coffee table and easy chair. Soon afterward, she moved into an apartment in Park Slope with her boyfriend of three years, an artist who fulfilled her emotionally and spiritually.
Three years before she walked out on him, she’s fucking this artist in Park Slope because he fulfills her and she takes his Goddamm bed and…
The phone rang.
Let it ring.
Green striped off his tie and jacket, opened the fridge and found a cold one.
“At the tone, leave a message,” Green’s voice said on the answering machine.
“Nick, it’s Michele,” Michele said. “This is the third call and you haven’t called me back. I thought we talked about this. The kitchen set belongs to me and I’d like to pick it up. Quit fucking around or I’ll have to call my lawyer and none of us wants that. Be a good guy and call. Bye.”
Beep.
Fuck.
Green took a sip of beer, lit a cigarette, sat at the kitchen table Michele wanted so desperately and called her back on his cell phone.
“Nick?” Michele said after two rings. “I just called you a minute ago.”
“Just walked in the door,” Green said. “So what the hell’s the big deal with this table?”
“We redid the kitchen/dining area,” Michele said. “We have room for it now.”
“Well, why doesn’t Mr. sensitive artist spring for a new one?” Green said.
“Because that set is mine,” Michele said. “It came from my old apartment or don’t you remember?”
“I seem to remember the bed that he’s fucking you in came from my old apartment, or don’t you remember?” Green said.
“Okay, if that’s how you want to play this, I’ll call…”
“Your lawyer, yeah, I know,” Green said. “See, here’s the thing. If you were to remove your face from his crotch long enough to watch the news, you might find out there’s a crazy running around cutting the throats of people for no good fucking reason. He cut open a woman today in Central Park like she was a bagel, so you’ll forgive me if my mind is preoccupied with things a bit more pressing than your fucking table.”
“I see the news. I know what’s going on,” Michele said. “That doesn’t give you the right to keep what’s mine. When can I come for it?”
“Give me a few days,” Green said. “I’ll call you when I catch a break.”
“End of the week or you’ll hear from my lawyer,” Michele said and hung up.
A moment after Green set the cell phone down, his hard line rang. So used to taking calls on the cell, he almost forget there was a hard line and he walked to the bare naked living room except for a second hand sofa and table to answer the call.
“Green,” he said as he plopped himself down on the lumpy sofa.
“Hey, Lieutenant,” Derek Watts said.
Aw, fuck. “What do you want, Derek?”
“Had dinner yet,” Watts said. “My guess is you just got in and there ain’t shit in there worth eating. How about I buy you dinner?”
“You’ll never convert me, Derek,” Green said.
“Yeah, how’s your love life?”
“None of your fucking business, that’s how.”
“Still mooning over the misses?”
“And that’s certainly none of your business,” Green said. “So why don’t you tell me what you want or get the fuck off my phone?”
“Gino’s in ten minutes,” Watts said. “Don’t forget to bring me flowers.”
Green threw on some jeans, a polo shirt and loafers, then walked the one block to Gino’s Italian Restaurant on West 4th Street. Watts was sipping from a glass of wine at a sidewalk table when Green arrived.
Green sat.
“You don’t bring me flowers anymore,” Watts said in a sing/song as he set the glass on the table.
Green lit a cigarette.
Green and Watts grew up together in the upper Manhattan neighborhood known as Dyckman, not far from the Cloisters Monastery. Friends since the first grade, Green and Watts were inseparable through middle school into high school. They played on the baseball and football teams together, dated the same girls, fought the same fights and were, as Green’s mother was fond of putting it, two peas in a pod.
It wasn’t until Green was about to ship off to Marine Corps boot camp did Watts reveal his deep, dark secret, that he was gay. Being eighteen and not possessing the maturity to deal with the news, Green punched Watts in the nose, breaking it so severely that to this day, it was crooked as a banana. The two never spoke another word until eight years later, when Green made junior detective and Watts, a junior reporter for the Post, covered the story as part of a promote the PD piece.
After that, they were cordial, but not close. They spoke when in each other’s company, but didn’t seek each other out. As they years rolled by, and especially after Michele left him, their friendship won a second chance.
“Besides a stealth glance at my crotch, what do you want, Derek?” Green said.
“I’ve seen you in the shower, remember,” Watts said as he sipped wine. “It ain’t that impressive.”
“So maybe this has something to do with your unemployment? Can’t help you there, Derek. I’m just a lowly civil servant,” Green said.
“With an ear to the Mayor,” Watts said. “Besides, I haven’t won a Pulitzer in seven years. I think, I’m ready for another one, don’t you.”
Derek Watts rose through the investigative reporter ranks at an alarming rate and after he won the Prize, as he called it, he went freelance and never looked back. Always hungry, always on the prowl, he seemed to have a knack for right time, right place and commanded some heavy fees for his reporting.
“What do you know and how do you know it?” Green said as he tossed the cigarette to the street.
“I know enough to pay attention to late night infomercials,” Watts said. He reached into his shirt pocket for the hearing amplifier he purchased off an infomercial. “Used by hunters, hikers and busy bodies everywhere,” he said.
Green looked at the small, cigarette box sized box. “So?”
“So…while the cable crowd surrounded you and your men in the park today, I sat on a bench and quietly listened to your conversations,” Watts said. “You have quite the potty mouth when you’re upset, don’t you?”
“The point being?” Green said.
“Your detectives checked all the homeless shelters and soup kitchens,” Watts said. “What did they find?”
“Nothing.”
“Maybe because they were under orders not to show the sketch to workers and volunteers?” Watts said.
“Maybe?”
“Or, and I just guessing here,” Watts said. “Throwing things in the wind, so to speak. Or, could it be that your men checked shelters and kitchens during the day and not after dark? Maybe? You think? You see, it’s amazing what a crisp new hundred-dollar bill will buy. In this case, a police sketch and right in the lobby of your own precinct.”
Green glared at Watts . How in the fucking hell didn’t he think to send another team out after dark? A fucking first year badge would know that.
“Uh oh, the great one is pissed,” Watts said. “Yikes.”
“Okay, no more fucking around,” Green said. “What have you got?”
“Not so fast,” Watts said. “I want assurances I have exclusive rites to the arrest and story every step of the way.”
“How about I lock you up for obstruction and…”
“And what?” Watts said. “While you’re fucking around with a judge trying to get permission to read my notes, more people get sliced up like deli cold cuts.”
“I don’t have that kind of authority,” Green said.
“Ah, but you have the ear of the man who does,” Watts said. “Call him, then we’ll talk about what I want in exchange for what you want.”
Along The Bowery in lower Manhattan , not far from one of the world’s most famous missions, sat a lesser know mission operated by the Catholic church. Well run, the building was clean, the chapel ornate, the dining facility well stocked. Eighty beds were available to the homeless and during winter, all were in use. In the summer, less than half found occupants.
Outside the mission, Green discussed tactics with a SWAT captain.
“I want him alive,” Green said. “And if possible, unhurt.”
“Relax, Lieutenant,” the SWAT captain said. “First line goes in with Tazers. That’s all it should take if all he’s got is a knife. Second line will be fully armed just in case, but they won’t shoot without my go. Okay?”
Green nodded as he slipped on a vest. He drew his weapon, checked the safety and held it by his side. “Are we clear?”
The SWAT captain held a radio to his lips. “What’s the situation in there?”
“First floor cleared, we’re ready to go,” a SWAT officer replied.
Green held up his finger to the SWAT captain, then turned and waved over the mission director, a plump woman of about forty.
“You said there were twenty beds on the second floor?” Green said.
“Yes.”
“Only eight occupied?”
“As far as I know.”
“Okay, go stand behind that cruiser with the officers,” Green said. He looked at the captain. “That’s seven people we need to clear before he gets the chance to act.”
“No problem.”
Green turned around and looked at Watts , who was behind a cruiser. “You don’t move until I give you the all clear. Got that Mr. Pulitzer?”
“I got it,” Watts said. “Just remember our agreement.”
“Like you’re ever gonna let me fucking forget it,” Green said.
The SWAT captain said, “Nick, we gonna do this or what?”
Four SWAT officers armed with Tazers took point. Another team of heavily armed officers followed closely behind. Green and the captain, each armed with pistols brought up the rear.
The team inside the mission that cleared the first floor waited by the stairs that led to the second floor sleeping quarters. The captain gave the signal to ascend and led by the Tazer armed group, they went up.
Green and the captain were still on the first floor landing when they heard and officer yell, “Drop the knife. Hands on head. Down, down, down.”
Another officer yelled, “Holy fucking shit. What the fuck happened here?”
“Down, I said down, you fucking asshole,” the first officer yelled.
Green and the captain were up the stairs like a shot. They burst into the sleeping quarters where two officers stood over the suspect as he went from his knees to face down on the floor.
“Watch him now,” a third officer said. “Watch his hands and feet.”
Green and the captain stopped dead in their tracks. There were seven men in various beds in the large loft type room. The suspect had cut the throat of each man before he lay down to sleep. Pools of thick, sticky blood formed on the wood floor beside the beds. Dead eyes stared at nothing.
Green looked at the suspect, now handcuffed on the floor. An officer brought Green the trench knife. The blade was covered in dried blood. The son of a bitch didn’t even bother to wipe it off. Green withdrew a large baggie from his packet to encase the knife.
Behind Green, Watts cried, “Oh, God, oh my God!” before he fell to his knees and vomited.
“Goddammit, get him the hell outta here,” Green said.
An officer lifted Watts from the floor without bothering to wait for the reporter to finish vomiting and led him to the door.
“How many is that now, twelve?” the captain said to Green.
The suspect raised his head to look at Green. “Will you pray with me?” he said.
“Sure thing,” Green said. “Just as soon as I get your crazy ass downtown. Then we’ll fucking pray all night if you want to.”
“Thank God,” Richardson
“Something you should know,” Green said. “Maybe you should pour yourself a drink before I tell you.”
“I already have a drink,” Richardson
“We didn’t get there in time,” Green said.
“He’s dead?”
“No, but everybody else is.”
TWO
“Whose fucking idea was this?” District Attorney Stan Weiner as he looked across the suspect observation room at Watts .
Green looked at Watts , who looked at Weiner, who looked at Doctor Michael Brewster, who looked at Green.
“Mine, actually,” Watts said. “Of course, I ran it by the mayor first, so any objections take up with him.”
“Derek, shut up,” Green said. “Look, Stan, we made a deal and that’s it. Without Derek, he wouldn’t be in there cuffed to a table right now. That’s it.”
Weiner looked at Watts . “You keep your mouth shut,” Weiner said. “Deal or no deal, you fucking mouth stays shut. That’s my deal.”
“It’s three in the morning,” Brewster said. “What am I doing here?”
“Richardson
“Meaning?” Brewster said.
“You get to eval this asshole,” Weiner said. “For competency.”
“You want to know if he’s fit to stand trial, or if he’s completely insane?” Brewster said. He looked thru the two way at the suspect. One wrist cuffed to a steel bar on the table, the other cuffed to a steel chain that looped around his waist, then down to his ankles. “He’s completely off his rocker. Now can I go home?”
Green pulled out his smokes and lit one off a paper match. “How long would you need to make a determination?” he said, blowing smoke.
Brewster sighed. “Depends.”
“On what?” Weiner said.
“Many things,” Brewster said. “Does he understand what he’s done? Does he know right from wrong? Does he lack compunction? Is he just some asshole who gets his sexual jollies cutting people up and needs to see blood to orgasm? Is he a believer in a higher power guiding his hand? Does he…”
“Whoa, hold on a second,” Green said. “A higher power?”
“Son of Sam, talking dogs and cats, that kind of thing,” Brewster said.
“How about the motherfucker is just plain evil?” Weiner said.
“There’s that, too,” Brewster said. “However, to make any kind of determination can take months of interviews and study.”
Weiner ran his fingers through his graying hair. “You know how much a trial of this size costs the taxpayers of this city?”
“No,” Brewster said. “Do you know how much an evaluation on a subject like this costs the taxpayers of this city?”
“Touché, doctor,” Weiner said. “So let’s cut the crap and come to an understanding. This asshole murdered a dozen people that we know of. If you find him insane he gets to spend a nice quiet life planting daisies on the funny farm, watching cable TV while he grows fat and happy on the taxpayers dime.”
“Are you suggesting that I find him competent to stand trial even if he isn’t?” Brewster said.
“God forbid we punish the guilty,” Weiner said.
“This isn’t about your moment in the sun cable news press conference,” Brewster said. “It’s about the truth, whatever that truth happens to be.”
Green looked back at Watts , who was scribbling notes on a pad. “Okay, listen,” he said and Watts looked up. “Stan, Doctor, I’m going in for a prelim chat. We work together on this or I ask the mayor to assign an ADA and a junior shrink, and as my good friend Watts will attest to, I do have his ear.”
“I just don’t want the guy to walk, Nick,” Weiner said.
“Sane or crazy, he’s going nowhere,” Green said. “A cell is a cell is a cell, be it bars or padded at the puzzle factory and at least he’s not gonna kill anybody else.”
“Very nice, Nick,” Watts said. “I can use that.”
“Shut up,” Green said. “Asshole.”
The suspect looked at the container, moved his shackled left hand and lifted the tab after several attempts. With his left hand, he took a small sip and set the container back on the desk. “Thank you,” he said in a quiet, unassuming voice.
Green took out his smokes. “Okay if I smoke?”
“It won’t bother me,” the suspect said, softly. “I smoked for twenty years.”
“Me, too,” Green said. “Longer. I can’t seem to shake the filthy habit.”
“What I did, I thought about all the people who depended on me,” the suspect said.
“And that made you quit?” Green said as he lit up.
“No,” the suspect said. “When they raised the tax two dollars a pack, I decided there were better ways to spend that money.”
“I agree with you,” Green said.
The suspect used his left hand to take another sip of coffee, then set the container down and looked at Green. “Why am I here?” he said.
“Because of those people you killed,” Green said.
“What people?”
“The ones you killed, those people.”
The suspect stared at Green for a moment. Green noticed that for all his size and filthy appearance, the man had soft eyes, more the eyes of a caring doctor than a serial killer.
“You’re a good man,” the suspect said. “I can see it in you.”
“Thank you, but let’s talk about you,” Green said.
“It’s not your fault that Michele left you and took up with another man,” the suspect said. “The fault lies with her weakness.”
Green sat up strait in his chair.
Behind the mirror, Weiner and Brewster looked at each other. “What’s he talking about?” Weiner said.
“Holy fucking shit,” Watts said as he scribbled notes.
“Do I know you?” Green said. “How do you know about Michele?”
“You blame yourself, your job and the hours you keep, but that isn’t true,” the suspect said. “Know who Maslow was? He said, If you only have a hammer, you tend to think of every problem as a nail. Stop blaming yourself and move on with your life. She has. Oh, and let her have the kitchen set. It’s not worth the aggravation over some old table and chairs.”
“How do you know these things? About Michele?” Green said. “We’ve never met until two hours ago.”
The suspect lifted the coffee container with his left hand and took a sip, then held the container suspended in the air. “Your fingerprints are on this cup,” he said and set the container down.
“What about my fingerprints?” Green said.
The suspect looked at Green with those soft, almost teary eyes. “They tell a story.”
“What story?” Green said.
“You’re in a great deal of pain,” the suspect said. “You loved her very much. You still do. That’s why you haven’t moved on and tried to find someone else. You can’t open a new door without closing the old one first.”
Behind the mirror, Weiner turned to Watts . “Do you know what the fuck is going on in there?”
“Nick’s wife left him four years ago,” Watts said. “He still moons over her like a sick puppy.”
“How the fuck does he know that?” Weiner said.
“Let’s put me aside for a moment and talk about you,” Green said.
The suspect looked at Green without response.
“Let’s start with your name,” Green said.
The suspect stared at Green.
Green sighed as he stubbed the cigarette out in a tin ashtray. “You’ve been printed and you’re in the system. We’ll find out anyway.”
“Who is Derek Watts?” the suspect said.
Behind the mirror, Weiner looked at Watts . “Do you know him?”
“Never set eyes on him until tonight,” Watts said.
“Well, he knows you,” Weiner said.
“Please be quiet,” Brewster said. “I’m trying to listen.”
Green lit another cigarette. “You tell me who Derek Watts is?”
The suspect touched the coffee container with his left hand. “Isn’t enough on your prints for me to grasp it fully,” he said.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Green said.
“Can I touch you?” the suspect said.
“No,” Green said. “About the woman in Central Park this morning, let’s talk about her.”
The suspect closed his eyes. “Let not man lay with man,” he said, opened his eyes and looked at the two-way mirror. “That’s all I can tell you about Derek Watts with such limited resources.”
Green turned to look at the mirror. It was impossible to see thru to the other side. He turned back to look at the suspect. “About the woman in the park?”
“Seek forgiveness and you are forgiven,” the suspect said. “Seek redemption and you are redeemed. Welcome Satan and you reside in his house.”
“I asked you a question,” Green snapped. “What about the woman in Central Park this morning? You know, the one whose throat you cut?”
The suspect lifted the coffee container, took a small sip, set it down and looked at Green without comment.
“Why did you kill those seven men in the homeless shelter tonight?” Green said.
The suspect slowly rotated the container in his left hand until he found a spot and closed his eyes.
“I asked you a question,” Green said.
“I understand about the table now,” the suspect said. “It’s the last place you shared with your wife before she left you. You had dinner, shared your day and a few laughs when all the while she was planning to leave you the following morning. She shouldn’t have done that to you. It was very cruel.”
“Shut up!” Green cried as he jumped to his feet. “You shut the fuck up, you fucking freak.”
“Salt on a wound only serves to keep the wound open and make it sting more,” the suspect said.
Green went around the table with a raised fist. “You fucking piece of shit, you shut your fucking mouth!” he yelled. “Do you hear me? Shut the fuck up.”
The suspect looked up at Green as Green held his fist over the suspect’s face. They made eye contact and slowly, Green felt the steam melt right out of him. He turned, went to the door and walked out.
“What the fuck happened in there?” Weiner demanded when Green walked into the observation room.
“You saw it, you tell me,” Green said. He turned to Watts . “What have you done?”
“Nothing,” Watts said. “What do you mean?”
“You followed him to the shelter,” Green said. “You talked to him. You gave him information about me. You sold out for a fucking story.”
“Are you crazy?” Watts said. “Is that it, are you crazy?”
“Give me you word right here, right now,” Green said.
“I swear it, Nick,” Watts said. “Do you think I’m going to walk up to a man who just cut the throat of a woman and tell him I’m gay and then your life story? Besides, I don’t know shit about any table. What the fuck’s the matter with you?”
“You’re gay?” Weiner said to Watts .
“The man does not lay down with man thing didn’t clue you in?” Watts said.
Green looked at Brewster. “Doc?”
“I don’t know,” Brewster said. “I honestly don’t know. I’m fascinated and I’m in. That’s all I can tell you right now.”
“Well, that’s just great,” Green said.
“Nick?” Watts said.
“Yeah?”
Green turned to look. The suspect held the coffee container in two hands as best he could and sat motionless with eyes closed.
“Now what the fuck is he doing?” Green said as he moved toward the door.
“Lieutenant, wait,” Brewster said. “I want to see this.”
Green, Brewster, Weiner and Watts stared at the suspect as he sat there motionless for thirty or more seconds. Then, slowly, the coffee in the container started to leak onto the table.
“What’s he doing?” Watts said.
“Those are Styrofoam, right?” Brewster said to Green.
Green nodded. “He must be digging his nails in.”
Still holding the container, the coffee ran quicker until the container was empty. Then the suspect released the container, sat back, and opened his eyes. His head slumped forward and he started to weep silently.
As he wept, the cup began to smoke.
“How…?” Brewster said, just as the cup burst into flames.
“Fuck,” Green said as he raced from the observation room.
Green entered the interrogation room just as the last bit of Styrofoam burned and extinguished. The book of matches rested on top of the cigarette pack exactly where he left them.
“What did you do,” Green said.
The suspect raised his head to look at Green. His eyes were red and watery. “She made love to you that night, then left you in the morning for another man.”
“Shut your mouth!” Green yelled. “Shut your fucking mouth.”
“An artist who…”
“I said shut your fucking mouth!” Green yelled and punched the suspect in the mouth so hard that the chair fell backward, knocking him to the end of the length of shackle around his wrist.
Behind the mirror, Weiner looked at Watts . “You write one word of that, I’ll see to it you never sell another piece again. Ever.”
“I grew up with the guy since first grade,” Watts said.
“That doesn’t mean you won’t screw him,” Weiner said.
“If I were to screw Nick Green, it would be in the biblical sense,” Watts said.
“You disgust me,” Weiner said as Watts turned his head and smirked.
Green stared at the suspect for many long silent seconds before he reached out to pick up the chair. “Sit, He said.
The suspect lifted himself back into the chair. “Thank you.”
Green reached for his smokes and lit one off a paper match. “The district attorney witnessed me strike you thru that mirror,” he said. “I’ll bring him if you wish to file charges against me.”
“File charges against an honest police officer who is very good at his job, what for?” the suspect said. “You’re anger wasn’t directed against me. I was just the recipient.”
“Are you sure?” Green said. “I’ve been reprimanded before. It won’t be the first time I’ve been ripped a new asshole.”
The suspect shook his head. “I’m not seriously injured,” he said.
“Then maybe you can tell me how you did the exploding coffee cup trick?” Green said.
“I don’t know,” the suspect said. “Things just happen.”
“Lightning just happens. Tornados just happen. Flash floods just happen. Containers filled with hot liquid that burst into fire do not just happen,” Green said.
“I don’t know,” the suspect said.
“Okay, let’s put the Chris Angel mind freak moment on the back burner for now,” Green said. “I want to talk about the woman you murdered in Central Park this morning.”
“What woman?”
“The woman you murdered.”
“I’ve murdered no one,” the suspect said.
“No?”
“I’m not a liar.”
“They’re running blood tests on that pig sticker you had on you right now,” Green said. “Your shoes match the prints found in her blood. That puts you right there. When he blood DNA shows up on the blade, what are you going to say then?”
“I have nothing to say,” the suspect said.
“I have an idea,” Green said. “Why don’t you say your name?”
The suspect stared silently at Green.
“Your prints will come back. I’ll know anyway.”
“Do what you have to do,” the suspect said.
“It’s late,” Green said. “I’m having you placed in solitary for the night. Would you like something to eat or drink?”
“Thank you, no. I’m fine.”
“Polite bastard,” Watts said as he sliced into his plate of fried eggs.
“I’d like to politely pull the switch on him,” Weiner said.
Green picked up his cheeseburger and took a large bit. Christ, he was starving. “Doc, what do you make of all this?”
Nibbling on a grilled cheese, Brewster said, “He’s an interesting one, I’ll give him that.”
“Interesting?” Watts said. “He turned a coffee cup into a campfire.”
“You don’t write that,” Weiner said.
“I’m not writing anything yet,” Watts said. “I’m doing an exposé, not the headline above the fold.”
Green took another bit of his burger and glanced at his watch. “Christ, I have to get up in three hours,” he said.
“I’d like to know that, too,” Weiner said.
“I have no idea,” Brewster said.
“Maybe he’s like that guy in the Fantastic Four?” Watts said. “Johnny Storm. Flame on, flame off.”
“And maybe you’re a complete idiot?” Green said.
“That aside, my office in conjunction with the mayor has to prepare a statement for the media by ten tomorrow morning,” Weiner said. “What the hell do we tell them about this man?”
“Tell them we captured him in the act, that we’re investigating the possibility of additional murders and withhold his name,” Green said.
“We don’t know his name,” Weiner said.
“True, but they don’t know that,” Green said. “It’s policy not to release names until a suspect is formally charged and we can’t do that until we know for certain he understands what’s being told to him. That’s where you come in, Doc.”
“I need a team and a month of Sundays to make an eval on this subject,” Brewster said. “Anything less than that wouldn’t be accurate nor honest.”
“You’ll say that publicly before a microphone when the time comes?” Weiner said. “And in court?”
“If need be,” Brewster said.
“It will,” Weiner said.
“When will you start your eval?” Green said.
Brewster sighed. “Let me free up some schedules,” he said. “Noon tomorrow?”
Green looked at Weiner. “Stan?”
“I don’t have a problem with it just so long as I’m advised every step of the way,” Weiner said.
“One thing,” Watts said. “If I’m to chronicle this the way it needs to be done, I’ll need to observe every conversation that takes place between Doctor Brewster and whoever the hell he is.”
Green looked at Weiner. “Behind the scenes, right?”
“Absolutely,” Watts said. “I don’t even want him to know I’m there. He scares the shit out of me.”
“I don’t have a problem with it,” Brewster said.
Green finished the last bite of his burger. “I’m going home and sleep in for four hours,” he said. “Stan, I’ll see you at the podium.”
Green and Watts sat on the front steps of Green’s Village townhouse and sipped beer from the can. Four cans from a six-pack rested on the step to Green’s right. He lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring.
“How did he know all that shit, huh?” Watts said. “About your wife, about me? How’d he know that?”
“I’m just a dumb cop too stupid to get a job that pays more than 48k a year,” Green said. “Hell, if it weren’t for you, this mystery man might be out there right now stalking his next victim.”
“I got lucky is all,” Watts said. “You had a thousand things to think about at once. I only had one.”
Both men sipped beer.
“He’s crazy, you know,” Watts said. “A first class ticket to certifiable. How else do you explain killing seven men in cold blood, then settling in for a good night’s sleep?”
“I can’t explain any of it right now,” Green said. “Maybe no one can or will. Sometimes you have to settle for them just being off the streets, even if it’s a padded room with a view.”
“Maybe,” Watts said. He sipped beer and looked at Green. “That stuff he said about the table, your wife, it true?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s also true that I’m gay,” Watts said. “And he knew that without knowing who I am or where I was. How?”
“Hell, I don’t even know how my garbage disposal works,” Green said.
Green sipped beer and grinned along with Watts .
“Well, one thing I do know,” Watts said. “This is gonna be one interesting ride.”
Watts stared at the stretcher as it was carried out. Richardson , Weiner and Watts walked to the table. Watts bent down and picked up the pieces of the shackles. “Cool as a cucumber,” he said.
Watts flipped thru his notes. “For the sake of promotion, you slept with men not thy husband,” Watts said. “Listen to her response. She doesn’t deny it. She asks how he knows.” Watts hit pause. “Want me to complete the sentence. How the fuck does he know that?” Watts said.
Gaul looked at the card. “And this is important why?” Gaul stared at Green’s fingertips for a moment, then reached for his reading glasses on the desk and slipped them on. After a few seconds, Gaul took hold of Green’s right hand and held the fingers closer to his eyes. Releasing Green’s hand, Gaul said, “Work much on pineapple farms?”
Gaul inspected the container and compared the prints to Green’s print card. “Okay,” he said. Gaul watched the screen as Green burst thru the broken two-way mirror and Tazed the suspect. Once he was down, Green pulled his handcuffs and cuffed the suspect. Gaul turned to look at Green. “I’m at a loss.” Gaul sat back in his chair. “When can I examine him?”
THREE
CAUGHT.
That was the headline above the fold in the morning tabloid edition.
Green read the story while he drank coffee at the table his ex-wife wanted so dearly. Setting the paper aside, he lit a cigarette and looked at the table. How on God’s green Earth did a complete psychopath know intimate details of his life? Watts , too for that matter?
How?
Was it possible their paths crossed at some time and Green didn’t remember? That would imply that Watts also somehow crossed paths with him as well, and that was just too much of a reach for that to be true.
Green’s cell phone rang next to the coffee mug. He checked the number first before answering. It was Michele.
“I’m tied up until…” Green said.
“Keep it,” Michele said. “I don’t want it anymore.”
Michele’s voice was stressed almost to the breaking point. “What’s wrong?” Green said.
“I just decided I don’t want the set,” Michele said and her voice cracked.
“I don’t…”
“Let it fucking go!” Michele cried. “Please. Okay?”
Green took a sip of coffee, a hit on the cigarette and said, “Sure.”
“Thank you.”
“I have a press conference in about an hour,” Green said. “Want to meet for lunch after?”
“Why?” Michele said with skepticism in her voice.
“Talk,” Green said. “Something I’ve been thinking about doing that needs your input.”
“Such as?”
“You’ll have to meet me at Carmine’s at one to find out,” Green said.
“Can’t”
“Six for a beer?”
“I’ll see, maybe,” Michele said and hung up.
From the two-way in the observation room, Green, Watts , Weiner, Brewster, Mayor Richardson and Public Defender Marcia Cornet watched the suspect as he sat motionless in the chair at the table in the interrogation room.
“For Christ’s sake,” Richardson
“I’m letting him burn in,” Brewster said.
“What the hell does that mean?” Richardson
“You leave a suspect alone long enough and he’ll lower his guard and do something that you might be able to use during the interview,” Green said.
“Like what?” Richardson
“Couple, three years ago, we had a suspect we believed murdered little girls,” Green said. “We left him alone with a couple of magazines. He flips thru the pages and stops on an ad for back to school clothes. Some girls about nine to twelve, modeling their new outfits. Next thing you know, this guy is jerking off under the table.”
Cornet looked at Green. At forty-two, she was one of the most experienced public defenders in the city, tough, fair and could swear with the best of them. “If this guy pulls out his dick and starts whacking off, I will immediately plea insanity clause.”
“I don’t care if you plead Santa Claus,” Green said. “He hasn’t been charged yet.”
“Charged or not, he still has rites,” Cornet said.
“Show me where we’re violating them?” Green said.
“Using him as a guinea pig for one,” Cornet said. “If you can’t…”
“Counselor, need I remind you the circumstances of his arrest?” Green said.
“Look, Nick, I’m not about to get in a pissing contest with you,” Cornet said. “I just want to make sure his rites aren’t violated, that’s all.”
“Can we stop with the bullshit and get on with this,” Richardson
Brewster glanced at his watch. “It’s been twenty minutes and he hasn’t so much as twitched,” he said. He looked at Green. “Nick?”
“Go for it, Doc,” Green said.
Brewster stood up from his chair.
“Wait a second,” Cornet said. “Alone?”
“It’s an evaluation,” Green said. “You’ll get your chance to make noise when he’s formally charged.”
“Can we quit dicking around now, Marcia?” Weiner said.
Cornet nodded to Brewster. “I suppose his defense won’t be compromised by psychiatric evaluation,” she said.
“Lovely,” Richardson
Brewster walked to the door.
“Make sure the speaker is turned on,” Green said. “Button under the table by your chair.”
Brewster entered the interview room and softly closed the door behind him. The suspect watched as Brewster walked to the table and sat down. For a few seconds, neither man spoke. The suspect, cleaned up a bit overnight, appeared calm, almost timid. Brewster was about to introduce himself when the suspect spoke.
“You’re a good man,” the suspect said. “I can see it in you.”
“In me?” Brewster said. “What does that mean, in me?”
“It’s just something I see,” the suspect said. “That’s all.”
“I’m Doctor Brewster and we’re going to be spending some time together. I’m a psychiatrist. Do you know what that means?”
“Yes.”
“So I know that you really do understand, would you explain what you think it means,” Brewster said.
“I think it means that you’re going to ask me a lot of questions to determine if I’m insane or sane,” the suspect said. “Is that right?”
“That’s exactly right,” Brewster said. “And do you know why I need to do this?”
“No, I don’t.”
In the observation room, Green’s cell phone rang and he dug it out to answer the call. “Green,” he said.
Green listened for a few seconds, said, “Thanks. Keep me updated,” and hung up. He looked at Weiner. “Still no identification on the suspect. Negative on his prints, nothing in the federal databank, nothing.”
“Well, somebody’s got to know who this man is?” Weiner said. “You can’t live forty plus years in this country without leaving something behind.”
“Without prints on file and a name, it might take a public release?” Green said.
“Goddammit,” Richardson
“I agree,” Green said. “Any objections to me contacting the FBI for help?”
“Can you do that on the QT?” Richardson
“I know some people,” Green said.
“Do it.”
Green nodded “When the Doc takes a break.”
“Well, let’s talk about that?” Brewster said.
“Whatever you want to talk about,” the suspect said.
“I’d like to talk about what you remember of killing those people,” Brewster said.
“What people?”
“The five innocent people you killed around Manhattan , the seven men at the homeless shelter,” Brewster said. “Those people.”
“Can I get a cup of coffee?” the suspect said.
“Will that help you concentrate on the questions?”
“No,” the suspect said. “I just like coffee in the morning.”
Brewster looked at the mirror and nodded.
“I’ll get it,” Green said and stood up.
“I could use some, too,” Weiner said.
“I’ll make it all the way round,” Green said and left the room.
“Coffee’s on the way,” Brewster said. “While we wait, let’s back to my question.”
“I already told you, I like coffee in the morning.”
“My other question,” Brewster said. “About the killings.”
The suspect looked at Brewster with soft, unassuming eyes. “Cancer needs to be killed,” he said. “It can’t be reasoned with, talked to or compromised. To stop it, you need to kill it, or it will kill you.”
Brewster took pause for a moment to study the suspect. His voice and tone were so soft and quiet; it was difficult to believe the man capable of such bloodletting. “What are we talking about here?” Brewster said. “Disease or people?”
“Sometimes they’re the same thing,” the suspect said, softly.
Brewster felt a cold chill run down his spine. “I’m trying to follow you here, but you’re logic escapes me. People get disease, that doesn’t make them a disease.”
The suspect stared Brewster in the eye. “You don’t see what I see,” he said.
Green entered the observation room with a tray of coffee containers and one mug. He set the tray down and picked up the mug.
“Nick, let me take it in?” Cornet said.
“Why?” Green said.
“Introduce myself; see where his head’s at.”
Green turned to Weiner. “Any objections?”
“Ball’s going to wind up in her court, anyway,” Weiner said.
Green handed Cornet the mug. “Five minutes. We don’t want to upset the Doc’s applecart. And bring the Doc one, too.”
“What do you see?” Brewster said.
The suspect turned to look past Brewster to the opening door.
“It’s just your coffee,” Brewster said.
Cornet entered the interrogation room and smiled at the suspect as she set the mug on the table in front of him. “And one for you, Doctor,” she said as she handed Brewster a container.
The suspect stared at Cornet.
“I’m Marcia Cornet of the public defender’s office,” Cornet said.
“I see who you are,” the suspect said.
“What does that mean, see?” Cornet said.
The suspect moved his shackled arms toward the mug and held it in both hands. He closed his eyes for a moment and held his breath.
“What’s he doing?” Cornet said to Brewster.
The suspect opened his eyes and looked at Cornet. “Unclean woman,” he said, releasing the mug.
“What does that…?” Brewster said.
“Killer of unborn children,” the suspect said, raising his voice.
“I don’t know…,”Cornet said.
The suspect jumped to his feet, restrained by the shackles. “Didn’t even know who the father was,” he said and shook the shackles around his arms. “For the sake of a promotion, you slept with men not thy husband. You’re no better than a whore.”
“How the fuck does he…” Cornet said.
“Maybe you better leave,” Brewster said to Cornet.
The suspect leaned over the table and stared at Cornet. His eyes were ablaze with hatred as he snapped the shackles around his wrists. “You will burn in hell for eternity!” he yelled. “For thy sins against God and fellow man!”
“Councilor, please leave before he goes…” Brewster said.
On the table, the mug of coffee started to boil.
Brewster and Cornet looked at the mug. “What in…?” Brewster said.
Around the suspect’s wrists, the shackles started to glow red as the iron heated. The wood table where the shackles were clamped through an iron ring started to smoke. The suspect reached out with his right hand toward Cornet.
Brewster jumped to his feet. “Green, you better get in here,” he said.
“His furious anger will not be denied,” the suspect said.
The smoke suddenly burst into flames on the table. The glowing red shackles turned orange and slowly melded to a dazzling, 2700-degree white-hot. The iron went molten as the suspect yanked on the shackles.
“Green!” Brewster yelled.
In the observation room, Watts said, “What the fuck’s happening in there?”
Green ran to the door and out to the hallway.
Weiner watched as the table burst into flames. “Jesus Christ,” he said.
“Stop him,” Richardson
Green pushed on the door to the interrogation room, but it wouldn’t budge. It couldn’t be locked, there wasn’t one. He shoved his bodyweight against the hard wood door and it held fast.
Green turned around, yanked the heavy fire extinguisher off the wall, and smashed it against the door.
Watts, Richardson
Brewster looked at the two-way. “Green, get in here!” he yelled.
The suspect, with one final tug on the molten chain, was free. He looked at Cornet, who was yanking on the doorknob. “Thy will be done,” he said.
Cornet turned around and looked at the suspect.
Six or seven uniforms joined Green at the door. He handed the extinguisher to a uniform. “Keep trying,” Green said. “And somebody find an ax.”
Green ran into the observation room.
Behind the two-way, Brewster tried to get between Cornet and the suspect and the suspect grabbed Brewster, lifted him as one would a child and threw him across the room.
Brewster hit the wall and slumped over.
Cornet had nowhere to go. The suspect cut her off and she screamed, “Help me! Somebody please help me!”
The suspect had Cornet in his grip. He lifted her by the throat and held her above his head. “Thy Kingdom come,” He said and squeezed Cornet’s neck as if it were a toothpaste tube. “Now and at the hour of our death.”
Green pulled his weapon. “Down, down, down!” he yelled.
Green fired five shots at the glass, shattering it into a thousand pieces. He jumped through the hole and held his weapon on the suspect. “Freeze!” he yelled.
“Amen,” the suspect said and released Cornet.
Cornet’s lifeless body hit the floor with a thud as Green ran to the suspect. “Get down!” Green yelled. “Hands behind you head! Do it!”
The suspect turned and looked at Green. The anger was gone from his eyes and he looked at Green with mild curiosity.
“Oh, Goddammit,” Green said, pulled the Tazer from his belt and gave the suspect 10,000 volts.
Ashen faced, Richardson
“Can somebody explain to me what we just witnessed?” Richardson
Weiner turned to Richardson
“And say what?” Richardson
At the table, Brewster received oxygen from another EMT. As he sucked air, Brewster suddenly stood up and removed the mask from around his nose and mouth. “It’s not possible,” he said.
“What?” Richardson
“The table,” Brewster said. “Look.”
“There isn’t a mark on it,” Brewster said. “I saw it burst into flames. It’s not even scorched.”
Brewster touched the shackles. “I saw these melt. They were white hot not thirty minutes ago,” he said. “It would take many hours for it to cool.”
“Where the hell is Green?” Richardson
In the men’s room down the hall from the interview room, Green ran cold water at a sink and splashed his face with it, noticing his hands shook a little bit. Well, why not? It wasn’t every day a public defender was murdered right under his nose by a suspect in custody while you stood by helpless and watched.
Green turned off the water and looked at his face in the mirror. What the hell happened in there. If he hadn’t seen it himself, he would dismiss it as a ghost story.
But, that was no ghost story.
As unexplainable as it was, it happened.
Yeah, what happened?
Green yanked out some paper towels from the wall dispenser and dried his face. He tossed the used towels into a bin, then paused when he noticed the tips of his fingers palm side up.
Green held his fingertips closer to his eyes.
His fingerprints were gone. The tips were as smooth as a baby’s behind.
In the room set aside for reviewing video tape and DVD recordings, Green played back the events from the interview room several times while Brewster and Watts quietly observed.
“There’s nothing,” Watts commented after the third viewing. “No hidden chemicals or weapons, ignition sources, anything.”
“Doc?” Green said.
Brewster ran his fingers across his mouth as he thought. “I have no explanation,” he finally said.
Green pushed a few buttons on the computer keyboard. “I’m going to play back in split second intervals,” he said. “There’s got to be something we’re not seeing.”
Green hit the Play button. The event played out in one second intervals. They watched as Cornet entered the room and set the coffee mug on the desk. The suspect, calm up until the point, became very agitated when he touched the mug.
Green hit Pause.
“He said, ‘I see who you are’,” Green said. “What’s he mean by that?”
“My only guess is he’s delusional and sees things that aren’t there except in his own mind,” Brewster said. “We’ve all see the homeless person having a conversation with no one, yet to them that conversation is as real as the one we’re having now.”
“Except that was no conversation,” Green said. “He wasn’t talking to her as much as accusing her.”
“True, but it’s possible he was accusing her of things only he sees inside his mind?” Brewster said.
“What the fuck’s the matter with you two?” Watts said. “Are we talking about the same asshole here? The fucking guy that set fire to a table and melted iron shackles, then strangled what’s her name while in police custody, that guy? Because if we are, then you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Derek, calm down,” Green said.
“Fuck calm down,” Watts said. “We have this shit on tape. He has no weapons, no accelerant, yet the whole Goddamm room nearly goes up like the Chicago fire while he fucking melts iron and you two geniuses talk shit about the homeless. And what about her, huh? How’d he know that shit about a woman he never met before?”
Green looked at Brewster.
Brewster looked at Watts . “It’s possible he manifested some truth in his mind that…”
“Aw, bullshit,” Watts said. He looked at Green. “Play that part again.”
“What part?”
Green located the moment on the screen and hit Play.
“Look at her face,” Watts said. “Shock as if some dark secret was just made public to the world.”
Green hit Pause. and studied Cornet’s face. Watts had a point, her face, her eyes; they had the expression of someone caught with their pants down.
“Listen to what she says,” Watts said.
Green hit play.
Cornet said, “How the fuck does he…?”
“You don’t know that,” Brewster said. “You’re guessing.”
“It’s a pretty good guess,” Green said.
“What are you implying?” Brewster said.
“I’m not implying anything,” Green said. “I’m saying something happened in there we can’t explain.”
“Which doesn’t mean there isn’t an explanation,” Brewster said.
“What do you call it, that ability to control things using your mind?” Watts said.
“Telekinesis?” Brewster said. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s been scientifically proven there is no such thing.”
“You want to watch the part again where the table catches fire and the chains melt?” Watts said.
“No,” Brewster said. “What I want to do is interview the suspect again as soon as he is able.”
“I’ll check his status,” Green said. “I have a few things to check again, anyway.”
“Want me to go with you?” Watts said.
“No,” Green said. “I want you to go home and not tell a living soul what you saw here today.”
“Can I tell the dead?” Watts said. “I have a feeling they might be listening.”
“These are my fingerprints,” Green said as he handed Gaul the fingerprint card. “They’ve been on file since I was first printed for my department pistol permit fifteen years ago. My prints are on record with the FBI as well.”
Seated at a chair opposite Gaul ’s desk, Green said, “I want you to look at something very carefully now.”
“I don’t do gonorrhea shots,” Gaul joked.
“I wish it was something that explainable,” Green said.
“Okay, show me,” Gaul said.
Green stood up and walked around the desk so that he stood over Gaul . “What do you make of this?” Green said and extended his fingertips palm side up.
“What are you talking about?” Green said.
“There’s an enzyme in pineapple that over time can dissolve fingerprints,” Gaul said. “But, not this clean.”
“I don’t even like pineapple and this morning, my fingerprints were just fine,” Green said.
“Nick, it’s impossible to completely remove fingerprints,” Gaul said. “Even with an acid wash, something remains. Some trace, some impression, something.”
“Yeah, well, I got nothing,” Green said.
“There has to be some logical explanation, Nick,” Gaul said. “Prints don’t just disappear off a person’s fingers.”
“Mine did,” Green said. “And I’m pretty sure I know when.”
“I dusted my coffee container from this morning,” Green said and passed the deli container to Gaul . “My prints are all over it.”
“Now watch,” Green said and hit the Play button on the DVD player.
Green hit pause. “There,” he said. “I made contact with his bare skin. Twenty minutes later, I went to the bathroom and ran some cold water on my face. That’s when I noticed my fingers no longer had prints.”
“Could he have some kind of oils in his skin that could erase prints?” Green said.
“His skin would have to be almost toxic,” Gaul said.
“Like the movie Aliens,” Green said. “The creature, the mother, she had spit like acid could burn through metal.”
“That was a Sci-Fi movie, Nick,” Gaul said.
“I know, but if a Cobra can spit venom so toxic it can blind you on contact, could a man have oils in his skin that could erase fingerprints?” Green said.
“Not until tomorrow.”
“Let me know,” Gaul said. “This is one for the books.”
Green looked at Gaul . “Which book?”
Before leaving his office for the day, Green had to make a bunch of phone calls. First, he called King’s County Hospital
Hanging up the phone, Green lit a cigarette, telling himself screw the ordinances, he’d damn well smoke wherever the hell he felt like. Picking the phone back up, he dialed the mayor’s office and lucked out when Richardson
“I didn’t catch the tube,” Green said. “What’s the official word on Cornet?”
“Heart attack,” Richardson
“Can we get away with that?”
“We’ll have to,” Richardson
“What about family?”
“What little there is didn’t seem all that upset by the news.”
“I need a favor.”
“If I can.”
“I’d like to keep him in King’s, at least for now,” Green said. “It’s safer and we don’t have to risk exposure by transporting him.”
“I agree, but Brewster and Weiner won’t like to commute,” Richardson
“Let them have one of your limos and a driver,” Green suggested.
“I only have one.”
“Hey, Koch rode the subway.”
“It was seventy five cents then.”
“I’ll talk to you later,” Green said.
“Wait,” Richardson
“No, but my next call is to an old FBI buddy who owes me one,” Green said.
“Keep me advised.”
Green pressed the disconnect button on the phone and held it for a moment while he searched thru his desk for a number. He found it on a slip of paper, dialed it and held the phone to his ear while he lit a fresh cigarette off the butt of the old one. After two rings, a female voice said, “FBI regional office, how may I help you?”
“Agent Tanner, please,” Green said. “Lieutenant Green, NYPD calling.”
“Please hold, Lieutenant,” the female voice said.
Green sat back and took several hits on the cigarette before the female voice came back on the line. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, Agent Tanner has left for the day.”
“Can you page him for me?” Green said. “It’s urgent.”
“Do you have a callback number?”
Green left her his cell number, hung up and called records for an update on the suspect. They had nothing. It was as if the suspect never existed before his capture.
That wasn’t as unusual as it seemed. Many of the homeless live on the streets sometimes for twenty years or more. They exist between the cracks in the system and when the booze, drugs and untreated mental illness consumes their minds, they become the ghosts of the city. Wandering the streets, many forget their names and that at one point they lived entirely different lives. When they expire on the streets, they wind up in an unmarked grave in a city owned plot of land and that’s that.
Green’s cell phone rang. He checked the number, hoping it was Tanner, not unhappy to see it was Michele.
“Nick, I can’t make Carmine’s,” Michele said. “Antonio has a show at a village gallery at six and I promised to be there.”
“Afterward?” Green said.
“Oh, Nick, let it go,” Michele said. “Keep the damn table and forget it. Please.”
“Okay, but why?” Green said.
“What difference does it make?”
“We were married for ten years,” Green said. “And even though you don’t want me to, I still care what happens to you. This morning you sounded frightened on the phone. I’m concerned as to why, that’s all.”
“It was nothing,” Michele said. “I had a bad dream…a nightmare. Silly, but it upset me. Satisfied?”
“No. I’d feel better if we talked in person, even if it was just for one drink,” Green said. “Besides, I’m putting the building up for sale. Too much room for one. You stand to make half and that’s considerable.”
“Are you sure you want to do that?”
“Let’s talk about it.”
“Will it get you off my back?”
“I’d feel better. And, like I said, half is considerable.”
“8:30 at Louis’,” Michele said. “I can make that, but just one beer.”
“Good enough,” Green said.
Green came out of the shower just as his cell phone rang. He scooped it up from the counter above the sink and checked the number. It was Cal Tanner returning his earlier call.
“Special Agent Tanner, how are you, Cal
“I’m 60,” Tanner said. “Need I say more?”
“Working on anything special right now?” Green said.
“Special is my rank,” Tanner said. “That and four bucks buys me a coffee at Starbucks.”
“Got time for an old friend?”
“Where and when?”
“Breakfast tomorrow morning,” Green said. “Pick the place and the city pays.”
“The city’s broke.”
“It’s never stopped City Hall yet.”
“8:30 at the Wall Street Diner a few blocks from the Federal Building
“Besides your appetite, bring your curiosity,” Green said. “This one just didn’t kill the cat, it skinned it.”
“Mystery, I like that,” Tanner said. “See you then.”
Green hung up, wrapped a towel around his waist and went to the kitchen for a cold beer. He sat at the table to air dry, drink the beer and smoke a cigarette. As he thought about Agent Tanner and the two interdepartmental investigations they worked on in the past, old memories crept into his mind.
Memories of Michele, of course.
What else was there worth remembering?
They were younger and she wore her blonde hair longer than today. Often times, as newlyweds tend to be, they were nutty with their lust for each other. It was summer and scorching hot. They had just spent their life savings and purchased the building. Michele, bronzed and trim, wearing cut offs and tank top, stood at the counter and prepared a salad. These were the years before sex became a weapon and modesty wasn’t a word. He couldn’t wait for the bedroom and ravished her on the table and she loved every second of it.
Funny how you can remember something without actually remembering the event. Was it so long ago he couldn’t see it clearly? Was his mind blocking to prevent pain like the Doc was always talking about?
Did it matter?
The lust of youth was long gone and his thirty-seven-year old ex-wife lived with an artist twenty years her senior because he fulfilled her intellectual needs.
Green took a sip of beer. “Lieutenant Nick Green, at your beck and call,” he said aloud, then went to get dressed.
Louis’ was a local watering hole frequented by neighborhood residents sick and tired of tourists hogging all the good tables at the more upscale bars and restaurants in the Village and Little Italy.
Sidewalk tables were full when Green walked down the street to the bar. It was a warm night and the cold beer flowed. A good crowd was inside, too, and he spotted Michele at the bar even with her back to him.
As Green walked to the bar, he paused. The crowd inside was loud, boisterous, some screaming at the ballgame on the television above the bar. For a split second, the noise level lowered as the lights dimmed. At the bar, Michele slowly turned to look at him. Her face broke into a smile.
Slowly, Michele’s smile grew wider, stretching her lips, wider and wider until the smile split her face nearly in two. Her tongue flicked out, serpentine like with split ends, flicking as if sniffing the air.
Green gasped and blinked and Michele was still at the bar with her back toward him. The crowd at the bar roared for someone who just hit a homerun, the lights were at a normal level.
Green walked to the bar and squeezed in next to Michele. “You made it,” he said.
She had a glass of white wine and he guessed it wasn’t the first of the evening. Probably had several at the gallery. “I said I would,” she said and he detected a slight slurring in her words.
“So what do you think of selling the building?” Green said. “The real estate agent said we’d triple our investment.”
Michele took a sip of wine and looked at Green. “I won’t lie and say I couldn’t use the money,” she said. “But, there’s something I’d like…”
Michele’s eyes suddenly turned from deep blue to piercing red dots.
“Is…what is…your eyes,” Green said.
Michele blinked. They were normal again, as blue as the Pacific. “What’s wrong with them?”
“Nothing,” Green said. “Must be the light in here.”
A bartender approached Green. “Haven’t seen you in here for a while.”
“No time,” Green said. “Gimme a cold one on tap and a refill for my…for her.”
“Got it, sport.”
Green looked at Michele. “So what’s the nightmare got to do with the kitchen table?” he said.
Michele lifted her glass and downed the last bit of wine. “Nothing. I don’t know. Can we drop that subject and talk about the building. It is still half mine, isn’t it?”
“You know it is,” Green said. “That’s why we’re talking.”
“Well, and hear me out on this,” Michele said. “After we talked earlier, I talked to…”
“Antonio,” Green said. “You can say his name.”
Michele seemed awkward at saying his name. “Yes. Well, anyway, we think it would be a good idea if we bought out your half of the building. He can use the space for his work and…”
“You want to live in the house we were married in with Picasso there?” Green said. “No fucking way.”
“You just said you wanted to sell it,” Michele said.
“To strangers, not my ex-wife and her aging hippie boyfriend.”
Michele shook her head. “I’m going for a pee,” she said. “That will give you time to cool down.”
Michele turned and walked thru the crowd to the bathrooms. The bartender set a glass of beer and a second glass of wine in front of Green.
“Didn’t you guys used to be married?” the bartender said.
“Once,” Green said.
“Too bad, she’s a looker,” the bartender said and walked to the other end of the bar to fill some empty glasses.
“Yeah, right,” Green muttered as he took a sip of beer. “A looker.”
Someone else hit a homerun and the group watching the game broke out in cheers and applause. Green sipped his beer, then caught sight of Michele returning from the bathroom in the mirror.
Slowly, Green turned around. The noise level lowered again, the lights dimmed and it was as if a spotlight shown on Michele and followed her as she walked. Her movements slowed as she looked at him.
Green closed his eyes for a moment, thinking they were playing tricks on him. They weren’t. He looked at Michele and her body seemed almost transparent as she moved slowly thru the crowd. Her serpentine tongue flicked the air as her face slowly morphed into a hideous mask of some alien creature not of this Earth.
The noise in the bar faded to complete silence.
Green stared at Michele.
He may be an aging artist, Nick, but he’s got you beat in the sex department by a good two inches.
Green looked to his left and right. “Who said that?” he heard himself say aloud.
And not just him, Nick. You’re not half the man your brother is.
Green felt beads of sweat form on his face as he squinted at Michele. She looked herself again and smiled at him as she pushed thru the crowd.
Nick, Nick, you smiling moron. He was your best man, your brother and that’s no joke. Biggest I ever had.
There was a sudden rushing noise inside Green’s head like a waterfall, followed by a sonic boom and then, suddenly, he knew the memory of making love to Michele on the table wasn’t his, but his brother Jake’s.
As if channeling Jake’s memory, Green saw it play out in his mind.
He home, Jake said.
Not for a while.
Jake pulled down her tank top and took a nipple in his mouth and she moaned with pleasure.
Make it quick, she said. I’ll need a shower before he gets home.
Jake ripped the shorts off her body and placed her on the table. He opened his fly and exposed his massive hard on and she squealed with delight as he rammed it in her.
That’s it, Michele moaned. That’s the way.
Green came off the bar. “With my fucking brother!” he yelled.
The crowd around him went silent.
Michele froze in mid step. “What are you…?”
“My fucking brother!” Green yelled at Michele.
“Hey, pal, what’s the problem?” someone to Green’s left said.
Green rushed forward and grabbed Michele by the throat. “With Goddamm Jake!” he screamed in her face.
A hand reached out to grab Green.
Green pulled his Glock .40 and fired a shot into the ceiling. Panic immediately kicked in and the crowd ran for the door.
Green spun Michele around and slammed her face into a table, cracking open her nose to the bone. Blood splattered everywhere.
“You fucked my brother on our Goddamm kitchen table!” Green yelled as he spun Michele again and slammed her into the base of the bar.
“I Goddamm loved you, you miserable fucking whore!” Green yelled.
A hand grabbed Green from behind. Green spun and slammed the pistol into the bartender’s face, knocking him to the floor. “Mind your own fucking business!” Green shouted.
On the floor, Michele groaned.
Green looked at her. She was face first in a pool of her own blood. “Fucking bitch!” Green yelled as he kicked her in the stomach and ribs. “We’ll see if Mr. artist still wants you now!” he yelled and dragged Michel across the floor by the hair.
“Freeze!” a voice yelled behind Green.
Green turned with his pistol aimed at the voice.
“Don’t do it!” the uniform yelled. There were two other uniforms with him, all aimed down at Green.
“Put it down,” a second uniform said. “We can talk this out. Nobody has to get hurt.”
Green released Michele’s hair and she flopped over unconscious.
“Now put the gun down,” an officer said.
Green looked at Michele on the floor. She appeared to Green the way a negative of an old photograph did and at that moment, he realized what he was looking at was her soul, ugly and filled with sin.
What was it the suspect said?
I see things.
Green shoved his Glock under his chin and pulled the trigger.
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