City of Endless Night Page 13

  At this, he paused. Three disgustingly rich scumbags. Could that be it? Could that possibly be it?

  Maybe not everything about the three victims was different, after all. It seemed so simple. So clean. Three rich scumbags who—in the killer’s mind—deserved to die. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Perfect sense.

  In fact, it was the only theory that made sense.

  He felt that tingling sensation running up his spine that only occurred when he was on to something big.

  But he had to be careful here—very careful. It was a theory, after all. He didn’t want a repeat of that Von Menck story from a few years back, the crazy old scientist predicting New York’s imminent destruction by fire. That particular piece had landed him in hot water. No: if he really was on to something here, it had to be a theory that was backed up by solid reporting, facts, and evidence.

  Slowly, deliberately, he paged through first one pile of sheets, then the second, and then the third, thinking carefully as he did so, looking for holes in his theory. Here were three people of overtly bad character. Ozmian, rich party girl; Cantucci, mob lawyer; Bogachyov, arms dealer and all-around asshole. But…it turned out Grace Ozmian had a terrible secret. And he would bet that the other two also had some grotesque evil hidden in their past. Of course they did. They weren’t just low-grade scumbags: each one must have done a horrible deed, like Grace Ozmian, that had never been adequately punished—the very nature of their professions made it almost inevitable. The longer he thought, the more he examined the evidence, the more certain he became. It was so simple, so obvious, it had been staring him in the face all the time.

  He began pacing the apartment again, but now the pacing was different: excited, animated. Nobody had figured it out. The police didn’t have a clue. But the more he examined his discovery from every possible angle, the more he became confident…no, convinced…that he was right.

  He strode back into the living room, sat down at the Queen Anne table, and pulled the laptop toward him. For a minute he sat motionless, composing his thoughts. And then he began to type: slowly at first, then faster and faster, the keys clacking deep into the snowy night. This would be a Christmas Day story that nobody would soon forget.

  26

  THE DECAPITATOR REVEALED

  Headless Killings Linked

  Bryce Harriman, New York Post — December 25

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  No one is safe.

  27

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I told you, man, I—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Of course.”

  Pendergast had now entered the room.

  “Who?”

  “You people.”

  “How’s that?”

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

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

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

  “Sure.”

  “And did he test positive for methamphetamine hydrochloride?”

  “Hell, yes. High as a kite.”

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

  D’Agosta followed him out of the room.

  “I don’t need to ask any questions,” Pendergast said, “because I know this fellow is innocent in the matter of the Cantucci killing.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  “I found a sample of methamphetamine in his apartment. The large, yellowish salt-like grains I recognized immediately as a special ‘brand,’ if you will, of meth, known by its crystal shape, color, and consistency. A quick bit of research revealed the DEA had the meth cook of this particular variety under observation, in preparation for making an arrest, and that the product was sold out of a particular nightclub. So a certain colleague of mine arranged for me to view the surveillance videos the DEA had been taking of the nightclub’s entrances and exits. And sure enough: Lasher was seen entering the nightclub, and then exiting it forty-five minutes later, no doubt making a buy…precisely during the period when Cantucci was killed.”

  D’Agosta stared at him, then finally laughed and shook his head. “Fucking A. It isn’t Baugh, it isn’t Ingmar, it isn’t Lasher—every single decent lead has gone to hell. I feel like I’m rolling a ball of shit up an endless mountain.”

  “My dear Vincent, Sisyphus would be proud.”

  As they left Bellevue, a big New York Post truck making an early morning delivery had parked in the crosswalk, and as they went around it, the driver dropped a fat bundle of papers on the sidewalk beside them. The headline screamed:

  THE DECAPITATOR REVEALED!!

  28

  THIS IS A first,” said Singleton, as D’Agosta and the captain emerged from the Municipal Building for the short walk from One Police Plaza to City Hall. It was a sunny, brutally cold morning, with the temperature hovering at ten degrees. As yet there had been no snow, and the streets were like halls of frosty sunlight.

  D’Agosta was filled with dread. He had never been called to the mayor’s office before, let alone with his captain. “Any idea what we’re going to face?” he asked.

  Singleton said, “Look, it’s not good. It’s not even bad. It’s horrendous. Normally, the mayor makes his views known through the commissioner. As I said, this is a first. Did you see that look he gave after the press conference?”

  Without further discussion they turned into City Hall Park and entered the opulent neoclassical rotunda of City Hall itself. A gray-suited lackey, waiting for their arrival, routed them around security and took them up the stairs, down a vast and intimidating marble hall lined with dark paintings, to a set of double doors. They were ushered through an outer office and directly into the mayor’s private office. No waiting.

  No waiting. To D’Agosta, that seemed the worst omen of all.

  The mayor stood behind his desk. Lying upon it were two neatly squared copies of the Post: yesterday’s, with the big Harriman story, and beside it that morning’s edition, with a follow-up piece by Harriman.

  The mayor did not offer them a seat or sit down himself, nor did he offer his hand.

  “All right,” he said, his deep voice booming, “I’m getting pressure from all sides. You said you were developing leads. I need to know where we’re at. I want to know the latest details.”

  Singleton had previously made it clear that D’Agosta, as the CDS on the case, was going to do the talking. All the talking. Unless the mayor directly addressed Singleton.

  “Mayor DeLillo, thank you for your concern—” D’Agosta began.

  “Cut the bullshit and tell me what I need to know.”

  D’Agosta took a deep breath. “It’s…” He decided not to spin it. “Honestly, it’s not good. We had a number of leads in the beginning, several of which seemed promising, but none of them panned out. It’s been frustrating.”

  “Finally some straight talk. Keep going.”

  “In the first killing, we had reasons to suspect the father of the child the victim had killed in a hit-and-run. But he has an ironclad alibi. In the second killing, we were certain it was someone connected with the victim’s security system. In fact, we’re still sure of it—but the three most likely suspects did not pan out.”

  “What about that guy, Lasher, who shot one of your cops?”

  “He has an alibi.”

  “Which is?”

  “Caught on videotape by the DEA in a drug deal at the exact time of the killing.”

  “Christ. And the third killing?”

  “The labs are still developing the evidence. We found the boat that the killer used—stolen, of course. But it looks like a dead end. There was no evidence in the boat and no evidence at the marina from which it was taken. We did, however, get a clear footprint of the killer. Size thirteen.”

  “What else?”

  D’Agosta hesitated. “As for solid leads, that’s it so far.”

  “That’s it? One bloody footprint? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the FBI? Have they got anything? Are they holding out on you?”

  “No. We have excellent rapport with the FBI. They would appear to be as stumped as we are.”

  “What about the FBI Behavioral Science Unit, the shrinks that are supposed to look into motivation and provide a profile. Any results?”

  “Not yet. We’ve routed all relevant material to them, of course, but normally it takes a couple of weeks to get results. We’ve escalated our request, however, and we hope to have something in two days.”

  “Two days? Jesus.”

  “I’ll do everything I can to hurry it up.”

  The mayor swept up yesterday’s copy of the Post and waved it at them. “What about this? This Harriman story? Why didn’t you see this possibility yourselves? Why does it take a goddamn reporter to come up with a viable theory?”

  “We’re absolutely looking into it.”

  “Looking into it. Looking into it! I got three bodies. Three headless bodies. Three rich, notorious, headless bodies. And I have a cop on life support. I don’t need to tell you the kind of heat I’m getting.”

  “Mr. Mayor, there isn’t any hard evidence yet backing up Harriman’s idea it’s a vigilante, but we’re investigating that possibility—just as we’re looking at many others.”

  The mayor dropped the paper back on the desk in disgust. “This theory that we’ve got some kind of crusading psycho out there, raining down judgment on the wick
ed, has really struck a chord. You know that, right? A lot of people in this town—important people—are getting nervous. And there are others cheering the killer on like some kind of serial-killer Robin Hood. We can’t have this threat to the social fabric. This is not Keokuk or Pocatello: this is New York, where we have everyone under the sun finally living in harmony, enjoying the lowest crime rate of any big city in America. I am not going let that come apart on my watch. You got that? Not on my watch.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s a joke. Forty detectives, hundreds of beat cops—one footprint! If I don’t see immediate progress, there will be hell to pay, Lieutenant. And Captain.” He thumped the desk with a massive, veined hand, looking from one to the other. “Hell to pay.”

  “Mr. Mayor, we’re pulling out all the stops, I promise you.”

  The mayor took a deep breath, his massive frame swelling, and then exhaled with a dramatic rush of air. “Now get out there and bring me something better than a damned footprint.”

  29

  WHEN ALVES-VETTORETTO entered her boss’s eyrie on the top floor of the DigiFlood tower, Anton Ozmian was sitting behind his desk, typing furiously at a laptop computer. He glanced up without stopping, eyed her through his steel-rimmed glasses, and nodded almost imperceptibly. She took a seat in one of the chrome-and-leather chairs and settled in to wait. The typing went on—sometimes fast, sometimes slow—for another five minutes. Then Ozmian pushed the laptop away, put his elbows on the black granite, and stared at his aide-de-camp.

  “The SecureSQL takeover?” Alves-Vettoretto asked.

  Ozmian nodded, massaging the graying hair at his temples. “Just had to make sure the poison pill was in place.”