Androcide (Intel 1 Book 5) Page 5

  Sacker nodded. “I think we’re going to see more Fred Russo’s as we go down the list. He stays on it, but for now, there’s just not much for followup.”

  “We still should search his place,” said Snyder. “He was willing. We won’t even need a warrant.”

  “Time’s finite, Rick,” said Sacker. “We have ten more names on this list, which is going to take us I don’t know how long. Meanwhile we need to keep the press at bay with something. Departmental resources are stretched pretty thin.”

  “So we don’t search it?”

  “No. That’s my call. I think it’ll slow us down, put us off track. And it’ll end up in the papers, which means when we find nothing, we look like idiots. Publicly.”

  Sacker’s phone buzzed. “It’s Ladner. This can’t be good.” He tapped the screen and dropped it into the cup holder. “Hey, Mike. Driving back with Snyder and Hill. You’re on speaker.”

  A distorted voice crackled through the device. “Change of plans, Tyrell. Everything’s changed. We’ve got a second body.”

  “A second?”

  “That’s right. From initial reports, it sounds like the same killer. Same MO, down to the below-the-belt trimming. Body’s on 3rd and sixty-eighth.”

  Oh, shit. “That’s right next to Fox.”

  “Exactly. Get your asses over there now and take control of the situation. Expect the cameras.”

  “Hang onto your badges.” Sacker hit the sirens and pulled a U-turn. “This is going to get ugly.”

  The cameras were indeed out in full force. A half-dozen lenses locked on them as they exited the car. They fought their way through the throngs. Shutters assaulted them like a cicada swarm. Reporters dogged them, shouting out questions and demands for answers. The word summoned to Sacker’s mind was bedlam. He focused like a laser beam on the NYPD presence at the corner of the block.

  Sutherland had beat them there.

  “Ah, detective Sacker,” he said, ignoring Hill and Snyder. “Still sporting that antiquated head covering, I see.”

  “It’s vintage. Cotton Club era.”

  “No doubt,” he said, the smile mocking. “It looks like your case has now been complicated exponentially.”

  His smile infuriated Sacker. “What do we have?” He popped another nicotine strip.

  The body was splayed in front of the Food Emporium, mounted like a trophy on bursting garbage bags. One quick glance told the story.

  “The sanitation crews once again won this lottery,” chirped Sutherland, his eyes twinkling. “Their truck ran behind schedule, explaining the relatively late hour of discovery as compared to the first corpse. But no doubt this killing is related to Reaper’s.”

  Hill covered her mouth. “This one stinks more.”

  “A near carbon copy of the first murder.” The doctor led the detectives under the police tape. “The positioning of the body is vey similar to Reaper. Naked, no ID. The horrific bruising even worse in this case. And, of course, the removal of all external male genitalia.” He stopped gesturing and turned to the detectives. “No blood. No other evidence.”

  Sacker rubbed his temples. A whopper of a headache gestated. He turned to several of the uniformed officers around him. “Let’s get this body covered and that crowd pushed back!”

  “My team will get the body to the lab,” said Sutherland, “but I do not anticipate any surprises.” He removed and tossed his gloves into an evidence bag, walking away from the crime scene. Several assistants from the morgue began to cover the body.

  “There goes the damn list of suspects,” said Hill, hands on her hips.

  “Wait, why?” asked Snyder.

  She puffed brown strands out of her eyes. “Well, it’s unlikely any of them did this. Reaper’s dead, right?”

  Snyder furrowed his brows. “Well, there might be a second killer. Maybe a copycat killer?”

  Sacker sighed and waved him silent. “No, Rick. We’re not looking at multiple killers. We’re looking at one killer, same MO, multiple vics. Please tell me you know what that means.”

  Snyder glanced to the right. “A serial killer?”

  “Bingo. Two might not technically qualify, but that’s what we have.”

  Puffing out his chest, Snyder smiled. “A serial killer! So now what? Why did he kill this guy? What’s the relationship?”

  “I have no idea,” said Sacker. “We need to ID this vic and then we can begin to try and find out.” Sacker scanned the sea of faces and cameras aimed in their direction.

  Hill followed his gaze. “This is going to turn into a circus, isn’t it?”

  “Mmmm-hmmm. Two dickless vics? They’re gonna Son of Sam this till the ratings come home.”

  Hill squinted. “Two murders in less than a week. One busy killer.”

  “Maybe,” said Sacker, watching the body placed into a bag. “But remember what Sutherland said. Time of death, possible cold storage. All the dirty work might have been done weeks ago. The last five days could just be drop offs.”

  “Drop-offs.” Hill grimaced. “How many more deliveries do you think are in the queue?”

  Sacker’s lip curled. “That’s what I’m afraid of, Kathy. That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

  11

  Gone Shooting

  Grace Gone focused and steadied her aim, holding the weapon one-handed in her right because the left had begun to tremble too much. Her weight rested mostly on the right leg as well, the other side of her body relentless in its determined progression to fail her. The target sighted, she exhaled and pulled the trigger.

  Dust popped from the innermost scoring ring of the LE Silhouette, the bullet hole obliterating the “X” in the chest cavity. Her mouth formed an impatient pout as she aimed again.

  Her Glock 42 wasn’t very intimidating, and the .380 ACP rounds not the cannon loaders many of the larger men around her liked to fire, but Gone knew that big rounds meant little if they didn’t strike true. Her gun was compact, light, and the recoil manageable for a small woman.

  Shot placement is everything.

  She’d read the studies and analyzed police reports. Shootouts where men blasted each other in the legs, arms, and shoulders, missing the vital organs even at close range, criminals refusing to fall. Psychological stopping power in some cases. But pain and mild blood loss often only angered the truly determined. If Gone came under attack, she had resolved to damage key life-support—heart, lungs, brain. She fired again, a hole rupturing the forehead of her paper assailant. Her aim was true.

  Until the right side goes to hell.

  The thought demoralized her and she lowered her weapon, forcing her mind to shunt to another topic. She closed her eyes and removed the protective earmuffs. The arms fire around her in the underground Long Island range echoed. On her right came the artillery blasts of a massive weapon and the shouts and back slaps of young men. Gone rifled through the firearms she had observed and studied, their sounds and mechanisms memorized.

  Desert Eagle. .50 AE barrel. No muzzle brake.

  “My turn, Henry!” came a cry.

  Gone frowned. Inexperienced group, three men with local accents. The gun owner was showing off, bringing his buddies and his biggest weapon. Moderate probability of mishap.

  “Easy, partner! Whoa! Point the fucker down-range! Look, this isn’t for pussies. I said wait! First—”

  Again the powerful blast. Then a cry and bursts of laughter.

  “My nose!”

  The men were hooting and hollering. Gone opened her eyes, stepped back, and looked over. A muscular man in a tight T-shirt held his face in both hands, a massive handgun dropped at his feet. The white cotton rippling under his bulging pecs was stained red as blood gushed between his fingers. His friends rushed to get him towels as they tried to contain their laughter.

  Inexperienced shooter. Recoil uncompensated.

  “All right boys,” came a curt baritone. Swooping in from the far side of the booth, an older safety officer scowled. “You’re out
ta here. I don’t know who the hell let you in with that, but anything fifty and over is a no-go. Session’s over.”

  She turned her attention to a quick succession of small calibre shots on her left. Very small calibre. 22s in a revolver from the mechanism sounds. Her call was a Ruger LCR, purse gun, small woman like herself practicing for self-defense. She peeked around the wall’s edge. A diminutive Latina with a fierce expression removed eye guards and popped the six-shooter open. She glared up at Gone.

  Gone nodded and looked away. Images from the cable news program on the television behind the observation glass caught her eye. A reporter shouted over flashing emergency lights and the bustle of a crowd.

  Gone stiffened. As she stared at the video feed, her head barely moving, she removed the ammunition magazine without glancing down, checked the chamber with a quick look, and put the weapon in a carrying case. She walked to a hook on the wall and grabbed her purse, marched to the door, and entered the observation room. The television blared with sirens, crowd noises, and the giddy words of the local reporter.

  “New York First here at the headquarters of Canid News on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. The initial footage appears to show a second, I repeat a second mutilated murder victim. Mutilated, I mean, like before, like Jack Reaper. Ah, castrated.” He laughed nervously.

  As the reporter continued in voiceover, the camera left his face and zoomed to a chaotic scene of police and emergency responders. Every few seconds, the scurrying bodies parted enough to see into their midst, glimpse momentarily a pile of garbage bags, a gray and naked form compressing them from the top.

  “Hey, Grace,” came a older woman’s voice behind a counter. “Gonna have to ask for that license next time. Get it renewed, honey, okay?”

  “Yeah. Will do, Darlene,” she said, eyes still at the screen.

  Gone turned from the video and headed to the exit. In those few moments, everything had changed.

  12

  Just a Taste

  Sacker stared across the table. My how we’ve grown.

  Along with Snyder and Hill, Ladner assigned him three junior detectives for the case. They’d run searches, do background checks, interface with other agencies. Make the damn morning coffee. Maybe even follow down leads.

  Whenever we have some.

  The ad hoc group sat around a conference table on the 12th Precinct 4th floor. Sacker walked them through a multimedia presentation he’d thrown together. Ladner presided over the proceedings, a brooding presence in the back of the dark room. The mood was anxious and grim. The projector beam cast a gray hue over their faces.

  “The second vic’s been IDed as Anton Tarakovsky,” said Sacker, showing a photo of a bearded white male. “Former adjunct professor, serial rapist convicted in California in the nineties of six counts of sexual assault, two against minors. He served fifteen years and was paroled for good behavior with an agreement to wear a GPS ankle bracelet. Three years ago he moved to New York, taking odd jobs in construction and the like.”

  “Any connection to Reaper?” asked Ladner.

  “None we can find. We’re still looking, but they seemed to have lived entirely separate lives on different coasts.”

  “No DNA? No prints? Anything?”

  “Strike out. The forensics report might as well have been Reaper’s. Evidence of prolonged and severe bodily trauma. Nearly head to toe bruising and damage to internal organs, internal bleeding. Death came from asphyxia from an object placed over the mouth and nose. No identifying samples on the body to connect to the killer. The body was sterilized, same as Reaper. Sutherland says we won’t find anything there.”

  “Damn.” Ladner threw his pen down and pushed a notepad away. “This guy’s good. Too fucking good.”

  “And the killer cut off his dick and balls, again?” It was the voice of one of the assistants assigned to the case. He sounded amused.

  “Surgically removed,” finished Sacker. “More than that. The entire reproductive plumbing. Body parts never recovered.”

  “I wonder what he’s doing with those hot dogs and meatballs? Grilling ‘em? Maybe he’s a Lector with a fetish.”

  “Enough, Jones.” Sacker stared the young detective down. “We’ve got enough of that online.” He addressed the rest of the group. “While the corpse likely won’t yield any clues, there is one more piece of evidence from the autopsy. Something we were meant to find—another note left by the killer.”

  An image of a wrinkled piece of paper appeared on the screen.

  “Where was that found?” boomed Ladner in a deep bass. “Not in his pockets, obviously.”

  “In his mouth,” said Sacker. “Folded in a ziplock bag, shoved into the throat. No prints, no fibers except for the paper, nothing. The message is typed, likely printed from a desktop instrument. Let me zoom in.”

  Sacker advanced the slide. Ladner read the words slowly. “A taste of things to come.” People stirred in their chairs, murmuring.

  Sacker spoke over them. “Doesn’t leave much to the imagination. We were focused on a revenge killing of Jack the Reaper, but this second murder—of a convicted rapist—changes our model.” He switched off the projector and flicked the lights on. “We’re dealing with a serial killer. Probably a psychopath. And this note suggests the bodies aren’t done dropping.”

  “Profiling? Calls into the Feds?” asked Ladner.

  Sacker motioned to Hill. She turned to the captain. “I’m on it, sir. We have contacts at the FBI itching to get involved in this case. They’re friendlies and won’t snatch the case. All they want is acknowledgment for any collars.”

  Sacker shook his head. “Better to defuse a full federal take-over. Throw them some bones. Hopefully they help but leave us alone.”

  “We’re also listing convicted rapists and pedophiles in the tristate area,” continued Hill. “I’m prioritizing those with multiple convictions, especially if they had any press coverage.”

  Sacker nodded. “If this pattern holds, the next target will be on that list.”

  “We can’t shadow all of them,” said Ladner.

  “No, but have any disappeared in the last few months? Forensics suggests refrigerated storage. The killer might have multiple bodies stashed in coolers to drop on us.” He smirked. “Hell, for all we know, all the killings are done already.”

  “At least monitor the top, press-worthy members of your list.”

  “That’s the plan, Mike. We’re getting the list together.”

  “What about the bruising?”

  Sacker exhaled, flipping back several slides to find an image of both bodies. “Here are photos side-by-side. Washed out in this light. But the discoloration is similar. Supports the idea of a single killer.”

  “No, I meant any idea on what the hell did that? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Neither had Sutherland. He thinks it’s some kind of custom torture the killer devised to make the victims last moments especially horrible. It’d take a special kind of beating to do that damage. Across the entire body. It’s as brutal as it comes.”

  Ladner stood. “Alright, I’ve got other business to run, but this case is getting top departmental priority. I’ve already gotten a call from the Mayor’s office. We’ve got the PR team working overtime to smother this, limit the damage. But there’s only so much they can do. Less than twenty-four hours and the tabloids are blasting away already.”

  “We’ve got ten separate confessions,” said Hill. “Wasting our time in following them up.”

  “Always the case, Kathy, but we have to,” said Sacker. “The real problems come from the amateur sleuths, PIs who stick their noses into these investigations. More time spent on them, their interviews with the press, critiquing our efforts than the false confessions.”

  “You’ve got that right,” said Ladner. He scowled. “The press is not your friend. We’ve already had someone break protocol. Leak information. This is unacceptable, and I am confident it’s no one in this room. But keep the
lid tight on this investigation. Don’t give any of those vultures any meat. Now, get your asses out there and find our killer.” Ladner turned around and stormed out of the conference room.

  “Yeah,” mumbled Hill, “before the next eunuch shows up.”

  13

  Daily News

  DEAD DICK AND HARRY: BALLSY SERIAL KILLER UNMANS VICTIMS

  City in shock, police flummoxed as second gruesome mutilation dumped in Manhattan.

  By Alex Goldstein New York Daily News

  It began with the murder of the infamous “Jack the Reaper”, serial rapist and abuser John Richard Reaper who once left the city quaking when the sun set. But Reaper was found last week sitting on a pile of garbage in front of an Upper East Side apartment, naked and castrated. The death sent shockwaves and spawned impromptu celebrations, across the city. The NYPD had few comments on their investigation, but speculation has run rampant that a former victim was behind the killing.

  Until yesterday, when a second mutilated corpse made its grisly appearance in front of a grocery store in a nearby neighborhood. Once again, the victim turned out to be a rapist convicted of numerous sexual assaults: Anton Tarakovsky. This perp hailed from California, gracing New York City streets as of several years ago. Once again, the killer had left his prey naked and castrated for all the world to see. Photos of both killings have made quick trips around the internet and been redacted for cable news.

  The police department has scrambled to put together an investigatory team. The News has learned that senior detective Tyrell Sacker is heading the investigation from the NYPD’s 12th Precinct, headed by Captain Michael Ladner. Reporters swamped Mr. Sacker as he left the precinct this evening, but the detective brushed away their questions (and microphones), refusing to issue a statement. Michael Ladner stood with Commissioner Bravel at a tightly controlled press conference later that evening, providing no new information and declining to take questions.