North Manhattan Homicide
March 13, 9.22 a.m.
Denise waited for Harper all morning at the station house. She hadn’t seen him since they’d recovered the children the night before. She’d tried his apartment early but there was no one in and Harper’s phone went direct to message. When he didn’t show up in the investigation room, she asked Eddie Kasper where he might be.
‘Only four places I’ve ever found him:investigation room, the park, his apartment or the Cathedral.’
‘The Cathedral?’
‘St Patrick’s. He’s deep, you know.’
‘He disguises it well.’
Denise left the team. They were poring over the details of the previous evening’s operation. The relief was palpable: the two children, Ruth and Jerry Glass, were in police custody and they wouldn’t make the same mistake again. But the repercussions of the night in Borough Park would be felt for some years. The only good thing to come of it was that so many neo-Nazis had been caught and arrested, so there were fewer of these misguided minds on the streets. Jewish organizations were working together to find an appropriate way to make a statement and show solidarity with the victims.
Jack Carney was the name being passed around, not Tom Harper. Carney had got there before Harper. He’d seen the danger. He’d spotted the killer, and even Harper admitted that Carney’s presence had meant that they had avoided the unthinkable.
Maybe that’s what was bugging Tom Harper. A rival for the city’s affection. A new hero.
Denise found him alone, in the quiet of St Patrick’s. He was sitting hunched over the pew in front of him. Not exactly praying, but somewhere close. She walked over and placed her hand on his shoulder. ‘How you feeling?’
Harper turned, surprised. ‘You,’ he said.
‘Eddie said you might be here.’
‘When I need some perspective.’
‘A close call.’
Harper turned and his eyes bored into her. ‘The 88 Killer had them. He had his hands on them. If he’d wanted to kill them there and then, he could have. It couldn’t have been closer.’
‘But he didn’t. And if you and Jack hadn’t thought as fast as you did, then it would’ve been worse.’
‘But how the hell did we miss it?’
‘You didn’t. They were in protective custody.’
‘Then we’ve severely underestimated this killer.’
‘He knew they could ID him — he took a very big risk. We were seconds away from catching him. Harper, this is what happens. You get close and they panic. This is how you catch them. You scare them into doing things in a way they don’t want to.’
Harper hit the pew in front of him. ‘What did we do wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘He should be behind bars by now.’
‘Stop it, Tom. Without the surveillance operation, you never would have suspected he was after the kids. We never would have shut down their attack in Borough Park.’
‘It’s true.’
‘Then let’s leave the self-pity for later. He’s still out there.’
‘It’s not self-pity, Denise. I’m grateful.’
‘To whom?’
‘Doesn’t matter, it’s just important that we’re grateful. A few minutes later and we’d be searching for a child killer.’
‘Don’t think about it. We need you now. As I said, he knows we’re close and it’s freaking him out. He’s making poor decisions. We can flush him out, Tom.’
‘Maybe,’ said Harper.
Denise pressed both hands firmly on to his shoulders. ‘There is a lot of detail to take in and process.’
‘Yeah, I’ve been going through it. There’s something we’re missing.’ He turned to Denise and saw her eyes searching his. He felt a jolt of emotion that caught him off-guard. ‘He’s going to do something big,’ he said. ‘If he knows the kids saw him, he realizes his time is short. He’s not going to go out without a big finale.’
‘You got any ideas?’
‘Plenty, and I don’t like any of them.’
‘We need to work on his background,’ she said. ‘We need to understand him. It’s still not coming together. He’s acting the part of a Nazi, but I don’t know why.’
‘You’re right about that,’ said Harper. ‘I can’t get it straight in my head. Either I’m going mad or there’s something here that just doesn’t fit. You know what I think? I think our killer knows what we’re up to. I need to work this through.’
‘Just tell me if you’re going mad,’ said Denise, ‘and I’ll get you put in a nice ward, no question.’
‘Appreciate it.’ Harper let a half-smile curve his lips. ‘Let’s get back to the station house. I’m done with praying for now.’
Eddie Kasper appeared at the front entrance ‘You okay, Harps?’
‘I’m okay. How’s things?’
‘Still no sightings of Heming?’
‘He’s pretty good at evading us. Whenever our guys show up, he seems to have already left. Like he knows. Like he’s getting information.’
‘You think he listens to the police frequency?’
‘I’d be a whole lot surer if I had him in the cell,’ said Harper. ‘Heming escaped last night, but it was a close call. This thing has wheels within wheels.’
‘I got the photographs of Heming’s place for you.’
‘I visited last night after we got the kids back. Anything new?’
‘They emailed it through. Take a look.’
Harper opened his email and glanced through the pictures. Heming’s life was a sad little affair. But he was a serious Nazi. He liked swastikas, Nazi memorabilia and Nazi combat knives. Harper looked up. ‘He’s your all-American loser with a power fetish and a perverted intellectual grasp of history and politics.’
‘Just about sums him up,’ said Eddie.
‘I want Denise to see it. She’s still not convinced that Heming matches the profile of the 88 Killer. Will you show her?’
‘Sure,’ said Eddie.
Up in the investigation room, Harper flicked through the reports that had started to come in from the house searches on all the Nazi rioters. They had photographs from over twenty homes. It was all the same. Little hidden bedrooms and garages set up like film sets of the Third Reich. There were flags, insignia, Nazi literature, swastikas everywhere and framed photographs of mass murderers from the Nazi regime.
The poverty of the lives they were leading was unsettling. This was America. Brooklyn. One of the most diverse and vibrant places on the planet, and yet these resistant little cells continued, feeding on scraps that they could interpret as reason to hate. It wasn’t life they were leading, they were in a spiritual and moral vacuum, unaware that every day, they were destroying themselves.
‘Did they get anything I don’t know about?’ called Harper.
‘They were thorough,’ said Eddie. ‘Every part of these apartments was tagged, boxed and removed. But it’ll take weeks to go through all the computer files. We’ve cracked a big organization, Harper.’
‘But left the lead psycho roaming the streets.’ Harper looked up. He could see that the hate model that Denise had out - lined would work with a man like Heming — personal slight, perceived slight, a build-up of violence and highs from the kills — but was this guy the same man who tortured Capske, killed Becky, Marisa and Esther, who was holding Abby?
Lafayette came down and patted Harper on the shoulder. ‘Good work, Harper.’
‘It’s not over.’
‘Not yet. But we got to hope, right?’
‘Right.’
‘Listen up,’ said Lafayette. ‘We just got a request from the Jewish community. They feel it’s important to respond to last night’s attack.’
‘It sure is.’
‘They want to show solidarity with the victims and give New Yorkers the chance to come together to show positive support for the Jewish community.’
‘What do they say at Headquarters?’
‘The Mayor is behind it, so we’re behind it.’
‘Could be a security risk. What are they planning?’ asked Harper.
‘There’s going to be a major vigil for the murder victims and a celebration of the Jewish community. They want to use Union Park. Thousands will show up.’
‘That’s not good news — it could just be another target for him.’
‘If you can’t stop the killer then you sure as hell can’t stop them mourning and joining together, Harper.’
‘It’s dangerous, that’s all I’m saying.’
‘That’s why I’m here. Leave will be canceled. You need to put together your team. It’ll be policed so heavily nothing could happen, but I want your eyes and ears down on the ground.’
Lock-Up, Bedford-Stuyvesant
March 13, 9.58 a.m.
He knew everything, past and present. He knew pain and the absence of pain. He knew success and he knew failure. He had failed. They were so fucking close. He had to think. He had to do something. Something that changed the game for good. He faced the wall in full uniform. He felt the pain again. Failure.
He took Abby Goldenberg, Prisoner 144002, out of the tiny closet that had been her cell for the past few weeks, and felt the rush of pain. He pulled her into the center of the room.
‘Reject your Jewry or you die now.’ The gun rose, pressed hard against her temple. She trembled but did not speak. He had failed. Again. His superiors would be unhappy with him. Again.
‘It is a new game I have to play now, 144002. I have to hurt them. They have children who could identify me. I need to do something that will be remembered for all time. And you are going to pay too, unless you choose differently. What have you got to say?’
‘I need food,’ said Abby.
The killer snarled. ‘No more food.’
‘Please,’ she begged.
‘My boots are dirty.’ The killer twisted the barrel of the gun tighter to her temple. ‘Every day, my father made me clean his boots. And if they were not clean, he threw them into the cellar. I had to go down into the dark to fetch them. There were no lights in the cellar. It was damp and cold and so dark. I can’t tell you how dark it was. When I was in the cellar, he would shut the door and lock it. I was in the cellar for hours. When he let me out, he would inspect his boots again. But in the dark, I could not clean them well. He would throw them down those stone steps again. Again and again, until his boots shone.’
‘Your father was unkind,’ said Abby.
‘Cruel and unkind. Yes. Now open your shirt,’ he ordered. Abby remained still. ‘It is an order.’
Abby trembled and fumbled with her buttons. He dragged her shirt open and pushed it over her shoulder. ‘You are scared to die, Abby?’ He pulled a knife from his belt and held it to her chest. She shook and swayed but refused to cry out.
‘144002,’ he said. ‘Now you must choose.’
‘No,’ she said.
‘You repent now, 144002. Reject your religion. I am here to save you. You will be one of the saved. One of the 144,000. I have to help them. It is the final time, the moment, and we must be ready. Your time has come.’
She was crying. He rested the barrel on the top of her head. ‘Can you feel how close death is?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you reject your Jewry, Abby? Will you be one of our number? Reject it, as I have done. Abby? Will you?’
She looked up. She shook her head. ‘No, I will not.’
He pushed her hard and in anger. She flew across the ground. ‘You think you are better than me? I make them all reject their Jewry. You will too, when the pain is too great. I promise you, you will scream to give up your Jewry.’
North Manhattan Homicide
March 13, 11.05 a.m.
Erin Nash was standing at the entrance of the station house. She’d given up the subtle approach and was trying to stalk Harper into submission. He had studiously ignored her calls since the operation.
The NYPD had failed to capture Martin Heming. In fact, they’d let him slip through their fingers. Nash wanted the scoop. She knew from sources within the NYPD that Harper and Carney had nearly come face to face with the killer, and that Harper could give her an exclusive.
Erin had started digging into Heming’s background. He was your standard little guy with a big chip on his shoulder and some dangerous ideology to help hone and focus all his negative energy.
From reading his websites, she guessed that Heming was acting out of personal anger and perceived slight, and out of the ideological bigotry he’d absorbed through ten years of neo-Nazi meetings and ultra-right-wing conferences.
Nash also found something more interesting. He seemed to be acting out of a long-lasting resentment of his own wife and hatred for her new Jewish husband. Was it that simple? He was just some failed, cowardly impotent, looking for a target to hit out at. There was nothing extraordinary about this man who had killed all those innocent people. Nothing extraordinary at all. In fact, he was banal.
Erin spotted Detective Harper and Levene walking across the street to the station house. Harper looked bad. She jumped out and blocked his path.
‘How’s my hero?’
‘I’m not a hero.’
‘They say if you try hard enough, everyone gives in.’
‘It’s probably true, but how many years have you got?’
‘Come on, Harper, I just want an interview. Your story. The cop who came face to face with the 88 Killer. You got to be heard, for the sake of those people who lost their lives.’
‘I didn’t see him.’
‘They said you did.’
‘Not me,’ said Harper. ‘Wish I had, but I was second to this one.’
‘Who got there first?’
‘Detective Jack Carney of Hate Crime Unit.’
‘I don’t know him. Should I be speaking to him?’
‘He didn’t see him either.’
‘Sad, isn’t it. You’re having to play Buzz Aldrin to his Neil Armstrong.’
‘This isn’t moon walking, Erin. This is serious.’
‘I know that, Harper.’ She turned to Denise. ‘Denise Levene. You’re back at work? I didn’t know you were on the case. The A Team is back in business, is that right?’
‘No,’ said Tom. ‘Denise is not officially on this case.’
‘Never mind,’ said Erin. ‘You’re obviously quite special, Dr Levene. Tom Harper doesn’t share his thoughts with many people.’
‘Cut it out,’ said Tom.
‘Come on, something happened last night, didn’t it, Detective? You had the killer in your sights, so how the hell did he get away?’
‘He just did. We were a few minutes too late.’
‘How did he get the location of the kids?’
‘You heard the press conference, we are looking into it.’
‘You fired shots in the alley. I hear your gun’s been taken, right?’
‘Standard procedure. We tried to take the killer down but the killer evaded us. He shot at me. I shot back.’
Harper made his way up the steps and pulled open the big brown door.
‘I’m going to keep at it, Detective. I’m going to stick to this story until I get an angle. I always do, you know.’
Harper waved without turning and closed the door. He didn’t doubt her.
Borough Park, Brooklyn
March 13, 11.17 a.m.
The killer straightened the front of his coat, flicked a thread from one of the shining black buttons, pressed his hair against his head and replaced the low cap that covered his face. His facial muscles creased and flexed as if he were trying to straighten out his expression. He had been standing across from the synagogue for two hours now and the soles of his feet ached. He felt that the world was spiraling away from him. He needed to concentrate all that pain on to one object. One detested type of person. He looked up at the sky. It was an uneven color. A line of dark gray growing across the horizon to a heavy ominous stormcloud just out in the Atlantic.
He checked his watch, moved his head from side to side to stretch his neck muscles, then shifted his weight from foot to foot. He had read most of the newspapers that morning and got a thrill out of the thrashing anger of the media. He liked it in the way an animal enjoys the resistance of its prey when it struggles in its jaws. They were angry, the Jews were outraged and the police were full of confident rhetoric. They were all pleased with themselves. But he was unconcerned. It was not him they should be hunting down, but the Jews conspiring against America.
He knew now what he had to do, though. He had to continue like he had been doing, keep the pressure on himself and keep watching. There were two security guards outside the synagogue, there to protect the Jews. He smiled at the thought and walked across. The synagogue was situated twenty feet back from the street, with a raised plaza in front with four benches.
The first security guard moved over to stop him. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ he said in a thick foreign accent.
‘Terrible thing, last night, wasn’t it?’
‘Very bad thing,’ said the guard.
‘I want to help. Is there something planned?’
‘You’ll hear later today,’ said the guard. ‘They want to plan a vigil in Union Square.’
The killer nodded. ‘A good idea. It will attract all their supporters. A very positive step.’
‘It will be big,’ said the guard. ‘You can be sure of that.’
The man knew that the doors would soon open, the Jews would come out and he needed to disappear. ‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘Hope it goes well. Hope nobody does anything stupid and ruins it.’
The guard looked on. ‘Thank you.’
The door to the synagogue opened, and the men and women started to appear. They had been planning the event. A big event right in the heart of Manhattan. The killer lowered his head and walked away.
North Manhattan Homicide
March 13, 11.54 a.m.
The late morning light streamed into the small room off the investigation room that Denise was using as an office. The Sturbe profile had been going backwards and forwards between her and Aaron Goldenberg. They were starting to piece together a picture of Josef Sturbe.
Harper walked along the corridor, the next phase of the investigation clicking through his mind. He pushed open the door. Denise looked up.
‘I’ve been going through the profile again,’ she told him.
‘You need more time?’
‘You left me less than an hour ago.’
‘So did you get anything in that hour?’
Denise smiled and sniffed the air. ‘You could do with a new set of clothes, big guy. You smell like a night in a cell.’
He couldn’t say the same of her. Not at all. ‘Less of the advice, just talk me through this Sturbe profile.’
‘Initially, we thought Sturbe was chosen because he was a vicious Nazi who took the law into his own hands and murdered in his own way, in his own time. We thought this gave our killer validation as a model and an identity so that he didn’t have to think of himself as doing these things. But now we don’t think that’s what the killer is seeing. We think that Sturbe means something personal to him.’
Harper crossed to the window. ‘Is this going to be difficult?’ he said. ‘I haven’t eaten or slept, and my brain’s getting all dysfunctional on me.’
‘Be quiet and listen,’ said Denise. ‘You can sleep later. The killer is a neo-Nazi who executes people with a point-blank gunshot to the head. He has this neo-Nazi agenda, this Sturbe identity, but he is psychologically and emotionally motivated, not ideologically motivated.’
‘I understand, Denise, I’m not an idiot.’
‘Sometimes it’s difficult to tell.’
Harper gave her a look. Denise ignored it and continued. ‘We’ve been hunting for the political elements of the killing and missing some key details.’
‘Which are?’
‘The Sturbe link isn’t just political, Tom. This killer is acting out some ritual and the level of overkill is frightening. Sturbe isn’t one of your well-known Nazis. He’s been chosen for a reason. I don’t believe things are chosen randomly, and if it’s not random then the killer has some personal reason for taking Sturbe as his model. We’re trying to find where the profile of the killer and Sturbe meet. In simple terms, Sturbe is hard to research — so where did our killer come into contact with him?’
‘I understand,’ said Harper. ‘Well, soon as you’ve got something, let me know.’
Denise stopped. ‘You heard anything from the team with the children?’ she asked.
‘I talked to the head psych.’ Harper grimaced. ‘He was less than impressed.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Would it help catch the guy? I said no. He asked me in what universe was it a good fucking idea to show these children a photograph of Martin Heming, their mother’s killer?’
‘And what did you answer?’
‘The NYPD. It’s that kind of universe.’
‘He didn’t laugh?’
Harper shook his head.
Lafayette appeared just as Harper was about to leave. ‘How are you, Harper?’ He paused but Harper remained silent. ‘Okay, an easier question. What did Forensics find at the safe house?’
Harper rubbed his face. The whole team had been on the go all night trying to track the killer, but every lead had turned cold. ‘Look, crazy as it sounds, they’ve not been able to find a single piece of material evidence.’
‘What about the car?’
‘Nothing there either.’
‘This guy’s invisible. You sure they got nothing?’
‘They got all kinds of stuff, but it all belongs to the safe-house team, cops or the children. He must’ve tried real hard to keep things that clean.’
‘What about the leak? Someone gave the killer the location of the safe house.’
Harper looked out across at his team. They were a hive of activity even though nothing was opening up. He turned to Lafayette. ‘I’ve had all night to think about it. There’s not many cops who knew the whereabouts of those kids, but one of them, for some reason, let that information leak. I’m not saying it was deliberate.’
‘You got any ideas about this accident?’
Harper nodded. ‘The killer didn’t just know where the kids were, he knew that the second officer wasn’t there.’
‘You think it’s the second officer?’
‘I talked to him. He made a mistake. He knew he wasn’t going to make it on time so he radioed Candy Simons. He gave the street name and said he wouldn’t get there until midnight. All the killer would need was a scanner.’
Captain Lafayette shook his head. ‘Shit. I can’t believe that. You got a name? I’ve got to report this.’
‘I already told him to own up. Better it comes from him.’
‘Another fucking casualty of this thing,’ said Lafayette, and walked off down the corridor with heavy steps.
Apartment, New York
March 13, 12.14 p.m.
The killer lay on his bed holding a small fob with two keys in his hand and twisting them in the light. He smoked a cigarette and watched the smoke twirl above him. He was thinking about his next steps. His eyes flicked to the right. There was a map of New York City on the wall. He had marked each kill with a dot. Around his tour of duty was a thick black line. He knew what had to be done, but it wasn’t enough. He put the two keys into his top pocket.
This was what it felt like, at the end of things. He knew the end was coming, but it needed to be on his terms, not theirs. He sat up and poured himself another drink. He took a sip, swilled it around his gums, then swallowed. Things had changed now, people were getting close. The children were still alive. That was a mistake. He didn’t like leaving traces and the children could identify him. It cut deep, making mistakes like that. It was unacceptable.
The problem was Harper. Since he’d taken over the investigations, things had blown up all over town. The news was full of the shootings. The cops were all over his area and the Jews were walking in twos and avoiding going out alone at night. Harper was good. Harper had pieced together the attack on the children. Somehow, he had known about it. How was that?
Harper made links and connections that other cops didn’t. Other cops were dumb and mindless. Harper had clarity, he looked sideways, he knew how to think. Harper was dangerous. The killer dragged hard on his cigarette and blew the smoke out fast. A haze of blue in front of his eyes. He needed a paradigm shift. He needed to change the nature of the attacks. Patterns were what cops looked for.
The Capske shooting had thrown them off the scent and given him time. It had allowed him to tour undisturbed, to kill again, to feel their subservient hands on his feet. Glass and Cohen lying in water or flat on cold ground, a ribbon of blood from the neat wounds. An execution or a re-enactment? He blew out smoke again. He couldn’t afford another attack in the street. He needed something more substantial.
He thought about the vigil. It would be a cut right at the heart of things. But how? How to do it and how to humiliate Harper? He just had to work out a plan. The sunlight broke through a cloud and shot through his dirty window. He saw the dense blue smoke drifting in thin waves across the room, watched them for a moment — then suddenly the idea was there, in the room with him. He felt a sense of calm, as if he had finally found the door out of a prison.
The river was only half-crossed but there was no going back. His hands were thick with blood, but the species still lived on. He moved quickly to the window and looked out through the dirt and grime. He wanted the world purified, simplified, made clean. Just like the forest glade, a cut of green earth and a future for himself and others like him. Perhaps he was too confident, too clear-minded. Sometimes, it was necessary to cloud people’s minds with fear. Maybe it was necessary to kill to feel nearer to God.
He thought about the other girl again. The girl he had loved who had ripped up the future. He saw her face in his mind’s eye. Let the emotion at her memory run over his tongue. Was it love or hate he felt? He wanted to see her. He wanted to love her. He wanted to hurt her. He had to go out. He had to clean up. You couldn’t kill them fast enough. There were just too many. He needed a way to kill more, to kill effectively, to get through them all.
North Manhattan Homicide
March 13, 1.12 p.m.
Harper took some time to gather his thoughts, then brought the team back together. He looked exhausted from his sleepless night. ‘This has got to get going, now,’ he told them. ‘We’ve got four unsolved murders with a link between them and a kidnapped girl. We’ve got less certainty than ever. Let’s try to keep this organized.’
Denise looked across at Harper, indicating that she wanted to speak now. She wanted the team to understand the nature of the killer. Standing in front of them, leaning on the old table, she waited while he said to them, ‘Clear your heads. We have four crime scenes that all need re-investigating. Dr Levene is going to give us the heads-up on this killer, then we’re going to go back to basics. We’re missing something here.’ Harper raised his hand towards Denise. ‘Thank you, Doctor.’
Denise cleared her throat, pushed her hair back and took a breath. ‘The man we are searching for is not like you or me. He is a sociopathic murderer. He’s not concerned with his personal safety. He is solely concerned with carrying out his project. As I understand it, his project has a racial element. He uses original Nazi bullets, he makes his victims clean his boots and then shoots them in the head as they do so. He enjoys their submission, but his crimes have not, up to now, had an explicitly sexual element. That is not to say that they are not sexually motivated.’
Denise paused for a moment. ‘I happen to think that they do have a sexual element and by that, let me be clear, I mean that his control over his subjects gives him some kind of physical gratification. It may be that he is trying to stop his desires. These are crimes of hate to some degree, but they are not only crimes of hate. They are personal crimes that come from a powerful sense of inferiority that it is impossible for our killer to acknowledge. Our unknown subject believes he is hunting after Jews, after any Jew, but his victims are not just any Jews. I’ve thought more closely about the victims recently and they tell us something. Apart from David Capske, they follow a similar pattern. The women belong to a similar type. Look at this.’
Denise pointed at the women on the board. They all had different hair color, different faces. No one could see the connection. ‘I don’t get it,’ said Garcia. ‘They’re all different.’
‘Yes, they seem so, don’t they?’ Denise walked across to the boards and put the crime-scene photographs of each woman side by side. ‘Do you see it now?’ she asked.
The team stared at the three women. Esther, Becky and Marisa.
‘They’re all thin with long hair,’ said Mary.
‘Yes,’ said Denise. ‘That’s right, they’re all thin. He’s not just after Jews. He’s after a type. This is not just political, it’s personal.’
‘What about Capske?’
Harper replied. ‘I think that’s what the investigation has to ask itself. Why Capske?’
‘I think I might know why,’ said Denise. ‘Did you ever interview Lucy Steller? I’ve been feeling I’ve been missing something and it suddenly came to me. Abby Goldenberg was the type, but so was Lucy Steller. Thin, with long hair. Maybe he wasn’t after Capske, after all. Maybe he couldn’t get the girl he wanted, so he took it out on Capske. Maybe Lucy was his target. He’s full of desire and hatred for himself.’
‘What do you think, Eddie?’ said Harper. ‘You spoke to Lucy.’
‘It’s interesting. Lucy certainly fits the type. He was watching them both. Lucy said that. She was sure about that.’
‘Yeah, but Capske took her all the way home. He didn’t have a chance,’ said Harper.
‘So, instead, he followed Capske. Maybe frustrated with not being able to get to his target.’
The team seemed buoyed by the idea. They hadn’t had a lead for days and the new information seemed to open some doors.
‘I call it a psychological fingerprint,’ said Denise. ‘He’s leaving his ID all over these kills, we just can’t read it yet. But we’re getting closer.’
‘Let’s check it out,’ said Harper. ‘We’ve got to go back to Lucy. He could’ve been stalking her for a while and if so, then she might have seen him.’
‘And if she was a target…’ said Denise. She stopped. All eyes were on her. She wasn’t sure whether she should say it or not. She looked at the floor and then back up. ‘If she was a target, then she still is — and that means she’s possibly still in danger.’
‘We’re already on it,’ said Harper, pointing at three members of his team. ‘Let’s move!’
Apartment, Upper East Side
March 13, 1.53 p.m.
Lucy Steller sat alone in her flat. She had been too scared to go out ever since the morning after David’s murder. She couldn’t forgive herself for falling asleep as he was being tortured.
She had slept in a warm bed, safe and comfortable as the man she loved was being tortured and murdered. She hated herself so much, she couldn’t bear to see or speak to anyone.
She took the razor, looked coldly down on to her own arm and steeled herself. The razor lightly touched her arm, a delicate but unmistakable sting. Not pain, but painful. She pulled the razor across her arm, watching the trail appear — a red tail to a steel mouse. The stinging deepened and intensified. She raised her hand. It was a cycle. She would cut, then the white fear would come and she’d feel depressed, scared and lost. Then she would have to cut until the fear stopped. Hurt made sense. The line of blood collected into a glistening red ball on her wrist. The tipping point was reached and the ball of blood rolled down her arm. Seeing herself bleed, she relaxed a little, a physical relief from her emotional pain.
Her hand moved down to the cut; she drew a second line across the first line, forming a red cross. The pain from the second line mingled with the dying pain from the first. Emotional pain was layered too. Layers and layers of harmonic pain, shouting, screaming, grieving, crying.
Blood was dripping off both sides of her arm. She cut again as the pain dulled. Each time, the dulling came more quickly, until Lucy was slicing herself every few seconds. She continued for minutes. A hundred bloody cuts, a hundred red lines spreading out in every direction like marks on a butcher’s chopping block.
Then it stopped. The tension and anger vanished and she was left sitting on the small couch, staring ahead, her pale face gaunt and drawn from a lack of food and sleep and iron.
Apartment, Upper East Side
March 13, 1.58 p.m.
Outside in the street, the man looked up. He knew she lived on the fifth floor and counted until he imagined where she was sitting right now. He walked up the stone stoop and took out the key. He had had the key ever since he’d taken Capske out. The cops hadn’t noticed that one of the keys on his fob was missing. Subtlety was lacking in their investigation. He pushed it into the lock and turned it. The lock was on some kind of electronic catch and the bolt buzzed and released. He entered the lobby.
The building was old and crumbling, with post-boxes half-torn off or covered with graffiti. It smelled of mold and damp. The panels to the basement door were smashed out and the lower-ground laundry odors mixed with the heat from the apartments and the whiff of old carpets.
He didn’t like the dirt or the idea that he was breathing in spores. He moved toward the stairs and started to climb. The key to the apartment remained in his hand as he ascended to the fifth floor. He took a look over his shoulder and felt the excitement rising through his body, lifting him up with the sensation of flying.
In his coat pocket was his World War Two German Luger. A fine piece of engineering and beautiful to hold, the semi-automatic Pistole Parabellum 1908, to give it its correct name. He pulled the Luger out of his pocket as he reached the floor, took out an 8-round magazine and pushed it into the grip. Taking the toggle-joint between his thumb and forefinger, he pulled it back, then let the breechblock snap back into place, with a metallic clunk. A new cartridge was now waiting in the chamber. Lucy’s bullet was primed.
Apartment, Upper East Side
March 13, 2.09 p.m.
The street Lucy Steller lived on was quiet and tree-lined. There was a row of shops and that afternoon people were peaceably walking along either side of the street. A moment later, a distant squawk of sirens could be heard getting closer and closer. Soon, the sound was screeching and a few people on the street turned to look.
Eight police cars turned into the street and drove hard down towards them. The first car braked and skidded, then the other seven cars followed suit. Down the street, in a car, a man observed them closely. He checked his watch.
The people in the grocery store watched as every car door opened and several plain-clothed detectives got out. Three of the cars were squad cars and uniformed officers started to form a boundary.
The men and women hurried across to a building and in a moment they’d all disappeared. Only two uniformed officers stood on the street, telling the public that they ought to stand back.
Harper was first at Lucy Steller’s door. He knocked, lightly at first. Then harder and finally, he was shouting her name. There was no response. ‘Okay, break the door,’ he said.
Two cops moved in with the battering ram. They hit the door once and the door jamb split. Harper pushed it open. He walked in.
‘Lucy!’ he called. There was no reply, but there was a smashed cup on the floor and an overturned table with a broken leg lying by the couch.
Harper knelt and touched the cup with his palm. ‘It’s still warm,’ he said.
‘Signs of a struggle,’ said Eddie. ‘We’re too late.’
Harper led the cops through the rooms. ‘Just look around. Anything you can find that might tell us something.’
Denise looked at the bookshelves. There was a row of diaries going back for several years, but two were missing. She ran her finger over the year on each diary. ‘Harper, two of the last three years are missing.’
‘Is that significant?’
‘They might be somewhere, but if the killer is targeting her, maybe he thought she’d have information. He’s getting very worked up, Harper. He’s trying to close down anyone with knowledge of him. She might have seen him stalking her.’
Harper moved to the desk. ‘The PC, take a look at this,’ he said. ‘There’s no hard drive — another place that she might leave evidence.’
Harper then glanced at the small hook by the door. He walked across. ‘How do you think he got in?’
Denise raised her head. ‘Either he just rang the buzzer or he had a key. Point is, what’s he going to do next?’
North Manhattan Homicide
March 13, 3.51 p.m.
Harper and the team left Crime Scene at Lucy Steller’s apartment. Harper called Blue Team together.
‘The coffee cup on Lucy Steller’s floor was still warm, which means that the killer was only a few minutes ahead of us,’ said Harper. ‘He’s coming out of the shadows. We should have protected this woman. She’s in real danger now.’
‘We didn’t see it coming. It’s a form of escalation,’ said Denise. ‘He’s trying to cover his tracks and he’s likely to try something more dramatic, something that gives him a bigger thrill than the kills.’
‘It’s hard to think what,’ said Greco.
‘We need to get going. We’ve got the vigil at Union Square to help with. The killer risked himself with Lucy, just like with the children. That means Lucy holds a clue to his identity, right?’ The cops nodded. ‘I’m going to leave Denise and Ratten here to go through everything from Lucy’s apartment. My guess, based on the stolen diaries and hard drive, is that she either knew who he was or met him in the last two years. So we need to know when it was, who he was and how they met.’
Denise nodded.
Harper then pulled up the map of Union Square. Eddie looked at it. ‘How the hell are they going to police that place?’
‘It’s going to be hard, that’s all we know,’ said Harper. ‘But it’s going to be peaceful. We’re there with Hate Crime Unit, just to keep an eye out. We don’t know that he’ll try anything, but he may enjoy turning up, so we’re videoing every entrance and exit. We’ve got face recognition software, and Heming’s face plus every face that Hate Crime has on record is now in the database.’
‘How does it work?’ asked Garcia.
‘Mathematics,’ replied Ratten. ‘Although you’re pretty, your face can be reduced to a number of measurements and ratios. The software calculates those measurements for every face it sees and if it matches anything in the databank, it’ll flag up.’
‘So if Heming or any known neo-Nazi turns up, they’ll be flagged and arrested.’
The team were just taking in the information when Captain Lafayette flew through the door. He was red-faced and full of excitement. ‘Listen up, the press have just had another communication from the 88 Killer. A new email.’ He held up a piece of paper. ‘He emailed all the newspapers again. The boys downstairs have traced it, it’s no fake. This comes from the same account.’
‘So, what the hell does he say this time?’
Lafayette eyed the room. ‘You’re not going to like this, not one bit.’ He drew the email in front of his eyes. ‘Police Press Notice: March 14, Union Square Park. During the night-time vigil in Union Square Park to remember those killed in the recent spate of attacks on the Jewish community, NYPD detectives discovered the dead bodies of five Jewish citizens. As the vigil went on, the suspect known as the 88 Killer executed five people. Senior police officials are at a loss to explain how the killer managed to fool the NYPD and kill in such a high-security operation. In the words of one bystander: “The government and the police stood by watching, while someone walked in and killed five innocent people.” ’
‘How seriously are we going to take this?’ said Lafayette. ‘Every news station in America is going to be down in Union Square after they receive this. He’s just set his stage.’
‘Can he do it?’ said Denise. ‘I mean, is it possible?’
‘Can we evacuate?’ asked Harper.
‘It’s too late and the Mayor thinks it will be a PR disaster to pull the plug on this.’
‘Then what?’
‘We’ll have police on every square inch of the place,’ said Lafayette.
‘And what if it’s a bomb?’ said Kasper. ‘Then what do we do?’
The team looked at each other. ‘Then we’ve got to hope that the sniffer dogs will find it. We’re going to have to scramble everyone — Counter-Terrorism, the army, the Feds — on this. This is going to be big.’
Harper took the piece of paper. He read the email and passed it to Denise. ‘It’s a challenge,’ he said. ‘I don’t like it. He’s already three steps ahead.’
Lafayette looked at Harper. ‘Can he do it?’
‘Anything can be done,’ said Harper.
‘Not with the whole of the NYPD on his case.’
Harper shook his head. ‘You’ve just had a message from a killer saying he’s going to make fools of the whole government as we all pay our respects to the dead. You think we can police this? There’s going to be thousands and thousands of people out there and we’ve got to find one determined and clever individual. He can do anything. We don’t have a chance. Captain, you need to speak to the Commissioner and tell him that if he’s not going to stop it, then he needs to prepare for the worst.’
Auto-parts Yard, Brooklyn
March 13, 4.18 p.m.
Karl Leer had sourced the vehicle two weeks earlier. He had found a decommissioned Auxiliary Support Unit Police Truck that was lying unwanted and unloved in a scrapyard.
As requested, Leer had checked out the engine and cleaned it, making sure that the paintwork was neat and without too many obvious scratches. Then he had left the truck outside the garage behind his workshop.
And now the killer was standing next to the big, dark blue truck. He walked around it and looked inside. He opened the back doors: it seemed to be the right size and would suit his plan. He checked over the outside. Because it was one of the NYPD Auxiliary Unit’s trucks, rather than one of the official NYPD trucks, it still had its markings. That was essential. It had to look like the real thing and it would because it was the real thing.
The killer jumped inside and started to pull everything out. He wanted space to hold people. He had a plan and the plan was to make a fool of the NYPD and to try to kill more Jews than he had been able to so far. Shooting people one by one would take too long, but it was more than that. It was affecting him. He wanted more dead. He wanted a bigger impact. The hunger was in him again and he couldn’t control it.
Nor could he afford to let failure happen again. Once the truck was emptied, he got in the back with a tube of sealant. He sealed up any and every joint and hole with silicon. Then he added rubber all around the two back doors in order to create an airtight unit.
He walked back to the lock-up and found a long piece of hose. He measured the length of the truck from the bottom to the top and then halfway across the roof. He cut a length of hose and then found a ladder. He climbed on to the roof and for the next half-hour welded all the air vents shut apart from one. On to the last vent he welded a short metal nozzle. Then he attached the hose to the nozzle and tied it firmly in place with wire. He ran the hose across the roof, taping it down, then ran it down the side of the van.
Finally, he took the other end of the hose and, using another nozzle, attached it to the exhaust. He spent a few more minutes ensuring that each end of the hose was in place, and then painted the hose blue so that it was not so conspicuous. The whole operation lasted under three hours. He stood back and declared himself pleased. Then he went to the engine and switched it on. He let the engine rumble on and he climbed into the back of the van, leaving the door wide open.
Soon enough, exhaust fumes started to fill the space and he began to cough. He jumped out of the truck. This was the way forward. This was much more efficient.
North Manhattan Homicide
March 13, 9.56 p.m.
Denise Levene sat at her desk. There was something more to the killings than she had been able to understand in the last few hours that she’d been researching. She was reading through the remaining diaries and looking through the photographs. Gerry Ratten was trying to find Lucy Steller’s online details. Although the killer had taken her PC, many people posted photographs online, kept blogs online, even stored their whole PC backup online. He just needed a breakthrough, but at the moment, there was nothing.
Harper was already out at Union Square Park with half the police in the city. Every time Denise called, he seemed more wired and angry. She called him again. ‘How is it?’ she asked.
‘We’ve got a few thousand people in the square. The face recognition has picked up half a dozen known offenders, but no Heming. It seems smaller than we imagined it would be. We’ve got hundreds of men on the ground and no traffic coming in from any direction, so we’ve done what we can. We just have to hope that he was lying or that we get lucky. What else have you got on Lucy?’
‘Nothing yet,’ said Denise. ‘But I’m going to call Lucy’s friends. They might know something.’
‘Anything more on Sturbe?’
‘I’ve been in touch with Dr Goldenberg. He’s sourced two possible ways forward. The first is a news report from fifteen years ago. A man called Edward Sturgeon was accused of being Sturbe. He lived in Boston. It may be that our killer had some Boston connection, but I can’t find anything linking Heming and Boston.’
‘What’s the other way forward?’
‘There was a book written about Sturbe. It had a very small circulation — in fact, it only went to specialist libraries, or libraries in Jewish areas. Dr Goldenberg has found a copy and guess what?’
‘I don’t want to guess.’
‘This killer is copying his approach almost to the letter. The barbed wire was something Sturbe started in Warsaw. He captured Jews in the ghetto then allowed them to escape through barbed wire or get shot. They dragged themselves through the barbed wire until they got so caught up, they died there. He drowned others. And there’s the rings. He cut victims’ fingers off to get their gold. Our killer seems to have read this book.’
‘Any way of finding a link?’
‘Heming has lived his whole life in Brooklyn. This biography of Sturbe was held in fifteen libraries in the country. The Brooklyn Library had two copies. They had a special Jewish History section.’
‘Is there any record of who took out the book?’
‘We’re going to check.’
‘Anything else?’ asked Harper.
‘I’ll keep you updated,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure how useful this information is.’
‘Well, keep going. If he’s copying this Nazi, then there might be something that leads us to him. For example, what kind of crimes hasn’t he committed yet?’
Union Square Park
March 13, 11.41 p.m.
The vigil was almost entirely peaceful. The NYPD Command Truck was parked across the entrance to the square on the south side. Harper and Eddie Kasper arrived back from their seventh tour around the square and went inside.
‘Update?’ called Harper to Lafayette.
Lafayette was sitting at one of the seats with headphones around his neck. ‘All are negatives. Nothing but complaints of infringements on human rights.’
‘How many searches have they done?’
‘Not got the numbers. Thousands, though.’
‘No calls or emails?’
‘Nothing. What’s the mood like?’
‘Peaceful,’ said Harper. ‘Everyone just wants to remember the dead. The park’s ablaze with candlelight. It’s moving. Really moving.’
There were four other men in the Command Truck monitoring their teams and liaising with the huge media operation. Harper stood at the door and stared across at their compound.
‘If the killer doesn’t show,’ he said, ‘they’re going to have a lot of footage about the vigil.’
‘Let’s hope that’s all they’ve got,’ said Lafayette. ‘We could do without another horror story.’
‘I hear you,’ said Eddie. ‘The city’s had enough tragedy.’
Harper nodded and made his way outside again. ‘Another tour, Eddie?’
‘Damn,’ said Eddie. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’
The two cops moved back out into the darkness. The police compound took up the whole of the southern end of the park. Hundreds of police vehicles stretched out. Cops everywhere, sitting around, patrolling, and catching a bite to eat.
Harper and Eddie moved back into the park. The choppers that circled overhead were useless. This was a one-man operation. The most difficult kind of perp to catch: a man who no longer cared for his own safety. It could have been any one of the thousands of men in the park.
They walked up past the media center. The reporters were wrapped up warm, sitting on the steps of AV trucks sipping coffee from paper cups. Everyone was waiting for something to happen, but no one wanted it to. A strange mood of uncertainty pervaded the press pack. They weren’t their usual eager selves. Placards declared the need for peace and remembrance. Written messages told of someone’s deep love for a person they had lost. Flowers and tributes grew throughout the evening.
The police operation was vast, but once in the park itself it was almost invisible. There were patrol cops everywhere, but many more non-uniformed officers from the NYPD, Counter-Terrorism and the FBI. There were units at every entrance with sniffer dogs and Geiger counters, doing checks and searches. They wanted to prevent any atrocities, and individual searches were the only way.
So far, they’d confiscated drugs and nothing much else. All around the park, sitting in tight groups in the semi-darkness, were several Rapid Response Units from all parties. Counter-Terrorism’s Hercules Teams sat in blacked-out sedans at each corner of the park, waiting for orders. The NYPD’s ESU SWAT teams were stationed in big black armored Bearcats, tooled up and ready.
As they walked through the crowds of people who were singing, talking, praying and crying, it looked like whatever it was, it wasn’t going to happen.
Union Square Park
March 13, 11.56 p.m.
Crowds were still filtering in, some finding it hard to move through the streets towards the vigil. The killer stopped at the roadside and watched the people lining up and walking along with candles lit for the dead.
The crowds were different now. They were not the earlier enthusiasts or the serious mourners; these were groups of people coming out of bars and restaurants. They were probably a little drunk and looking for more excitement. And as they wandered the streets, they got caught up in the sound and mood of the all-night vigil.
The killer observed them with a sense of disgust. Revelers, unconcerned about what was happening to his city, to the country. They were mourning the loss of people who didn’t deserve to be alive, people who were part of the problem. The killer took a cigarette from a pack on the seat and lit up. His anger had lessened since he’d snatched Lucy. She was his now and he felt good about that. It gave him a strong feeling of calm to know that she was his and his alone.
He sat in his truck and watched the groups move past. He needed to find the right group. He needed to choose the right profile. It amused him to think of all the effort being expended by the cops in trying to write his profile. He could write it in two words. Pissed off.
A small group stopped by the side of his truck just after midnight. Jews with white and blue Israeli flags, chanting something he didn’t understand.
He watched their hesitation as they stared down the street.
‘It’s quicker this way,’ said one of them, a man.
‘I think they’ve closed the south entrance,’ said one of the girls.
‘You have to wait in line for a bag search. You need to be getting home.’
‘But it’s important,’ said the girl.
He had had enough. The killer shouted down from the cab: ‘You guys want to get a ride right to the heart of this thing? Ever been in a police truck?’
They looked up. The driver was a bright-eyed cop. He was smoking too — a lit cigarette hung from his lips. This was not like some of the hard-faced cops they’d met; this guy seemed different.
‘Where to?’ one of them asked.
‘I’m going to the police compound.’
‘I’d like a lift,’ said one of the girls.
‘I got an empty truck here and I’m going through the crowds and down to the compound. You want to get a VIP seat to the vigil?’
This group felt invulnerable, in the middle of a huge police operation. In the middle of their people. Why would a group of five fear a single cop? It was all about gaining trust.
‘I’m going now, anyway, make your minds up,’ said the killer.
‘I think we should do it,’ said one of the guys. ‘We should take the time to do this.’
‘Okay, that’s final,’ said the killer. He jumped down from the cab, opened the back of the van and let them pile in, then he shut and locked the door. There was a light in the back to prevent them from getting scared, but the moment he started to drive he would switch it off. That way, they wouldn’t be able to see where the gas was coming from and wouldn’t be able to cover the vent.
‘Ready to go?’ he shouted from the front cab. He could hear their cheers as he started the engine, drove away from the curb and into the traffic.
He had read from the Nazi reports of the use of gas vans that screaming was a problem. They had tried to stop this distraction by gagging the victims prior to putting them in the vans, but that just wasn’t possible in this case. The killer couldn’t gag them, so he had another plan.
Inside the back of the van, the group lurched left, then right, but they were laughing as they fell across each other. After a minute of driving, the smell in the back of the truck was noticeable. They sniffed and stopped laughing, and someone started to cough.
The killer heard a bang on the side of the van. ‘Stop the truck,’ a man’s voice called. ‘We’ve got exhaust fumes in here.’
In the cab, the killer leaned forward and flicked off the light. In the back of the van, darkness fell.
As the killer turned up 2nd Avenue, he could hear them screaming. He knew it would take ten to fifteen minutes for the gas to kill them. He couldn’t risk others hearing them, so he switched on the sirens and continued to drive; the loud wailing of a police truck was all that he or anyone else could hear.
Union Square Park
March 14, 4.12 a.m.
The night had come and gone. No dead bodies, no explosions. The first lights of dawn were arriving and most of the crowd had dissipated. There were a few left in small huddles, wanting to ride it out until morning.
Harper had been forty-eight hours without sleep but was still standing, while Eddie sat down, his head low in the collar of his Puffa jacket. ‘When do we get to go home?’ said Eddie. ‘He’s not showing up. He’s probably tucked up in bed, laughing at us.’
‘We go when they all go,’ said Harper, as his phone rang.
Denise had called throughout the night, with sharp, disturbing updates. There was no tiredness in her voice. She had spent the night going over reports about Sturbe with Abby Goldenberg’s father and hunting any link between Lucy Steller and the killer.
‘What have you got?’ said Harper, his eyes still scanning a park now scattered with litter.
‘Get this. Sturbe had an 88 tattooed on his chest. I have no doubt that our killer would copy this. And about future kills, he was involved in the destruction of the Great Synagogue.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I think he could try to destroy something big. He’s copying this guy’s ghetto history, and if he is, he’s got a lot more kills to get through. Sturbe’s own notes indicated he killed over forty people.’
‘Anything you got that might help us track him down?’
‘We found something on the Lucy front. We’re close. We think there might have been a boyfriend.’
‘A boyfriend?’ Harper struggled with the thought.
‘Yeah, her friends said she went out with a slightly older guy. I asked if it was Heming, they looked at the pictures in the papers and said it wasn’t.’
‘Maybe it’s not the link then,’ said Harper. ‘Keep at it, Denise. We’ll find something.’
‘As far as I can see, Tom, it’s all a grand delusion. Section 88 are finished, but this guy is carrying on. He fed his delusion through this assumed identity of Josef Sturbe and I’m worried about what he’s going to try next.’
‘We all are,’ said Harper.
Dawn became morning. Harper watched from the surveillance truck as the rest of the crowds left, followed by the media trucks, all empty-handed.
The police operation started to pack up and leave. Harper was the last to go. He jumped off the Command Truck and waited as it pulled off. By 7.30 a.m., there was nobody left.
Harper stood with Eddie, cold, hungry and tired. They looked around the empty lot. Harper saw a single police truck standing in the street and moved towards it.
‘What is it?’ called Eddie.
‘Auxiliary Support Truck,’ said Harper.
Eddie shook his head. ‘Auxiliary Support. Amateurs, Harper. They went home and left their truck!’
Harper walked across. There was no one in the cab. ‘The keys are still in the ignition,’ he said.
‘Some part-time nobody went home,’ said Eddie. ‘He’s going to wake up soon and think he’s missing something.’
Harper walked around it. It was on his second round that he spotted the tube running up the side of the van. It was painted the same color as the vehicle. He raised his eyes. The tube went right up to the roof. Harper put his foot on the big back wheel and jumped up. His hands caught the top of the truck and he pulled himself up.
‘What you doing?’ said Eddie.
Harper didn’t reply. He peered over the top of the truck. The tube ran right across the roof, to where there were three air vents. Harper looked at each. Two had been sealed up. The third one had a small metal nozzle sticking up from it. The tube crossed the roof and joined to the nozzle.
Harper dropped down from the truck and crouched beside it. He pulled out his flashlight and shone it under the chassis. The tube ran right under the truck and connected to the exhaust pipe.
Harper stared, the horrific truth coming to him in a flash. He stood up. Eddie moved across. ‘What is it?’
Harper let the flashlight do the talking. He ran the beam over the tube, all the way from the exhaust pipe to the roof. Eddie watched the light. ‘Jesus Christ.’ He crossed himself.
‘Evil,’ said Harper. ‘This is what it looks like.’
Harper put on a glove. ‘Don’t touch a thing,’ he warned Eddie as he pulled the keys out of the ignition and walked round to the rear of the truck. ‘I don’t want to open it,’ he said.
‘You think you should?’
‘What if someone’s unconscious in there?’
Eddie nodded and Harper pushed the smaller key into the lock. It turned easily. He twisted the handle and pulled open the truck doors.
Both men reared back as the exhaust fumes that saturated the inside of the van billowed out into the glossy night lights still burning in Union Square Park.
The blackened insides of the truck were dark like a cave. Harper held his arm across his mouth and nestled his nose and lips into the curve of his elbow. He raised his flashlight and pointed the beam through the smoke. The widening beam of light caught bright pink flesh. Harper’s light moved laterally. One, two, three, four, five. Their faces and hands glowed garishly from the carbon-monoxide poisoning; the skin was pricked and dimpled. Their bodies clung to each other, the whole image like some terrible vision of hell.