East Harlem
November 19, 2.13 p.m.
The killer was disguised as a doctor and had assumed the name Dr Mark Keys. He was feeling good about life and was smiling as he parked up and got out of his car. He looked at the worn-out building ahead. It was a flat-roofed, unimpressive two-storey building that must’ve housed between twenty and thirty rehabilitating inmates. A halfway house for the half insane.
The killer looked at his hands and noticed a line of blood under his fingernails. He suddenly felt his stomach tingle with excitement again. He’d spent the morning with his girls. He’d been working on The Progression of Love. He’d be a world-famous artist one day. His works would last for centuries.
Four clear glass vitrines were already complete, the first containing the eyes of girl number one, the second with the hair of girl number two, the third containing the heart of girl number three, the fourth the breasts of girl number four, which the police had just discovered were missing.
His photographs and news stories were pasted up behind the vitrines. The latest was a large photograph of Jessica Pascal, smiling, staring right at him. She was wearing an old dress he had taken to the scene and looked just like a girl he once knew. The killer felt he had perfected his art. It was just as he dreamed. He could bring her back to life, love her again and, more important, kill her all over again.
The man disguised as Dr Keys shuffled his shiny black shoes in the dirt and walked across to the green front door. It had metal bars across it, but it was wedged open. Dr Keys walked right in and up to the small reception desk.
A black lady at the counter didn’t look up. Not nice, thought Keys — doesn’t matter who you are, you ought to be polite. He slapped his ID down in front of her. He hadn’t intended to, but her arrogance annoyed him.
‘Dr Mark Keys, senior investigator for the Joint Commission on the Accreditation of Healthcare Organizations. Do you always ignore your guests, miss?’
Her eyes rose to meet his. ‘We ain’t under your jurisdiction, Doctor, and the name is Felicity Adams.’
‘No, but your patients are. You recently admitted a psychiatric patient released from Manhattan State.’ He looked at her. ‘Yes or no, Miss Adams?’
‘Yes. I’m sure we have.’
‘Under the revised release accreditation guidance, halfway units need to ensure secure monitoring arrangements for category three releases.’
‘We don’t worry about curfews and in-and-outs. They look after themselves.’
‘I need to see Mr Carlisle’s room and access arrangements.’
‘Well, he’s in Room 52, so go and help yourself. The access arrangements are right there.’ Her eyes fell to the desk and her extended arm pointed to the door which seemed to be permanently wedged open.
‘The National Enquirer more important to you than the rehabilitation of your residents?’
Miss Adams looked up. ‘Yeah, just about in every way, Doctor.’ She turned over the page.
Dr Keys was genuinely angry with her, but he wanted to keep his anger from getting spoiled, so he looked around for something. He saw her open bag and a faded Volvo key fob. He had information now. She drove an old Volvo. Information was useful. He walked to the stairs and followed a series of green plastic signs leading the way to the rooms.
At Room 52, Dr Keys stopped. Winston Carlisle’s door was wide open and he was lying on the bed staring ahead. Dr Keys entered without knocking.
‘Hello, Winston. I’m Dr Keys from the Manhattan Psychiatric Center. I need to have a conversation with you. We need to do a little work on your rehabilitation.’
Winston held out his hand without looking and Dr Keys shook it. He then leaned forward and handed Winston a small plastic vial.
‘I need a sample, Winston.’
Winston stood up without question and took the small bottle. ‘You gonna let me go back to the hospital?’ he asked as he unzipped himself and urinated into the small bottle.
‘If you’re good I will,’ said Dr Keys.
‘I’m invisible out here. No one sees me. I can just walk right through them.’
‘Well, I can make you visible again, Winston. Don’t you worry.’
Winston nodded. Dr Keys sat down on a small side table and took out a notebook. ‘I’ve got some things I need to go through with you. It’s all in the name of rehabilitation. It’s a new approach to help guys like you reintegrate. What we do, Winston, is ask you to follow some of those urges of yours under close supervision. We monitor your testosterone levels each week and see if there’s a pattern.’
‘You want me to follow my urges?’
‘That’s right, Winston. What we will try to do is watch you and monitor how you act out here in the real world. Then we can see if we understand you a little better. Are you interested?’
Winston stared for a moment and then nodded. ‘I guess.’
Forty minutes later, Dr Keys walked out of the halfway house and took a quick turn around the perimeter of the building. Winston was an obedient patient. He would do as he was told. It was looking like a very good choice. Dr Keys was pleased. Before he left, he had enough time to find the only Volvo in the parking lot and, therefore, the car belonging to Miss Adams.
He took out a small thin blade from his pocket, slipped it under the hood then yanked the engine cover open. He quickly identified the brake feed and cut a nick in the pipe. That would give her perhaps another three hours of driving before, hopefully, she paralysed herself driving across a red light.