The Guilty Page 5

  Bullshit, I thought. Officer Lemansky told me the rooftop was covered in gravel. Unless they developed some way to detect footprints in rocks, they’re throwing us a hollow bone.

  He continued. “We have many unfortunate witnesses to the crime itself, but as of yet nobody has come forward who has been able to positively identify the assailant.”

  At this point Costas Paradis moved a half inch closer. His eyes seemed to be burning a hole through Mayor Perez’s neck. The mayor swallowed. He held his hand up, index finger extended.

  “Let me assure you that the NYPD is using every available resource to find this heartless and soulless coward, and the NYPD will not rest until the assailant has been brought to justice.”

  Perez’s eyes became sorrowful and he lowered his head.

  “At this time I would like to express my sincerest condolences to the Paradis family. I have known Athena’s devoted father, Costas, for many years, and suffice it to say his daughter’s death is not only felt by the Paradis family, but is felt by his family and friends both in this city and around the world. Justice will be served.”

  Hotel Paradis, Paradis Park, Paradis Skating Rink, I thought. Not only was there a murderer loose, but there were millions, perhaps billions of dollars at stake. Maybe Perez should quote a few more lines from his book. Catching Athena’s killer was not only a moral and legal priority, but one the mayor needed to help pay for those campaign reelection ads with spiffy production values.

  Perez went on for another few minutes. He spoke a great deal but said very little.

  “I’ve seen mimes more eloquent,” Jack said. He leaned in closer. “Listen, I’ve got a contact in the medical examiner’s office. As soon as this little soiree breaks up I’ll have him on the phone. I want you to talk to him before we file any copy.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “He owes me a solid. After you talk to him, I want you to go back and canvas the area around the Kitten Club. People don’t like talking to cops. Answering questions makes them feel like they’re being accused of something. Too many freaking Law & Order spin-offs. Anyway, tell them who you are. A newsman, their voice, the voice of the people. You make ’em believe it, they’ll let you hold their newborn.”

  “Got it.”

  At that moment, Mayor Perez said, “And now I’d like to turn the podium over to Police Commissioner Alan Bradley, who will answer further questions.”

  “Might be worth leaving now,” I said. “Get a head start.”

  “Not yet,” Jack said. “Leaving early is how you miss the big stuff.”

  Commissioner Bradley, a stocky bald man in his early fifties, shook hands with the mayor and Costas Paradis. He stepped to the podium with a look of gravity and sincerity. Then I noticed something strange.

  Joe Mauser was flinching. He brought his hand up to his eyes, as if shielding the sun. I took the binoculars, followed his line of sight. He was looking at a building across the way. Then I saw what he saw—a faint glimmer of light off of…something—and then all hell broke loose.

  Mauser dove to his left a millisecond before the air was shattered by a deafening crack. I saw a fountain of red explode by the podium, and suddenly hundreds of people were screaming and running and cursing and fleeing.

  I heard someone yell, “He’s been shot!” EMS workers sprinted up the stairs. I watched in slow motion detachment, arms and legs pummeling me as they flew past. A man and a woman in white knelt down beside a fallen person atop the stairs. Police had their guns drawn and were yelling into walkie-talkies. Their eyes were all looking up, guns drawn. At the rooftops. Where the gunshot had come from.

  I looked through the binoculars to get a better view of the carnage.

  I could see a group of cops ushering the mayor and Costas Paradis inside city hall. An ambulance was trying to get through the pandemonium but was having no luck. The cops were shaking, ready to fire at an instant’s notice.

  I saw the EMS crews working as fast as they could on the downed officer, but through the binoculars I could see one of them shake her head. Watching fingers of blood drip down the steps, I knew what she was thinking. This one can’t be saved.

  As they placed the cop on the stretcher, I increased the magnification. I could just make out the face.

  My breath left me. I dropped to my knees. Panting. Felt Jack’s hand on my shoulder. Felt the world swimming away. Saw the face again. Saw his brother in-law’s face. Both men lying in a pool of their own blood.

  The downed cop was Detective Lieutenant Joe Mauser.

  CHAPTER 8

  She was lying on her back. Propped up against three pillows. One more across her chest. One more by her right arm. She felt warm, safe, comfortable. Henry made fun of her for this. Said she was building a fort every night. Yet when the lights went out, after Amanda had burrowed into her pillow castle, she would push the pillows aside and gently lay her head on his chest.

  She would listen to Henry breathe. Listen to his heart beat. She knew when he was thinking about a story—his heart beat a little faster. She knew if the day had been long and challenging, or fast and invigorating. All this from his heartbeat.

  She would glide her finger down his chest, tickling his side. She knew he was sensitive, but he never told her to stop. Sometimes she would run her finger along the scar where the bullet had come so close to ending his life. She knew that in some way she was responsible for that scar. For some reason, despite the pain it had caused Henry, she was glad it was there.

  She knew he was awake. His breathing was shallow. Henry’s eyes had sunk. His body looked as though it had been sapped of all energy, like one of those video game characters after some evil shaman sucks their soul right out of their body then yells something cheesy like “Fatality!”

  Another death. Reporters weren’t supposed to see lives end in front of them. Henry wasn’t off in a tank in Iraq. How much more could he take?

  Henry’s breathing had grown steadier. Maybe he had fallen asleep. She hoped so.

  And then the shrill noise of Henry’s cell phone broke the silence, and Amanda kicked herself for forgetting to change the ring tone.

  Henry didn’t stir, so Amanda reached over to the nightstand and picked it up. She expected to see Wallace Langston or Jack O’Donnell calling about some urgent scoop.

  But no, it was Mya Loverne. Undoubtedly calling again in the desperate and pathetic hope that her old boyfriend would return her affection. That some previously severed synapses would again begin firing.

  Amanda stared at the phone and felt a terrible pressure beginning to settle behind her eyes. She pressed and held the power button until the phone went dark. Then she gathered all the pillows, held them close to her chest and hoped sleep would arrive soon.

  For both of them.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Boy sat on the bed. Elbows on his knees. Feet planted on the floor. He read the newspaper again. Third time he’d done so. Then he put it on the chipped wooden nightstand and turned off the light.

  He lay in the dark. He could feel his heart beating fast. It wasn’t just the thrill of the kill that did it, it was the beautiful anticipation. Then the memory of the blood.

  His hands still tingled, gravel still stuck in the treads of his shoes. Amazing how he could read about himself in the newspaper mere hours after the killing, the ink drying quicker than the blood.

  He thought about last week. He thought about the grave, that headstone he’d visited so many times, wanting to wrap his strong hands around the necks of all those idiots who’d stolen God knew how many marble replacements. It had gotten so bad that the graveyard proprietors had to construct a metal fence around the headstone. Didn’t matter much. They couldn’t afford good metal, and twice a year some kid would use a pair of eleven-ninety-nine wire cutters and steal it just the same.

  After visiting the grave for twenty years the Boy didn’t care about the headstone itself. All he cared about was the bones that lay underneath. The body tha
t lay buried in that hard earth for over a century. People thought they knew the truth. They saw movies, read books, figured they knew everything. He was here to change that. Through blood and lead, they would know the truth, and they would know exactly why he died. The Boy’s legacy, and now he was being baptized in the blood of the damned.

  Every now and then he would bring a fresh bullet to the grave, dig a small hole with his hands and place the ammunition inside. It’s what He would have wanted—to be close to the bullets. Up until now, those bullets were the only link between them. Until Athena. Until that cop. Now blood linked them, and blood was thicker than lead.

  All those summers in the broiling sun, pretending to ignore his birthright. Watching that ungodly woman tarnish their family’s name with that demon. He got through the day because he knew eventually the day would come when he could take up the mantle. When he could finally finally finally come out from the darkness and show the world that the throne was his now. It had merely been waiting for the new blood to carry it into the new century.

  You’d think things would have changed in a hundred and thirty years, the Boy would say to the headstone. He would always say it out loud. He didn’t care who heard him. If he didn’t have the courage to take a few errant glances, he wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger when the time came. You’d think they’d have changed, but they haven’t. A hundred and thirty years and you’d be so sick of it you’d dust your guns off, brush all that dirt off your old, old bones and do what I’m doing.

  His hands and legs ached. The rifle had a mean kick. The Boy hadn’t gotten a chance to practice much with it, but the gun was every bit as true as he knew it would be. That gun had a reputation, and not the kind that came from some pussy who talked his own game up. This was the kind of rep that came through force, violence and blood.

  He looked around the room. Grime covered the walls, and he could hear insects scurrying behind the plaster. Nothing bothered him. He tapped the rifle with his fingers and thought about the next kill.

  He’d read the newspapers that morning. Read the ongoing coverage of Athena’s murder. Only today it was sparring for coverage with the murder of Joe Mauser. He was surprised to see that he’d killed the cop rather than the mayor. But the more he read about this cop, the better he felt. He read how the cop tracked down and nearly killed an innocent reporter named Henry Parker. The same Henry Parker whose words the Boy had used before killing Athena Paradis.

  The Boy read about how the death of officer Joe Mauser’s brother-in-law had driven Mauser over the edge, how he relentlessly pursued Parker across the country before nearly dying at the hands of the real killer. And even though the Boy’s bullet hadn’t been meant for Mauser, fate was on his side. Joe Mauser was just as guilty as the rest of them.

  The Boy looked out the window at the night sky, the beauty that was so close, and the beauty that he would help create. Then he closed his eyes, dreamt of blood, blood that purified, blood that seeped back into an old, old grave. He dreamt that he was lying in the grave next to the man whose legacy he was carrying on, and the Boy slept in peace.

  CHAPTER 10

  I’d only met with a medical examiner once in my career as a reporter, and that was back in Oregon when I covered a B and E that turned ugly when the home owner confronted the burglar. The home owner was stabbed twice in the chest, the knife stolen from his own bedroom. The ME confirmed the murder weapon was some fancy German blade, which the victim had bought on the black market. I ended up uncovering an unauthorized dealer ring in Portland, and was subsequently nominated for a Payne journalism award. The ME in Portland was a woman in her midforties, professional as hell, and willing to part with any and all information I needed for my story. From that encounter I assumed most MEs were similarly professional.

  But when I met Leon Binks, New York County Medical Examiner, behind the rusty Dumpster on Thirty-first and First, let’s just say it wasn’t quite the professionalism I was hoping for.

  Leon was wearing blue jeans and an unbuttoned work shirt, both dirty and disheveled. My guess was they were spare clothes for the times he had to run out and meet people behind Dumpsters. He was a fairly young man, mid to late thirties, with a wisp of a mustache and hair in desperate need of some Pert Plus.

  He rubbed his hands together as he spoke, and I wondered what sort of compulsion that came from.

  “So you know Jack,” Binks said, more of a statement of fact than a question.

  “I work with him at the Gazette,” I replied.

  Jack had called Binks and told him to meet me as soon as possible. Didn’t ask Binks. Told him. I wondered what sort of coverage Jack had given—or shielded—to have the New York City medical examiner wrapped around his little finger.

  “Good guy, O’Donnell,” Binks said, his hands rubbing rhythmically.

  “Yeah, he is.” I waited for Binks to continue.

  “Had a lot of good times with him,” Binks said. “Well, not good times, but good conversations. Like he’s always been a good egg with me, a good egg. I figure any friend of Jack’s has gotta be a friend of mine.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “So, Leon, if I can call you that…”

  “You can call me Binky,” he said. “S’what my friends do, anyway.”

  “Right. So…Binky…you’ve done the initial on Joe Mauser?”

  Binky nodded. “You’d be correct. Listen, Henry.” Binky leaned in close. I could smell chemicals. Iodine and cheap aftershave. “Did Jack tell you about that…thing?”

  “Uh…”

  “I get it, you’re playing dumb. It’s okay, better you don’t answer so neither of us have to lie. You know in case anyone comes asking.”

  No need to tell the Binkster that I wasn’t playing dumb, since I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Just tell Jack I appreciate it, and so does my wife. I promise the bite marks will clear up and we’ll be careful not to go out in public next time we want to role play.”

  “Yeah, anyway, let’s talk about Mauser.”

  “Right,” Binky said, winking. “Let’s. Officer Mauser suffered from a single gunshot wound fired from a high-velocity rifle.”

  “I knew it,” I said.

  “Knew what?”

  “High-powered rifle,” I said. “I know more about guns than I’d like to.”

  “Really? Well, would you like to tell me the rest of the autopsy? Please, go right ahead.” Binky folded his arms across his chest petulantly. Finally he said, “May I continue?”

  “Please, didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “No apology necessary. Anyway, the bullet entered Officer Mauser’s chest and the left subclavian artery, causing a traumatic aortic rupture.”

  “Which means…”

  “Which means Officer Mauser never had a chance.”

  I wiped my brow, took this in. Mauser wasn’t the target of that bullet. This much was clear. Dozens of news crews had caught the whole speech and murder on tape, and a split second before the gun went off, Mauser dove in front of Mayor Perez. Gave his life in the line of duty.

  “The bullet then lodged in one of Officer Mauser’s vertebrae, where I extracted it this morning. The bullet was turned over to ballistics for examination.”

  “Can you tell me anything about the bullet itself?”

  “Hey, Sherlock, I work at the coroner’s office, not ballistics.” Again I stayed silent. Hoping maybe Binky thought himself an amateur Man With No Name. “It was pretty big,” Binky finally volunteered.

  “Like how big?”

  “Inch and a half, two inches long,” he said. “Bullet was obviously distorted but I can’t say for sure. Caused a whole lot of damage, whoever took that shot wasn’t screwing around, wasn’t looking to wing anyone. Even if the bullet had somehow miraculously missed the aorta, it shattered two surrounding vertebrae and severed Mauser’s spinal cord. Guess we can be thankful the guy didn’t suffer. I work a lot of GSWs, but I can’t recall pulling a bullet this size from ma
ny victims.”

  “So we have some psychopath running around New York with a high-powered rifle and damn good aim,” I said. Binky rubbed his hands together and nodded.

  “Funny thing is,” he said, his tone of voice anything but humorous. In fact, there seemed to be an edge of fear. “I’ve worked in the examiner’s office nearly twelve years and I don’t recall ever seeing a gunshot wound from that caliber weapon.”

  “Really,” I said, that fear seeping into my veins, too.

  “Most GSW victims that end up at the hospital or morgue are from .22 or .38 caliber bullets. Handguns, stuff you get on the street. But not this. This is a hard-core rifle, my friend. Kind you might hunt animals with. Kind of gun you only need one shot with, ’cause that shot counts.”

  “No shit,” I said.

  “None at all. Makes you wonder what kind of psycho this city’s got loose.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Makes you wonder.”

  CHAPTER 11

  I turned my key in the lock, unsure whether I hoped the apartment would be empty or not. Before I could see the whole room I smelled perfume and knew Amanda was home.

  She was sitting in an armchair reading a book. When she saw me her eyes picked up and the book clapped shut. She slowly rose from her chair, came over to me and wrapped me up in her arms. I laid my head on her shoulder and breathed in.

  She looked me in the eyes and said, “If I had to guess, your day could have gone better.”

  I nodded. Took my jacket off and tossed it on a chair. Untied my shoes and kicked them off. Went over to Amanda and knelt down, put my head against her stomach. Soon I felt her fingers running through my hair, my scalp tingling as she pressed harder. I stood up, leaned in and kissed her. At first she seemed reluctant, then leaned in harder. Her hand was on the back of my head, pressing my lips against hers. I lost myself in it, felt her body lean toward me. Then I pulled away.