The Guilty hp-2 Read online

  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.

  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 that 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.

  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 highvelocity 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 many 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."

  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.

  "What is it?" she said.

  I looked at her, embarrassed. "Just hard to see these things happen. You know, and not be affected at all."

  "That cop who was killed?" she said. "Mauser."

  "Yeah. You know he was the one who last year…he almost killed me."

  "I know," Amanda said softly. "He came to my house.

  Pointed a gun at you."

  "Thing is, I never blamed him," I said. "If I'd been in that kind of situation, thought someone had murdered my family,

  I would have gone just as far as he did."

  "Henry…"

  "He was a good cop," I said, anger rising. "He didn't deserve to go down like some animal."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Whoever shot him, they're some sick bastard."

  I took out my cell phone. Dialed Curt Sheffield's number.

  "Sheffield," he said.

  "Curt, it's Henry Parker."

  "Hey, man. Guess this doesn't mean you're hiding under a rock."

  "I don't think I'd fit under a rock right now. Listen, we need to meet up. I talked to the medical examiner today, I think we can help each other."

  "Name the time and place. But hey, Henry, be careful.

  Word's gotten around our friend Paulina Cole's been digging a little bit, asking questions about Mya Loverne, about your relationship. Don't know if she's going after you, but nothing she touches stays clean, know what I'm saying."

  I cursed under my breath.

  "Screw her," I said.

  "I would if my lady wouldn't wear my balls for earrings.

  Cole's not a bad-looking older woman. Wonders of Botox, I guess."

  "Yeah, right. I need to know if you've heard anything about the ballistics analysis. Two deaths from what looks like sniper attacks, I'm willing to bet my bonus the same ammo and gun was used in both Mauser and Athena

  Paradis's murders."

  "Don't be stupid, Henry, you know I can't just give out information Mayor Perez hasn't declared open for public consumption."

  "Come on, Curt, you know the Dispatch is probably writing checks right now to cops and anyone else who can answer that question. Do you really want Paulina Cole and her BS responsible for the first impression of millions?"

  "Watch your damn mouth," Curt said. "Those are my boys you're dissing."

  "I'm sorry, man, but you know I wouldn't say it just to make conversation."

  "No," he said reluctantly. "Listen, I got foot patrol duty tomorrow in Midtown. Carruthers wants my ass as public as possible. Guess they figure enough stuffy suits see me they might encourage their kids to sign up for the academy.

  Anyway, meet me on Fifty-second and Fifth tomorrow at five when my shift ends. Something else you should know."

  "What's that?"

  "They found another note. Same as before, taped to the roof where the sicko took his shot from at city hall."

  "Jesus Christ, what'd it say?"

  "Not over the phone, man. I'll see you tomorrow."

  "I'll be there. And Curt, I appreciate it. Really. We need to grab a drink soon. No business."

  "Sure, Jimmy Breslin, no business my ass."

  "I'm serious, none."

  "In that case, I hear a bottle of Stoli Raspberry calling my name," he said. "And bring your corporate card, of course.

  You know, in case I get the munchies."

  Sheffield hung up.

  I looked over at Amanda. The book was on her lap. I knew she heard the whole conversation.

  "He sounded good," she said.

  "Always does."

  "Are you worried about Paulina?"

  I thought for a moment.
Paulina had done her absolute best to ruin my reputation last year. I knew she had it out for me, but still wasn't sure if the vitriol was real or just a ploy to boost her career.

  "The same way you worry about gum disease or cancer," I said. "You can brush your teeth and eat broccoli every day, but if it's going to fuck up your life it's going to fuck up your life."

  "I don't want anyone to do that," she said.

  "Hey," I said, wrapping my arms around her. She returned the gesture. "Whatever anyone does to me, you counteract it.

  You're my counterbalance, babe."

  I kissed her, but knew her mind was elsewhere.

  12

  Amanda tucked her hands into her peacoat as she walked down the street. Henry had ordered a half mushroom pie from the pizza joint down the block (the one they probably kept in business). She'd told him she would pick up the pizza while she stepped out to grab some female products. Beautiful thing, those female products, as they could preempt any further questions.

  The night was still cool, the remnants of spring still hanging on. Soon summer would come, and New York summers could be brutal. Damn Al Gore, guy was right all along.

  Maybe he really did create the Internet, too.

  She thought about Henry, their relationship. It was still a relatively new thing, still exciting, but neither of them really knew what lay around the corner. They'd been dating steady for nearly a year, though for the life of her she couldn't remember an official start date, other than the first day Henry introduced her as his girlfriend. It'd been a surprise but a pleasant one. After he was released from the hospital, everything just seemed to happen. Not that she had any problem with it-it felt good introducing him, holding his hand at night, saying the word boyfriend and knowing it meant more than some silly schoolgirl thing.

  For years, Amanda didn't trust anybody. Not the nuns who ran the various orphanages she was shuttled between as a little girl, not the boys who claimed they liked her then split when the bra clasp remained fastened. Even Lawrence and Harriet