Authors: Oliver Stark
88 Killer (25 page)
North Manhattan Homicide
March 12, 7.14 p.m.
H
arper walked into the investigation room with Denise Levene. They had to share what they had. They’d both worked through the night, hadn’t slept at all and looked ragged and exhausted. Harper had received a call from Jack Carney. The Hate Crime Unit had picked up some information. The remaining members of Section 88 and a couple of sympathetic organizations were planning a night of attacks to show solidarity with Leo Lukanov. His death was being treated as a martyr’s sacrifice. They also heard that Martin Heming might try to turn up to soak up some of Lukanov’s martyrdom.
Carney and Harper had set a night of joint surveillance between Homicide and Hate Crime. Harper wanted the whole of the task force to get out on the street, trail the Hate Crime Unit and their usual targets and see what these neo-Nazis were capable of. He wanted to help Hate Crime to cut out this terrible cancerous growth of anti-Semitism.
Harper looked across the room at the blank faces of the team who had been working flat out for days. Garcia wasn’t around. He pulled up a chair and sat down in the center of the room. ‘Guys, close in a minute. We’ve got in touch with Becky Glass’s husband. He’s been out of town speaking at a conference with a thousand delegates. He can’t tell us anything.’
Denise sat near the front. There was a freshly printed profile on her knee that she needed to share with Blue Team.
The team turned to face Harper. Harper spoke slowly, conspiratorially. ‘Listen, this is going to take a while to settle. We’ve found some new information about the killer. Denise has been working with Dr Goldenberg. It’s quite unusual stuff, but stick with it.’
Denise filled the team in on the background of Josef Sturbe. She gave his life story and then walked up and down the room. ‘In summary, gentlemen, our killer has assumed an identity. His identity is strange. It is of a man who is so ashamed of his origins and his race, that he becomes an extreme version of those he wants to impress.’
‘What can we use?’ said Swanson. ‘You think our killer is an eighty-seven-year-old man?’
‘No, I don’t,’ said Denise. ‘I think he is a deluded narcissist. He wants power, he wants accolades but he’s got a big secret. Perhaps he’s like Sturbe, someone who feels his identity is fake. I’d say we ought to work from two assumptions. The first is that the killer is adopted. The second is that he was adopted from a Jewish to a non-Jewish family.’
‘He’s a modern-day Sturbe?’
‘It’s just a theory. I don’t know what he is. I’ve got a couple of other Nazi elements,’ said Denise. ‘The 88 moniker is code for
Heil Hitler
, but it’s also a reference to a passage from
Mein Kampf
, Hitler’s ruminations on power and eugenics. It’s not his name, it’s a salute after his kills, and it’s his mission statement. We’re looking at a man driven to kill by hatred, because somehow he’s got the idea that Jews are the cause of his problems, that they are less than human. But I think it’s himself he feels is inhuman. That’s why he identifies with the Nazis – because he thinks he’s subhuman himself. I think that he’s killing his own identity.’
‘He’s a Jew?’
‘Most serial killers attack their own kind. I’d say, yes, he’s Jewish.’
The room was silent. It was a complex idea to take in. They didn’t know how to respond.
‘We can’t go around saying that the Nazi Jew Killer is a Jew, Denise. We’ll be pulled apart as racists.’
‘You know the Atlanta Child Killer case?’
‘Remind me.’
‘A number of black children were killed over a period of time. Same kind of outrage, and everyone thought it was a racial crime, except that there was no political statement or claim by any group. In the end, they found him. He was a black man. He was attacking his own. That’s what a serial killer is, someone attacking their own identity; that’s why they repeat – it’s a process. It’s themselves they’re killing.’
‘That’s good,’ said Harper. ‘It gives you all some background. Anything else?’
‘How close is that profile to our prime suspect, Martin Heming?’ said Mary Greco.
‘There’s very little match,’ said Denise. She opened her palms. ‘I wish I had something more concrete. I’ll keep trying.’
Harper stood up. ‘You all understand?’ He looked around. ‘No word of this to anyone. We need to be further along before this comes out.’ There were nods throughout the room.
‘Now, why you’re all here. You want to hear about the operation – Operation Sturbe. There’s to be no more waiting around. We need to be out there watching them. We’ve got to find him, people. We’re going out to Brooklyn to work some overtime. We’ve set up a surveillance operation with Hate Crime. We’re going to track them, as many as we can, all across Brooklyn and see what we can find.’
Brownsville, Brooklyn
March 12, 8.01 p.m.
H
arper crossed town with Blue Team. There was a sudden sense of potential, and the whole team felt it. A feeling that they just might have something that cast a net around this killer.
They headed towards their meet with Hate Crime.
Harper, Levene and Kasper stopped outside a worn-out shop on the edge of Brownsville in Brooklyn. Behind them, the cars of Blue Team pulled up and a series of doors opened and shut.
The team leader, Jack Carney, was organizing the op on the ground for Hate Crime. He walked across. ‘Hey, Harper. Let me walk you through it.’
Harper introduced his team. They all shook hands. The night was damp and the temperature was dropping. It felt chill and gloomy.
Jack Carney walked by Harper’s side. ‘We’ve got surveillance going on most of the remaining members of Section 88 and seven other groups which are marked as code A through to G. We think they’re going to try something. They’re hurting after you took Lukanov and the gang. The word out here is that he didn’t kill himself, that police killed him.’
‘If only,’ shouted a voice from the back.
‘They’re after a conspiracy and that’s what they want to believe.’
‘It all fits with their view of authority,’ said Harper.
‘The key point is that they are angry and want to do something. We’ve been seeing a lot more activity. They usually use a public place to talk. We think that they’re going to use a big restaurant off the main road. It’s called McRory’s. There’s a big parking lot, a large drifting clientele. A busy place they can get lost in. They tend to get take-out and sit in the cars out back.’
‘Any sign of Heming?’ asked Harper.
‘Nothing,’ said Carney. ‘He’s either flipped out or hunkered down somewhere.’
‘Do we know their targets?’
‘We don’t. We’re still not sure how it happens, but we think they are told by someone, maybe by text even. When they’ve been told their hit, they travel out. We’ve got evidence of Section 88 using black cards as a way of putting hits out on their victims.’
‘I’m interested in our 88 Killer. Josef Sturbe.’
‘We got to follow the groups and see what we can. If he’s connected to Section 88, like you think, then this is the best way forward. You want Heming? We think he’ll turn up if he’s around. You take Unit C. These guys are on the edge, Harper, so steer clear unless you’ve got support.’
Harper looked down at the map on the hood of Carney’s car. ‘We just follow them?’
‘That’s it. Follow, get them caught in the act, then rumble. Backup will be with you on each unit. Now, come and meet the guys.’
They walked over to the Hate Crime team. Carney waved his arm. ‘You take them through your operation and why you are looking at Section 88,’ he said. ‘Then let me take over.’
‘This is the deal,’ Harper called out. ‘We know that Section 88 are involved in organized hate crimes. We also think that the organization is responsible either directly or indirectly for the murders of three women and one man. All the victims were Jewish. We’re looking for a lone wolf who may be feeding off this group, or he may be heading this group. His name is Martin Heming but he may be using the pseudonym Josef Sturbe. Most hits involve low-level intimidation, but that’s not what we are here for. We’re after our lone wolf, and his style is to pick off victims of hate crime and execute them.’
The men and women in front of him nodded. ‘This is a joint op, people. What we’re looking for is the main man, so try to hold off so that we can track these guys. See what they do, where they go, who joins them.’
Carney then took over. ‘Just a word or two. These guys get pumped up when they’re out on a mission, so roll with them, keep your distance and keep in contact. As soon as you see Heming, just shout. As soon as you see anything even close to looking like trouble, call in the support team. Okay, let’s move out.’
The team rolled out in a variety of vehicles and drove to McRory’s. They pulled into the parking lot and spread out. Each unit had a different target. The radio link between the vehicles was open. Harper was in the car with Denise Levene. They sat and stared out.
‘It’s a good spot,’ said Harper. ‘Maximum crowds, large numbers of people, so they wouldn’t be spotted. But we’ve got to get out and get closer. We’ll see nothing in here.’
The three of them got out and started to walk towards the center of the parking lot where the first of the suspects were congregated.
Brownsville, Brooklyn
March 12, 10.05 p.m.
B
lue Team and Hate Crime spent almost two hours watching, but nothing seemed to go down until one set of guys started to shake hands. It wasn’t a normal goodbye shake. They went down a line, high-fiving people in a pumped-up manner. This was celebratory.
‘We’ve got that truck covered,’ said Carney. ‘The rest just keep watching.’
The truck rolled out with four men in it. A few seconds later, a battered Hate Crime Unit panel van pulled out into traffic and started the tail.
Then the call came through. ‘Harper, you wanted to see how these guys operate, roll in and take the lead. This is a strong unit here. If Heming is around, he might want to make contact.’
Harper gunned the engine and pulled his car around. He overtook the HCU truck and followed behind the white van and hung back. There was silence in the car. The hunt was on.
The night air was chill and damp. The gang in the truck were traveling north from McRory’s and still drinking. They were easily visible from Harper’s car and the jokes seemed to be flying.
Right behind Harper, Jack Carney followed in his car and behind him was the HCU truck with the support team.
McRory’s disappeared behind them. The pink neon lights and big crowds were silenced by distance. The team had no idea what was ahead. The groups didn’t seem to speak on their cell phones and there was nothing they could find on the forums. All Hate Crime Unit had managed to find out from informants was that tonight was a joint operation – a protest at the treatment of Leo Lukanov. Carney had heard that the leader of Section 88, Martin Heming, could be joining the post-attack celebrations.
Tom Harper turned to Denise. ‘Why do they do it? What’s in it for them – attacking defenseless people?’
‘They believe they’re right,’ said Denise. ‘That there is someone on their patch who is causing them harm, and they don’t see the government doing anything about it. Or the NYPD.’
Section 88’s van turned. Carney and the support truck fell in behind. The truck turned off the major road and with the lack of traffic, the train of following vehicles was too conspicuous. Harper called Carney. ‘You and the van take the next left and carry on. You can re-join further up the street. I think they’ve clocked us.’
Harper watched the white van and Carney’s car veer into a side road and disappear. He continued to follow the truck.
They seemed to be heading towards Borough Park, one of the largest Jewish communities in the States. Harper followed until the group’s truck pulled off the road and into a side street, where it stopped. A sedan pulled up beside it. Harper stopped and they watched. Someone from the sedan jumped into the truck and then someone from the truck passed a duffel bag to the driver of the sedan.
Harper called Carney. ‘Jack, you need to pick up a dark blue sedan – it’s coming your way. You’ll be face to face in a moment. Looked like some drop. Maybe drugs.’
‘That’s how they fund their operations,’ said Carney.
Harper thought back to the three wraps in the alleyway beside David Capske. It seemed more likely than ever that this was a Section 88-sanctioned attack.
He called the driver of the white van on his radio. ‘This is Detective Harper, we’re following south of Lewton. Where are you?’
‘We’ve come up to a block. A truck ahead of us has got a flat and can’t move out. Carney got past but we’re stuck. We’re going to try to back up.’
‘You want me to drop off the tail?’
‘No, keep contact and keep in touch.’
Harper waited for a few minutes before turning into the side road. Up ahead there was nothing to be seen. It was a long narrow street surrounded by high buildings. Harper drove slowly, his eyes searching.
Five hundred yards down the street, Harper stopped at a junction. He pulled out and looked both ways. The Section 88 truck was parked to the right. He could just see its tail lights shining in the darkness. Harper turned and drove close enough to be able to see and the three of them sat and watched. Up ahead, the guys in the truck didn’t even look around; four of them were already on foot, heading down an alleyway towards the back entrance of what looked like a kosher bakery. Three were carrying sledgehammers and one had an ax. The lead guy, a huge muscular skin-headed man, called for the rest to follow. A fifth man got out of the truck carrying a can of gasoline.
‘What now?’ said Harper over the radio. ‘They are out of their vehicle and are heading to the street.’
‘Call for more backup. Do not try to stop them yourselves. We can’t be there soon enough. We’ve got reports of other groups heading to that area.’
Harper looked across to Denise and then to Eddie behind him. ‘What do you think?’
They could just see the group formed at the alleyway. It was 10.29 p.m. They seemed to be waiting. All five men pulled masks over their faces as the time clicked over to 10.30 p.m.
‘What the fuck are we going to do?’ said Eddie. ‘We can’t let this happen.’
‘Wait,’ said Harper. ‘Just wait for a moment.’
Then they heard a shout and further away, another shout and another. It wasn’t a secret assault, it was a war cry. ‘Let’s get out there,’ said Harper. A moment later, they heard a huge smash of glass, followed by another, and suddenly the whole street was ringing with car alarms, shop alarms and broken glass.
‘
Kristallnacht
,’ said Denise. ‘They’re smashing Jewish shops and buildings.’
Harper got on the radio. ‘This is Detective Harper. We’ve got major rioting starting up down here in Borough Park. We need SWAT, we need support. It’s big.’
Harper, Kasper and Levene ran down into the street. Then they stopped and drew back. Thirty or more hooded Nazis were running along the street with hammers, axes and baseball bats. They’d coordinated the seven teams. It wasn’t seven separate hits, it was one major assault. The shop fronts were exploding with fragments of glass, the doors smashed open. There didn’t appear to be any looting. The rioters would simply rush in and destroy what they could.
Across the street, people started to pour out of the Jewish restaurants screaming in terror. Gasoline was being splashed through the broken shop fronts and the sudden whoosh of fire exploded on to the street.
‘We can’t just watch, Harps. We got to do something.’
‘I’m thinking about how to get out of this without getting anyone killed,’ said Harper. ‘If all these rioters were being tailed by our operation, then we’ve got support.’ He got back on the radio, listened and turned. ‘They’re here.’
The joint operation involved over eighty police officers, who streamed into the street. Harper, Eddie and Denise were joined by ten or twelve other officers and they began to sweep towards the rioters. The other officers came from the west. The rioters gradually became aware that they weren’t going to smash and run like they had planned.
‘Do not draw your weapons,’ ordered Harper over the radio. The streets were full of people running, some starting to fight the Nazi rioters. ‘We can’t ensure the safety of the public. Tackle them safely, but take them down. Now.’
The police ran forward. Two to one, grabbing the rioters, chasing them through broken and flaming streets. The rioters were flung to the ground, and cuffed, then left to struggle. Members of the public began to attack the rioters: there were groups kicking cuffed men on the ground. Harper moved forward. ‘Get the public off the streets.’
He ran up to one group. Two men and a woman were screaming at one of the cuffed rioters, dragging his balaclava off. ‘Get out of here before I arrest you,’ said Harper. ‘Don’t become one of them.’ He moved them off and up the street, saying, ‘Denise, can you direct these people out of here before they land themselves in prison.’
Harper and Eddie then raced across to a jewelry store, where two big guys with hammers were smashing the cabinets. A lifetime of work broken in a moment. Harper flew in and grabbed the first. He pulled the hammer from his hand, smashed his jaw with his forearm and threw him out to Eddie. The second guy watched, then dropped his hammer and let himself be cuffed.
Outside, there were seven or eight rioters still evading the police, but the majority had been downed. Harper looked at the damage. Twenty or thirty shops smashed to pieces, several burning, billowing black smoke. If they hadn’t been trailing these guys, it would’ve been a hundred times worse; the gangs would’ve attacked people. There was no question, a much worse situation had been avoided.
Harper called through on the radio: ‘We’re nearly there, people. Get the rest of them cuffed and move them out of here. We need to get this whole place cleared.’
Harper saw the big guy from the truck disappear down an alley with two other rioters. Not wanting any of these cowards to escape, he darted after them, back up the alleyway. As they headed back to their truck, Harper pulled out his badge and called: ‘NYPD. Stop! Drop your weapons – now.’
The lead guy stopped and turned. He saw that Harper was alone. Harper saw them come at him. Three of them and he was the only thing stopping their escape. A hammer flew at him, hard and low. If it hit, it would break his leg. Harper jumped out of the way and the hammer smashed into the brick wall.
‘I didn’t appreciate that,’ said Harper. ‘Not one bit.’ The second hammer rose high and flew across him. It was easy to avoid. Hammers were slow and heavy. Harper pulled the rioter towards him. He landed a boot in his groin and butted him to the ground. The other two came in fast. One jabbed at Harper with the ax, while the second guy threatened a big blow to his head.
Harper backed to the wall. An ax, a hammer and two frightened and desperate rioters. There was no fear, just the thumping of his pulse and the softening of the boundaries between his mind and his body. He could hear the screeching of alarms in the background. He could smell the smoke. He could even see the fear in the two sets of eyes staring out through their masks. He felt the wall at his back, the ax-head thump in his stomach again, the hammer press against his shoulder, being driven backwards like some beast.
Harper calculated they were just out of reach of his fists. He needed to get closer, inside the range of their weapons. He ducked, pushed the hammer away with his right shoulder, and moved inside the ax-head using his left arm. It gave him what he needed: something within his reach. He came up from below, delivering a thunderous uppercut to the hammer guy and an elbow to the lead. The hammer guy dropped his weapon and crumpled, dazed. The lead guy was shaken but not out. Harper moved in. This was no boxing match, this was a street fight. His right boot scraped hard down the man’s shin and dug into his foot, while his arms reached up, grabbed the masked head and tugged it forward at speed. His knee then came up hard to meet the head. There was a loud crack and then a thud as the guy hit the ground.
Harper knelt down and pulled off his mask. ‘You want more?’ The man’s nose was split wide open, and his eyes had that lost look that Harper had seen so many times in the ring. ‘I said,
do you want more
?’
The man shook his head. Harper grabbed him. ‘Where’s Martin Heming?’
‘Fuck you,’ he gasped. ‘Heming isn’t here. Heming is cleaning up.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Yeah, like I’d tell you.’
Harper raised his fist, then stopped himself and stood. He had to use his head now. What would Heming be cleaning up?