Killer Heat (17 page)

“ 'Cause they were black and Hispanic,” Mike said. Mercer nodded
in agreement. “Twenty blocks farther south, on the Upper East Side,
somebody burned a white girl to death on the top of a Madison
Avenue condo, every cop in the city would have been pulled out to
solve it.”

“That's the last serial killer we've had in Manhattan,” Mercer
said. “Nobody much cared at the time, 'cause the victims all lived
in projects, all poor kids.”

“Don't tell me you solved that one by detective work?”

“Came pretty close. Old-fashioned legwork almost paid off.”

Mike interrupted Mercer's story. “Yeah. Mercer and Rob Mooney
figured out who it was. Before they could get his DNA, Kee walked
into a computer store with a stolen hard drive. The clerk just went
to the back and called 911 and turned the kid in for some lousy
misdemeanor theft charge.”

“Dumbass luck, one more time,” Dickie said, finally using a
napkin to clean his face. “Bottom line-tell Scully to save himself
the trouble of a task force. Let the troopers upstate catch the
bum. Operation Dumb Luck.”

“What's the trigger?” I asked. “Where does this guy come
from?”

“We got SOMU working on this as soon as Elise Huff was reported
missing,” Mercer said.

The Sex Offender Monitoring Unit was responsible for tracking
rapists who had served their time and were released to parole. New
laws in every state required them to register with police agencies
set up to monitor their whereabouts and alert communities where the
most dangerous felons relocated.

“No one with this kind of m.o.?” Dickie asked. “Maybe he's just
out of the military. Back from combat. There'll be a couple of
dozen more bodies before you pry any records away from the feds,
that's for sure.”

“Amen to that,” Mercer said. “Takes forever. And Scully's got to
be prepared to deal with the question of why there isn't DNA.”

“Organized serial,” Mike said. “Intelligent, methodical,
knowledge of forensics, keeps control of the crime scene. Abducts
in one location and dumps in another.”

The FBI characterized these murderers as either organized or
disorganized, the latter having less intelligence and acting more
impulsively.

“How about Coop's theory that our guy may be into women with
uniforms?” Mike said.

“Tell it to the profilers,” Dickie Draper said. “They'll have us
staking out waitresses in coffee shops and Girl Scout troops and
bus drivers in drag. Hold that thought, Alex, will you?”

“Here's one fact that doesn't make sense,” Mercer said. “Amber
Bristol's apartment-that was cleaned out. Am I right, Mike?
Sanitized. All of her personal stuff gone.”

Dickie shook his head. “Gives new meaning to an organized
serial. They're not into housekeeping. Trophies and souvenirs,
yeah, but not housekeeping.”

“Maybe he had an accomplice on the first kill,” Mike said. “Then
he spun out on his own.”

“The other vics didn't live alone,” Mercer said. “Could have
been his only chance to get in one of their homes.”

“I'm telling you,” Dickie said. “You can't go serial too
early.”

“What the hell do we tell Scully?” Mike said.

“Assurances. People like assurances.” Dickie started to count
off traits on his fingers. “The guy is young, okay? Eighteen to
thirty-five, tops. Takes a lot of energy to do this shit.”

I thought again about Floyd Warren, who seemed to have aged out
of his serial rapist pastime.

“White,” he said, holding his left forefinger with his right
hand.

“Kee and Jones were black.”

“Yeah, but that's unusual, Mercer. Mostly a white boy's game.
Besides, gets the commish into all that ugly racial profiling
stuff. Safer to say white till you know different.”

He was on the third trait, double chins jiggling as he said,
“And they're never Jewish. Safe bet on that, too. Not your people,
Ms. Cooper.”

“Berkowitz,” Mike said. “Rifkin.”

“Do your homework, Mikey. Berkowitz was adopted. Born Falco. Got
it? Rifkin's adopted, too.”

Guido Lentini opened the door and lifted his glasses to the top
of his head. “Chapman, the commissioner wants to know more about
the Amber Bristol scene. The old Battery Maritime Building.”

Mike took his feet off the table and sat up. “What does he
need?”

“Wants to know about the ferry slip. When the boats run. Where
they go.”

“To Governors Island.”

“That's the only place, right?”

“Right. And only during the day. They don't run at night,” Mike
said.

“They used to go from that terminal to some piers in Brooklyn,
didn't they?”

“Yeah, but not in my lifetime.”

“Governors Island. It was a military post, right?”

“For two hundred years, yeah.”

“What's it named for, Chapman? Governor who? They're likely to
ask that, too.”

“When the British took New Amsterdam from the Dutch,” Mike said,
“they used the island as a retreat for the royal governors. Should
have stayed in school, Guido.”

“You did a search over there, didn't you?”

Mike frowned and brushed his hair off his forehead. “Did I? Like
personally?”

“Yes, you-Mike Chapman. The homicide squad. Somebody the
commissioner can rely on.”

“Bristol's body was found on this side of the water, Guido.
Detectives from Night Watch went over to the island to check it
out. The killer never got her there, trust me. The fire department
took them all around the place.”

“Scully won't like that,” Guido said.

The schism between New York's Bravest, the NYFD, and New York's
Finest, the NYPD, had widened after their heroic actions on 9/11.
The tension between the two commissioners had intensified in the
aftermath, as operative responses were more carefully defined for
each of the services.

“The frigging place hasn't been inhabited since the coast guard
gave it up in '96. Even an amateur would know if someone had been
on the island. People work there during the day-groundskeepers and
the ferry crew. But the only two guys who live on the island-I mean
overnight-are firemen, for the protection of the historic
buildings.”

“This is going to be ugly,” Guido said.

“What now?” I asked.

“You know who owns Governors Island?”

I shook my head from side to side.

“The city and the state. They've both got jurisdiction.
The governor will have the place swarming with troopers by morning,
and the mayor'll get to announce that the NYPD hasn't really
investigated there yet,” Guido said.

Mike started pacing behind my seat. “Just to add to your agita,
Guido. The feds will jump in, too. The old fortress is still their
property. It's a national monument.”

“Then if I were you, Chapman,” Guido said, checking his watch.
“I'd get your ass over there on the next boat. Make the
commissioner an honest man when he goes on the air at five o'clock
to tell them his department is doing a thorough investigation.
There's got to be something to that idea of a military nexus to the
murders.”

“We're moving,” Mike said, looking down to meet my eyes when he
spoke. "I know what's over there, Guido. It's another ghost
island.

An RMP with lights and sirens made our trip from Police Plaza to
the old terminal building in less than two minutes.

We left Dickie Draper behind at headquarters, to help Guido
triage the data in the police reports that would be the subject of
media scrutiny.

Mike got out and handed the driver a slip of paper with a
Brooklyn address on it. “Eunice Chapman, she's expecting you. Bay
Ridge. She's going to give you a box full of old catalogs. Take
them to-your apartment okay, Coop? Drop them with Ms. Cooper's
doorman,” he said, adding my address to the note.

Mercer walked to the entrance of the northernmost ferry slip.
It was the place through which Mike and I had entered to climb up
to the grim room in which Amber Bristol's body had been found. Now,
a twelve-foot wire mesh fence blocked the way, with a sign that
warned: ACTIVE DRIVEWAY-NO PARKING. And in smaller letters below:
“Watch for vehicles entering or leaving the site. ”Yo. Anybody
home?" Mercer shouted.

Mike came up behind him and called again. “Would have been nice
if someone actually had been looking for vehicles leaving the site
the night Amber was dumped. A man in a blue jumpsuit came from
behind the interior building. ”Yeah? Whaddaya want? Mercer flashed
his badge. “Police. We need a lift to Governors Island.”

“Next service run is at four o'clock. You make arrangements with
anyone?”

The Lt. Samuel L. Coursen was berthed at the dock, just
thirty feet ahead of us. It was three fifteen and Mike was
impatient. “The captain's expecting me.”

“He is? He didn't say nothin' to me.”

“Hurry up. We're trying to beat the rain.”

The man looked confused but unlocked the gate, and before he
could close it again Mike was leading us to the ramp of the old
motor vessel.

“That's where Amber's body was,” he said to Mercer, pointing up
behind us to the landing at the top of the building's
rust-encrusted staircase.

“Good place to leave it. Looks pretty uninviting to me.”

There was bright red lettering on the door that said:
DANGER-HIGH VOLTAGE. Everything around the space was so filthy and
dilapidated that it didn't seem surprising that no one had ventured
in to find the missing woman until the stench became
overwhelming.

Mike stepped over the railing that separated the aft platform of
the ferry from the landing bay and held out his hand to help me
over.

Two men came running down the staircase from the bridge of the
boat. Mike explained to them why we needed to cross as quickly as
possible.

“C'mon. You can drop us off and be back here in twenty
minutes.”

They reluctantly led us up to the wheelhouse, called over to
tell the crew on Governors Island to expect them, and fired up the
engine.

“Any of you ever been over here before?” the captain asked.

Only Mike answered. “Yes. Twenty years ago, when it was the
largest coast guard base in the world.”

“I thought you said it was an army post,” I said.

“That's why it was built in 1776, when George Washington sent
the first garrison there. By 1966, it was turned over to the coast
guard.”

I covered my ears as the copilot blasted the ferry horn to
announce our departure to the boats around us on the river.

“How long's the ride?” Mercer asked.

“Six minutes. It's just eight hundred yards from Manhattan.”

“Ferries are open to the public?”

The captain answered with a firm “No.”

“But that's all about to change,” Mike said. “This is the year
they announce a plan for the island's future, isn't it?”

We pulled out into the swirling gray water. Landing off to our
right, dwarfing us, was one of the Staten Island ferries, and ahead
on the river was a lively mix of pleasure craft, small yachts,
water taxis, sailboats, and Circle Line tour ships.

“What future?” I asked.

“One hundred seventy-two acres of prime New York City real
estate,” the captain said. “The city and state have to figure out
how to use it-jointly. It's all in the planning stage now, for
redevelopment as civic space, with an arts center and recreational
activities. The island's a pretty spectacular place.”

“I had no idea it was so large,” I said.

“The historic district is only twenty-two acres,” Mike said.
“The National Park Service still owns it. That piece will be
restored and maintained while the rest is developed.”

“There's a national park on Governors Island?”

I looked across at the massive stone fortification on the
southern tip of the island.

“Any private boats go there?” Mercer asked.

I knew he was thinking of the short, easy ride from the mainland
to the dock at Bannerman Island.

“The forty-two seats on this old reliable is all you've got, at
the moment,” the captain said, gesturing to the pier ahead. “Trying
to land there is worse than threading a needle when you're drunk.
See those two slips? They run perpendicular to the current, which
is always trying to drive you away. Pretty rough. And on either
side of them, you got a brick seawall that could smash a small
vessel to smithereens.”

“And who rides with you?”

A sloping manicured lawn topped by a series of two-story
colonial brick buildings ran down to the water's edge.

“We got some park rangers who patrol the area from ten to five.
Then we get a few developers and government types who come back and
forth for planning and surveying. Occasionally retired army
personnel who were stationed here years ago request permission to
come back, show their families around.”

“Anyone keep track of their names?” Mercer asked.

“I don't know. Check with the rangers. They've been holding
events here from time to time during the summer. Real pain in the
neck for us. We've had pretty slow going for so long.”

“What kind of events?”

“Rock concerts, dance recitals, ball games on the old polo
grounds-”

“Polo?” I asked.

“Yeah, while it was an army base for a couple of centuries, the
cavalry trained here. There's a big polo field,” the captain said.
“July and August are the worst.”

“Why?”

“Last couple of years, GIPEC's been holding-”

“GIPEC?”

“Governors Island Preservation and Education Corporation. They
run the place,” the captain said, navigating around a long barge
headed slowly upriver. “They've been using the parade grounds and
the old fort to stage Civil War battle reenactments on
Sundays.”

“What kind of battles?” Mike asked. “Who shows up?”

“It takes all types, Detective. You get these history buffs who
like to dress up in old uniforms and chase each other around.
Military nuts.”

“But who watches them? How do people get here?”

“There's always a crowd. We don't have much capacity on this
sweet thing, so GIPEC rents some of the water taxis to get people
on and off for the day.”

“Is there an event tomorrow?” Mercer asked.

“Next big one is Labor Day weekend. But there'll be a rehearsal
tomorrow. There's one every Sunday. Fifty or so guys, in the old
blue and gray. A few gawkers come along for the ride. We'll make a
couple of extra runs, use our freight boat as backup, and get them
all over. It's only the big displays I need help transporting the
sightseers.”

“Weapons?” Mike asked.

“The Park Service has that old stuff stored away here.
Cannonballs and muskets spread all over the place. These boys are
just out to amuse each other. Nobody gets hurt.”

Mike flipped open his cell phone and dialed Peterson's
number.

“Talk fast,” the captain said. “You won't get any reception on
the island.”

He was steering the nose of the boat toward the landing dock,
patiently trying to control it as the aft end fishtailed in the
strong current.

“Loo. You still in Scully's office?” Mike asked, then repeated
the story about the battle reenactments to his boss. “You're going
to need a detail here tomorrow if the mayor stays on course. The
press will be all over the place by morning. Have someone checking
IDs at the old ferry terminal, okay? Slip number seven. The last
thing we need is our killer walking around the battlefield with
live ammo. Talk to you later.”

The stern of the ferry bounced off the pilings in the pier and
we swayed from side to side as the shore crew stabilized her.

“Gives me more reason to think this may have been where our guy
was headed with Amber Bristol-maybe even while she was still
alive,” Mercer said.

“I'm surprised Battaglia didn't push me on coming over when
Amber's body was found at the terminal,” I said.

“He doesn't have any constituents on Governors Island, Coop.
Nobody to vote for him. High anxiety but low priority.”

The shore crew-three men and a young woman in dark blue
jumpsuits-secured the boat before they took the chain off to let us
disembark. At the end of the ramp was a tall man in a khaki
uniform, arms crossed and unsmiling.

“I'm Russell Leamer,” he said. “Park Service. Commissioner
Scully's office called. I understand we haven't satisfied your
curiosity.”

At the top of the landing was an enormous black cannon, mounted
in a cement surround, made to appear more benign by the field of
red impatiens that had been planted around it.

“It's more than curiosity, Mr. Leamer,” Mike said. “Three women
are dead, and the killer has some fixation with the U.S. military
service. One of his victims was dumped right on top of your ferry
terminal.”

“We let some of your men poke around, Detective. They were here
the very next day.”

“That was before we knew what we were looking for, Mr.
Leamer.”

“And exactly what are you looking for now?” Leamer asked, his
arms locked in place across his chest.

Mike looked from Mercer to me. We had very little time before
the mayor made his announcement and the media would attempt to
swarm over all of the places directly or indirectly connected to
the disappearances and deaths of our three victims.

“You'll hear the news shortly anyway,” Mike said. “The guy who
killed the girl in the abandoned offices over the terminal-well, he
probably murdered two others. He might have been trying to get here
with his victim. Maybe had a place to hide her on the island.”

Leamer's expression didn't change. “Hard to get lost in a crowd
over here. We know everything that goes on.”

Mike started to walk around Leamer, who stretched out an arm to
stop him.

“Look, the mayor and the police commissioner want this done, and
we're going to do it.”

“You're standing on federal property, Detective. You want to
swim around to the part of the island the city owns? Be my guest.
Otherwise, the three of you need to sit on one of those benches and
wait for the agents.”

“What agents? FBI? You've called in the feebies?”

“Yeah. I've asked for a detail to come over from the city. You
want a guided tour, they can take you.”

“C'mon, Coop. Stick with Mercer,” Mike said, as he continued to
charge up the incline and called back to Leamer. "By the time the
feds figure out what's going on around here, there'll be more
bodies than they can count.