The Best American Mystery Stories 2015 (20 page)

“Paul.”

“Okay, and I’m Al. Paul, have you heard that sometimes police departments use civilians when there’s a tough investigation going? Like psychics.”

“I’ve heard that. I don’t believe in psychics. I’m a rationalist.”

“Is that somebody who doesn’t believe in the supernatural?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, that’s me too. But one thing I
have
done in the past is use consultants. Specialists. Like in computer work. Or if there’s been an art theft, we’ll bring in somebody from a museum to help us.”

“And you want me to be a consultant?” Paul asked, feeling his heart pounding hard.

“I was impressed, what you told me in the park. I’ve brought some files from the UNSUB two-eight-seven homicides—that’s what we call the perp.”

“Police don’t really use the word
slasher
much, I’d guess.”

“Not too, you know, professional. So, Paul. I was wondering if you could take a look at them and tell us what you thought.”

“You bet I would.”

George Lassiter was upset.

The forty-year-old Manhattanite, whose nickname in the press was the sensationalist but admittedly accurate “Upper East Side Slasher,” had a problem.

No one was more meticulous than he was when it came to planning out and committing his crimes. In fact, part of the relaxation he experienced from murder derived from the planning. (The actual killing—the
execution
, he sometimes joked—could be a letdown, compared with the meticulous planning, if, say, the victim didn’t scream or fight as much as he’d hoped.)

Taking scrupulous care to select the right kill zone, to leave minimal or confusing evidence, to learn all he could about the victim so there’d be no surprises when he attacked . . . this was the way he approached all his crimes.

But apparently he’d screwed up in the latest Central Park murder near Shakespeare Garden and Turtle Pond a few nights ago.

The solidly built man, dressed in slacks and a black sweater, was now outside an apartment on Eighty-Second Street, on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Lassiter had returned to the crime scene the next morning, to see how far the police were getting in the investigation, when he’d noted a skinny young man talking to Albert Carrera, whom Lassiter had identified as the lead detective on the case. The man seemed to be giving advice, which Carrera was obviously impressed with.

That wasn’t good.

After the young man had left the crime scene, Lassiter had followed him to his apartment. He’d waited a half hour for someone to exit the building, and when an elderly woman walked down the stairs, Lassiter had approached her with a big smile. He’d described the man and had asked his name, saying he looked like somebody Lassiter had been in the army with. The neighbor had said he was Paul Winslow. Lassiter had shaken his head and said that no, it wasn’t him. He thanked her and headed off.

Once home, he’d researched Paul Winslow at the address he tracked him to. Very little came up. No Facebook page, Instagram, Twitter, Flickr, LinkedIn . . . no social media. A criminal background check came back negative too. At the least, it was pretty clear the young man wasn’t a professional law enforcer, just a private meddler.

Which didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.

He might even have seen Lassiter step out of the hiding place in the Shakespeare Garden and grab Ms. Rachel Garner around the neck, throttling her to unconsciousness and then carrying her into the park. For the knife work.

Or seen him slip away from the scene around midnight after he was through. That was more likely; after all, Lassiter had seen Paul staring at the very spot where he’d slipped away from the bloody murder site.

Why hadn’t he called the police then? Well, possibly he’d spent the night debating the pros and cons of getting involved.

It was Paul’s apartment that he was surreptitiously checking out at the moment. His intention had been to follow the young man again and find out where he worked, perhaps learning more about him.

But then, lo and behold, who came knocking at the front door, carrying a big fat file folder?

Detective Carrera, in need of a tan and a workout regimen.

What to do, what to do?

Several thoughts came to mind. But, as always, he didn’t leap to any conclusions right away.

Think, plan. And think some more.

Only then could you act safely and your crimes be successful.

“We did find something,” Al Carrera was telling Paul as he spread the contents of the case file out before them on the coffee table. “In the rocks, where you said the UNSUB waited—Shakespeare Garden.”

“What was it?”

“Indentations that match the bootie prints. And a tiny bit of wrapper, food wrapper. Forensics found it was from one of those energy bars that campers and hikers eat. From the paper and ink analysis we found it was a Sports Plus bar—their four-ounce peanut-butter-and-raisin one. Probably the perp’s, because of the dew content analysis. That told us it’d been dropped on the ground about midnight.”

“Your people are good,” Paul said. He was impressed. He recalled that Sherlock Holmes had his own laboratory. Conan Doyle, a man of science himself, had been quite prescient when it came to forensics.

The detective lifted an envelope, eight and a half by eleven. “These’re the pictures of the crime scenes—and the victims. But I have to warn you. They’re a little disturbing.”

“I don’t know that I’ve even seen a picture of a real body. I mean, on the news I have, but not up close.” He stared at the envelope, hesitated. Finally he nodded. “Okay, go ahead.”

Carrera spread them out.

Paul was surprised to find they were in color—vivid color. He supposed he shouldn’t have been. Why would police photographers use black-and-white when nobody else did nowadays?

As he stared at the unfiltered, bloody images, Paul felt squeamish. But he thought back to the Sherlock Holmes stories and reminded himself to be as detached and professional as his hero.

He bent forward and concentrated.

Finally he offered, “Some observations. He’s really strong. You can see the bruises on their necks. He didn’t have to reposition his hands. He just gripped and squeezed and they went unconscious—not dead, mind you. The amount of blood loss tells us they were stabbed while still alive. Let’s see, let’s see . . . All right, he’s right-handed. A lefty pretending to be right wouldn’t have gotten the cuts so even in the soft tissue.”

“Good.”

“Also he’s cautious, very aware and observant. Look at his footprints in the dirt at all three scenes. He’s constantly standing up and walking to the perimeter and looking for threats. Smart.”

Carrera wrote.

Paul tapped the picture that showed the perp’s bloody handprint on the ground, perhaps as he pushed himself up to a standing position. “Look at the thumb. Interesting.”

“What?

“It’s not spread out very far—which you’d think it would be if he was using the hand for leverage to rise.”

“I see it.”

“That might mean that he spends a lot of time on a computer.”

“Why?”

“People who regularly type tend to keep their thumbs close in, to hit the spacebar.”

Carrera’s eyebrow rose and he jotted this down too.

Paul gave a faint smile. “He’s a fisherman.”

“What?”

“I’m fairly certain. See those marks on the victims’ wrists?”

“Ligature marks.”

Paul squinted as he shuffled through the pictures. “They’re about the thickness of fishing line. And see how he made those incisions
before
he removed the victims’ fingers. That’s how you skin fish. And, yes, the energy bar—just the sort of food a fisherman would take with him for lunch or a midmorning snack.”

Paul sat back and glanced at Carrera, who was writing feverishly. The young man said, “If he
is
a fisherman, which I’m pretty sure he is, he probably has a lake house somewhere in the tri-state area. We know he’s got money. He’s not fishing with the locals in the East River. He’ll go out to the country in his BMW. Wait,” Paul said quickly with a smile, noting Carrera had started to write. “The Beemer’s just a guess. But I’m sure his car’s a nice one. We know he’s upper-income. And the arrogance of the crimes suggests that he’d have an ostentatious car. Mercedes, BMW, Porsche.”

After he finished writing, Carrera asked, “Is there any reason he’d take the index finger?”

Paul said, “Oh, I think it’s an insult.”

“Insult. To who?”

“Well, to you. The police. He’s contemptuous of authority. He’s saying someone could point directly to the killer and you’d still miss it. He’s laughing at you.”

Carrera shook his head at this. “Sonofabitch.”

Paul looked over the pictures once more. “The laughing fisherman,” he mused, thinking that would make a good title for a Sherlock Holmes story: “The Adventure of the Laughing Fisherman.”

Carrera snapped, “Laughing at us, the prick.”

Then Paul cocked his head. “Fish . . .”

“What?” Carrera was looking at Paul’s focused eyes as the young man strode to his computer and began typing. After a moment of browsing he said, “There’s fishing in Central Park—the Lake, the Pond, and Harlem Meer. Yes! I’ll bet that’s where your perp goes fishing . . . for his victims.” He glanced at Carrera eagerly. “Let’s go take a look, maybe see if we can find another wrapper or some other evidence. We could set up surveillance.”

“It’s not authorized for a civilian to go on field operations.”

“I’ll just tag along. To observe. Offer suggestions.”

Carrera debated. “Okay. But if you see anyone or anything that looks suspicious, I take over.”

“Fine with me.”

Paul collected his jacket from the den and returned to the living room. Pulling it on, he frowned. “There’s something else that just occurred to me. I’ll bet he knows about you.”

“Me? Personally?”

“You and the other investigators.”

“How?”

“I’m thinking he’s been to the crime scenes, checking out the investigation. That means you could be in danger. All of you. You should let everyone on your team know.” He added gravely, “Sooner rather than later.”

Carrera sent a text. “My partner. He’ll tell everybody to keep an eye out. You should be careful too, Paul.”

“Me? I’m just a civilian. I’m sure I don’t have anything to worry about.”

Paul Winslow’s apartment was pitifully easy to break into.

After James Lassiter had seen Paul and Carrera leave the place—it was about two hours ago—he’d had slipped around back and jimmied the basement door. Then up a few flights of stairs to the apartment itself. The lock-pick gun had done the job in five seconds, and he’d slipped inside, pleased to note that the place didn’t have an alarm.

Piece of cake.

He now stood in the bay window of the dim living room, scanning the street. He was wearing latex gloves and a stocking cap. Lassiter had been impressed with the fancy apartment; the opulence worked to his advantage. Having so many nice things in an unalarmed house? Just the place for a robbery. He’d decided that Paul couldn’t be a victim of the Upper East Side Slasher, because then Carrera and the other investigators would know immediately that Paul’s advice—which might lead to Lassiter—was accurate. No, the crime would be your basic break-in, the burglar surprised when Paul stepped into his apartment.

His plan was that if Carrera returned with Paul, he’d slip out the back and wait another day. But if the young man returned alone, Lassiter would throw him to the floor and pistol-whip him. Blind him, shatter his jaw. Put him in the hospital for months and render him useless as a witness. Murder ups the ante exponentially in a crime. Police frankly don’t care so much about a beating, however serious.

Jesus, look at all the books . . .
Lassiter almost felt bad thinking that blinding him would pretty much finish his days as a reader.

But it’s your own fault, Mr. Meddling Winslow.

A half hour later, Lassiter tensed. Yes, there was Paul returning from the direction of Central Park. Alone. The cop wasn’t with him. When the young man stepped into a quick mart, Lassiter drew his gun and hid behind the front door, which opened onto the hallway of Paul’s building.

Three minutes passed, then four. He was awaiting the key in the latch, but instead heard the sound of the buzzer.

Lassiter cautiously peered through the eyehole. He was looking at a fisheye image of a pizza delivery man, holding a box.

He nearly laughed. But then wondered,
Wait, how had the guy gotten through the front security door without hitting the intercom from outside?

Oh, shit. Because Paul had given him the key and told him to ring the buzzer, to draw Lassiter’s attention to the front door. Which meant—

The gun muzzle touched the back of Lassiter’s neck, the metal cold. Painfully cold.

“Settle down there, Lassiter,” Paul said in a calm voice. “Drop the gun, put your hands behind your back.”

Lassiter sighed. The pistol bounced noisily on the wood floor.

In an instant, expertly, Paul had cuffed his hands and picked up the gun. Lassiter turned and grimaced. The young man did not, it turned out, have a weapon of his own. He’d bluffed, using a piece of pipe. Paul nodded to the door and said, “I gave him the key outside and told him to let himself in the front door. If you were wondering. But you probably figured.”

The buzzer rang again and Paul eased Lassiter onto the floor.

“Don’t move. All right?” The young man checked the gun to see that it was loaded and ready to fire, which it was. He aimed at Lassiter’s head.

“Yes. Right. I won’t.”

Paul pocketed the gun and turned the apartment lights on. He stepped to the door, opened it.

He took the pizza box and paid. He must’ve left a real nice tip; the young man said an effusive, “Well, thank you, sir! You have a good night! Wow, thanks!”

Paul didn’t care much for pizza. Or for any food really. He’d only placed the order to distract Lassiter and give him the chance to sneak in the back door. He did, however, have a thirst. “I could use a glass of milk. You?”