The Caller (8 page)

‘
We’ll be back after the break with information on
how you can secure your home
.’

‘…
being dubbed The Caller
…’

‘
A detective who chose not to be named described the
scene as
…’

‘Fear, fear, fear,’ said Joe, turning the television off. Every day, articles in newspapers ran stories with headlines that screamed Deadly. Anger. Fear. Killer. Disease. Alert. Threat. These murders were not typical for New York. You were more likely
to be killed by someone you knew than by the stranger who had now been given the title The Caller.

‘I’m going to take a shower.’ Anna walked back into the room. She leaned over and kissed him.

‘OK.’

He grabbed a magazine from beside the sofa and started flicking through it. He could hear the water running upstairs. He wanted to walk up, open the door, slide in behind her and do something they hadn’t done for months. His patience was low. He felt bad. But really, he was angry. He threw down the magazine and turned the television back on.

Anna came down half an hour later. Joe didn’t bother to look up. When he did, she was leaning over the counter with her back to him, opening a bottle of red wine. She was wearing the tiniest black shorts, no top. Her shoes were high and black with skinny heels and red soles. She turned around. He couldn’t decide where to look. When he made it to her face, she held his gaze and walked slowly towards him.

Mary Burig stood in the doorway of the library with her smartphone in her hand, open on a drawing programme. With the stylus, she drew a rough sketch of the room, L-shaped because a small storage area had been built in the back right-hand corner. Bookshelves ran around all the walls of the library and in the left-hand corner, the top of the L, was a circle of six low-backed chairs in worn orange fabric. Mary used the eraser tool to take the chairs away. She drew them into the space right inside the door. Then she put them back where they were, saving the drawing and putting the phone in her pocket. She walked over to the poetry section, pulled out a book and went straight to the page she had kept marked with a pink Post-It.

Stan Frayte opened the door and stuck his head in. ‘Hey, cut out the noise in there,’ he said, winking. ‘I got work to do.’

Mary looked up and smiled. ‘Come here for a second,’ she said. ‘Listen to this. “No night is endless, dark and bleak / When in the rising dawn, a weakened light / Erupts to blaze and fire / And guide me past a spirit tired / By heavy hopes and wingless dreams / To find another future’s gleam / And when I search the brightness’ source / I find your heart, a blinding force.”’

‘I don’t think the source of light was a heart, Mary. It was, like, a bulb, a lamp, something an electrician worked real hard at.’

‘Maybe it was,’ said Mary, smiling.

‘No maybe about it.’ Stan walked into the room, pulling a measuring tape from his utility belt. ‘It’s so great that you’ve got a library in the building.’

‘I know,’ said Mary. ‘But not a lot of people use it.’

‘That’s a real shame,’ he said.

‘I mean, I don’t want you to think all your work will be for no-one.’

‘If it’ll make one person happy,’ said Stan. ‘That’s good enough for me.’

‘Thanks so much,’ she said.

‘So what would you like?’

‘Well, this corner,’ she said, ‘where all the chairs are, there are no outlets. I think it would be nice to have some desk lamps here instead for night time, because,’ she pointed to a fluorescent strip-light on the ceiling, ‘that is really glarey. It hurts my eyes.’

‘OK,’ said Stan.

‘And I think that’s everything for the electrical department.’

He laughed. ‘Well, what about some lighting in the shelves? At the top? That could be neat.’

‘That would be great,’ said Mary. ‘I’d love that. If it’s not too expensive.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Stan. ‘Also, the walls could use some paint.’ He nodded. ‘I can do that at the weekend. Anything else?’

‘Thank you so much. Magda’s going to get some magazine racks. Most people who come in here read magazines. I prefer poetry.’

‘I don’t know a lot about poetry,’ said Stan, ‘but I like the idea of it. I like that you have to say everything in as few words as possible.’

David Burig parked outside the apartment block in his black Mercedes. He grabbed a gift bag from the passenger seat and got out. June was on the reception desk and waved him through. He took the elevator to Mary’s floor and knocked on the door.

‘Hello, there,’ he said. He handed her the bag.

‘What is this for?’ she said, smiling.

‘For the hell of it,’ he said.

‘OK. Can I open it?’

‘No. Save it for Christmas.’

Her face fell. David rolled his eyes. ‘Of course you can open it.’

‘Yay!’ She ran to the sofa and opened the bag.

He closed the door behind them and waited for a reaction.

‘Ohmygod! This is so cool,’ said Mary. ‘So cool.’

‘Do you like it?’

‘No.’

‘Very funny.’

Mary was holding a huge grey scrapbook with ‘There’s Something About Mary’ written across the top. On the first page was a photo of her – age two – almost in silhouette with a random streak of light covering her head. The caption read: Why Mom Should Never Have Taken Photos. Mary laughed out loud. The next photo was of Mary holding up the winning end of a giant Christmas cracker with David beside her, his face frozen in the shock of defeat. The caption read: Traumas of David’s Young Life: Part I.

‘Is there a Part II?’ said Mary.

‘See page twenty-five,’ he said.

‘Oh God,’ said Mary when she found it. Sellotaped to the page was a Motley Crue/Whitesnake ticket stub from Madison Square Garden 1987. And beside it, a photo of a tanned and sweaty David in tight jeans and vest top with long shaggy hair and bandana, giving the peace sign.

‘It needs no caption,’ said David, shaking his head.

Mary laughed until she cried. ‘Oh my God! Do you remember meeting that girl afterwards and she said, “What’s your name?” and you said, “David” and she said, “David who?” and you said, “David. Lee. Roth, baby.”’

‘I did not!’

‘You did, you loser.’

‘Hmm. Yeah, I may have filed that memory under “Destroy. Destroy.”’

‘What is it about teenage years that no matter who you are, you look back and are like, “What the hell was I thinking?”’

‘It’s so that no matter who we end up being, we can never take ourselves too seriously. Because at one point, we were all proud to wear snow-wash.’

Mary glanced down at her jeans.

David laughed. ‘Like, I’d ever let you do that again. Anyway, look, I’d love to stay and talk, but I’ve got to get back to the office. I just wanted to drop that in.’

‘It’s the best present ever. Thank you.’

‘Wait ‘til you see the secret compartment at the back.’

He hugged her and left before she had a chance to open it. He jogged down the hallway, nodding at Stan Frayte as he passed.

Mary turned to the back of the album and to a flap in the cover with a loop of red ribbon. She pulled it and it opened a little door. Inside was a
disk:
Rebecca
on DVD with a note saying, ‘Can’t believe you’ve never seen this. Awesome! XX’.

Magda Oleszak rode the elevator to the second floor. She stepped out and was hit with the grinding stop/start sound of drilling from down the corridor. She took a right then a left, away from the noise and towards Mary’s apartment at the end. As she got closer, she sensed something wasn’t quite right. She walked a little faster, holding tight to the shoulder bag that banged off her hip. When she reached the door, it was open. Stan turned to her, his face stricken. Mary was lying on the floor at his feet.

Magda rushed to Mary’s side. ‘What the—’

‘I don’t know! I have no idea.’ Stan’s voice was pitched high. He wiped the sweat from his face with a stained yellow cloth from his belt, his eyes moving everywhere around the room.

‘Did you hurt her?’ said Magda.

‘What? No!’

Magda shook Mary’s shoulders gently, looking up at Stan. ‘What were you doing in Mary’s apartment?’

‘Coming to show her paint samples. That’s all.’

‘Did you call the doctor?’

‘I just got here! Right before you walked in.’

‘What’s all this?’ she said, looking at the floor around the body. ‘Did she do this while you were here?’

Stanley shook his head. ‘I don’t know anything about this.’

‘Call the doctor,’ she snapped. ‘And get security up here.’

Mary’s eyes flickered open.

Anna sat at the kitchen table in a long black silk robe. Her eyes sparkled, she was smiling, she was eating pancakes. It reminded Joe about how everything used to be.

‘This is great,’ he said. ‘Seeing you sitting there, eating pancakes.’ He walked over to her, took her two small hands in his and pulled her towards him. He hugged her tight.

‘You’re a midget,’ he said, stroking her hair, kissing the top of her head. They stayed there for minutes, quietly, holding on.

‘How does he kill them?’ said Anna.

Joe pulled away slowly. ‘What?’

She stayed with her head against his chest. ‘The Caller guy,’ she said. ‘I saw the news.’

Joe tilted her chin up, but still couldn’t get eye contact. ‘Are you for real?’

She nodded.

‘I’m not going to go there with you,’ he said.

Anna finally looked up. ‘Please.’

Joe put a hand on her chest and felt her heart beat rocketing underneath it.

‘This is not good, you thinking this way.’

‘What way?’

Joe’s expression was patient. ‘Come on,’ he said.

‘But what if it’s …’

‘Sweetheart, I’ve been to the crime scenes. This is not Rawlins. This is no-one that has anything to do with Rawlins. This is a different guy. Trust me enough that you don’t need to know the details.’

‘But if I knew the—’

Joe shook his head. ‘You’re so beautiful. I look at you and it breaks my heart that inside that head … there is so much pain and fear.’

Tears welled in her eyes.

‘I know what that feels like,’ said Joe. ‘But I’m used to it. So you’re going to have to trust me. I’m not about to come home with all the details and add more to what you’ve already got going on.’

‘Is it worse than what the papers—’

He smiled with sad eyes. ‘You know the answer to that.’

‘You can’t filter the world for me forever, you know.’

‘Yeah?’ said Joe. ‘Well, I’ll die trying.’

Anna went to the worktop and took a tissue to wipe her eyes.

‘Do you want to go on a date tonight?’ she said.

‘What?’ said Joe. ‘Are you serious?’

She laughed. ‘That’s so depressing.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ he said. ‘I’m just—’

‘Yes or no: do you want to go out?’

‘Yes,’ said Joe. ‘I’d love to.’

‘Then we will.’

‘Where would you like to go?’

‘Cardino’s.’

He smiled. ‘Cardino’s? I don’t know. I think I got some lightweight French girl drunk there once and she ended up having to marry me. “
I am a
French woman! We do not drink beer like this!
”’

‘That is the worst accent.’ She smiled, about to walk away, but her robe slid wide open and off her shoulders. She slowly shook her head. Joe dangled the black silk belt high in his hand.

‘You gotta be quick,’ he said.

Artie Blackwell was the shortest journalist in the five boroughs. He had short, spiky grey hair and a perfect, tight grey beard, yet always managed to look unwashed. When he walked, he leaned left, weighed down by one of a number of free, branded shoulder bags. He was hovering outside the Manhattan North building, sweating in the early morning sun.

‘Woo, Case Detective Lucchesi. Someone’s being good to you.’

‘Artie,’ said Joe, glancing down. ‘Pleasure.’

Artie snorted. ‘You got to admit – it’s an odd choice, all things considered, what with the shooting and the whole Rawlins fiasco.’

‘You know the deal,’ said Joe, smiling and calm. ‘I caught the Lowry case. My partner caught the Aneto case. Oh, and I was cleared of any wrongdoing in the Riggs shooting, so here I am. And here we are, Artie.’

‘Good to see you again,’ said Artie, tipping his dark blue fisherman’s hat.

A breeze rose from nowhere and Joe was forced to turn away; Artie always smelled of his last meal. Sadly for Joe, none of them ever had been.

‘Creepy name too: The Caller …’ said Artie. ‘Does the perp make a phone call to his victims before he shows up?’

Joe rolled his eyes. ‘No. Under the bright lights of the cameras, the Chief got flustered and said “caller”. And some … journalist thought it sounded creepy enough to freak the public out. I could think of a lot of other names for the guy …’

‘Like what?’ said Artie.

Joe stopped. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘You got anything for me?’ said Artie.

‘Unless you want to do a nice three-way with the DCPI, no.’

‘I could do that.’

‘Come on, Artie. You know I’m not in a position to say shit. OK? Now, I’m coming into work a very contented man this morning, so please …’

‘Just something that no-one else’s got. Throw me something.’

Joe looked at him like he had lost his mind. ‘Why are you even here?’

Artie shrugged. ‘I was in the neighborhood.’

Joe laughed.

Artie had to jog to keep up with him. ‘Have you made any further progress on the Duke Rawlins investigation?’

Joe spun around. ‘That’s not an investigation I’m directly involved in,’ he said. ‘And you know that, you—’ He paused. ‘Go talk to the FBI. Just go, find out who the hell you’re supposed to talk to. Goodbye, Artie.’

Joe sat at his desk with Aneto’s file in front of him. He spread out the photos of the hallway and the close-ups of the blood stains, looking for anything about him that made him the reason why the killer started here. There were no guarantees he was the first victim, but it was unlikely he wasn’t. All the squads knew to look through their files for anything similar – nothing had come up – and the chances of a body lying undiscovered in a New York apartment for over a year were non-existent. He went slowly through the images. He had seen them before, but he was looking for another angle and he had a fresh cup of coffee to back him up. Six photographs in, he stopped.

It was taken in the hallway – a close-up of Aneto’s torso, nothing remarkable, except for a dark spot at the edge of the photo. He looked closer. If it was what he thought it was, it was totally out of place. He pulled a magnifying glass out of his drawer, looking around quickly before he held it over the photo. He was right. It was a dermestid beetle. Joe had spent two years studying entomology before he dropped out to become a cop. His father was a professor in Forensic Entomology.

Joe turned back to the photo. Dermestid beetles weren’t there for William Aneto – nothing on his body would interest them yet. They came to corpses at the end. After the flies had arrived to lay their eggs and the maggots had crawled off into the dark to pupate, dermestids showed up to feed on the dried tissue. William Aneto didn’t have any dried tissue. The body was found within twenty-four hours of his murder with eight hours of night time in between when insects would not have been active.

Joe laid out all the photos of William Aneto’s apartment looking for anything else that could have attracted a dermestid beetle – they also fed on hide and hair. A bad taxidermy job could have brought them out, even the horse hair from a violin bow. Joe studied the apartment, but it was modern and minimalist, lots of plastic and chrome and smooth shiny new surfaces. There was no
mounted stag’s head on the wall near the body, nothing that Joe could find that would account for the dermestid beetle. The only thing he could think of was another dead creature in the house, a mouse or a rat. But then there would have been more beetles and there were none in any of the other photos.

‘You’ve got mail,’ said Rencher, holding up a white envelope with Joe’s name on it.

Joe looked at the envelope. ‘He strikes again.’ He pulled a pair of gloves out of the drawer and put them on. He sliced the letter open: more pages, squashed into an envelope made to take only two or three. Rencher hovered by the desk.

‘I’ll let you know,’ said Joe, tilting his head towards Rencher’s desk.

Rencher shrugged and walked away. Joe walked over to the copier, made a copy of the letter for everyone, then put the original in an envelope. They hadn’t got prints from the first one, so he was hoping for better luck this time. He sat down with his copy and read through it, marking parts as he went along. When he had read it three times, he called everyone over.

‘Reminds me of school,’ said Rencher. ‘Getting a letter was the highlight of your day.’

‘You went to boarding school?’ said Martinez.

‘Yes I did,’ said Rencher. ‘Got a problem with that?’

‘Relax,’ said Martinez.

‘OK,’ said Joe. ‘Letter two, same kind of envelope, same writing, mailed around the same time from the same post office. Similar kind of shit: talking about going to some gallery, going to the park, being spiritual, baking cookies in someone else’s kitchen – whatever the hell that’s about.’ He flicked through more pages. ‘There’s a lot of stuff about forgiveness here and redemption. And good and evil. And then we come to the case: “
It
strikes a chord with me. I’m not sure why. I follow The
Caller investigation with interest when I get the chance
.” Then: “
But I know that somewhere inside me I, personally,
wish you luck
.” And it’s signed off – “
God be
with you. May angels rest on your shoulders and lighten
your load
.”’ Joe shrugged.

‘And can you feel God with you right now?’ said Martinez.

‘I look at you guys and I think “Jesus Christ”. Does that count?’ said Joe.

Rencher shrugged. ‘“
I wish you luck
” because I want to stop, maybe? Is this the perp wanting to get caught?’

‘I don’t think I could bear the cliché if it was,’ said Danny.

Joe laughed. ‘Nah. He’s been so careful all along.’

Rencher shrugged. ‘Well could it be the perp and he
doesn’t
want to get caught?’

‘Then why engage us at all?’ said Joe.

‘For a mind fuck,’ said Rencher.

‘To me,’ said Danny, ‘the letter reads like your
neighbor trying to give you some friendly advice

– the kind of advice that’s useless because really, you know he’s an EDP.’ ‘Your neighbor’s the one should be worried about living next door to an EDP,’ said Rencher. ‘I see where you’re coming from, Danny,’ said Joe. ‘“… somewhere inside me I,
personally
, wish you luck”. This could be someone who knows The Caller,’ said Rencher.

‘Or has witnessed the crime,’ said Bobby.

‘Or has been the victim of a crime,’ said Rencher.

‘Or has been a victim of The Caller,’ said Joe.

They looked at him. ‘Woo,’ said Danny.

‘It doesn’t sound like some sick twisted psycho,’ said Joe. ‘But I can’t make up my mind if it’s one of those harmless loser psychos who lives with Mom.’

‘Maybe the guy doesn’t know who or what he knows,’ said Bobby.

‘And maybe, just maybe …’ said Danny. ‘This is all just a load of bullshit.’

They stood in silence, their eyes moving between the letter and the photos still laid out on Joe’s desk.

Bobby spoke first. ‘We worked this case, don’t know if any you guys saw it – the mugger who was targeting those Columbia University girls? We got in touch with the papers, fed them some stuff and within, like, a week, we had our guy.’

‘No,’ said Joe. ‘I’m not going to do that. We don’t know enough about—’

‘Do you know the case I’m talking about?’

‘Yeah,’ said Joe, ‘but it doesn’t matter.’

‘What do you mean it doesn’t matter?’

‘Look, Bobby,’ said Joe. ‘How far into your investigation were you? Come on. What you were doing with the papers was after – what? – nine, ten attacks? You knew a lot about the perp. What are we? At the start of a
homicide
investigation, no witnesses, no nice descriptions, no suspect, nothing predictab—’

‘I still think he could—’

‘No,’ said Joe, too loud. ‘I’m not doing it.’

Cardino’s on Broome Street was small, loud and pumping out angry music. Anna was sitting in the corner in jeans, a black off-the-shoulder top and scuffed black ankle boots. Her hair was in a ponytail and she had dangly silver earrings on.

Joe was laughing as he walked over to her. She laughed too and kissed him on the lips. He guessed by her eyes she was about two glasses of wine down.

‘Is that what you were actually wearing?’ he said.

‘Nearly. The jeans and boots are. But I don’t think I can do these for much longer.’ She let the ponytail down and pulled off the clip-on earrings.

Joe looked around the bar. ‘All the girls here are going for the same look.’

‘Yeah – they’re about twenty years old. You get to do every look once,’ said Anna. ‘That’s the rule. Second time round, you’re always going to be too old.’

‘I never knew that,’ said Joe.

She nodded. ‘It’s true.’

‘Does that mean I never get to wear skinny jeans ever again?’ said Joe.

‘Who said you could the first time?’

‘My physique.’

‘Oh my God. Are we back in time? Can I change my mind?’

They laughed. But Joe got a flash of something that made him wonder how Anna’s life would have turned out if she had walked away from their first date.

‘Let me go to the bar,’ he said. ‘You want some Coors for old times’ sake?’

‘You know what happened that night—’

‘Exactly.’

‘Sauvignon Blanc, please.’

She watched him walk away. The man beside her got up and left his newspaper behind. Anna waited a few minutes for Joe, then dragged the paper across the seat towards her and started reading. She jumped as Joe put the drinks down on the table.

‘Am I boring you?’

‘Never,’ she said, folding the newspaper and pushing it back where she got it. ‘Thanks.’

‘Cheers, sweetheart. Thank you for going on a date with me.’

‘My pleasure,’ she said.

‘And thanks for putting out on the first night.’

Shaun Lucchesi sat at his desk, scrolling through his cell phone. His myspace profile was open on the laptop in front of him. Behind the Explorer window was iTunes, behind that was Skype and hidden at the very back was a blank Word doc he had opened an hour earlier to write an English paper. His phone rang and Tara’s face filled the screen. He turned the sound off on the computer.

‘Hey, Tara.’

He clicked onto iTunes as he listened to her. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Just English. And I have not written one word. I can’t even remember the title.’