Chapter 20
Larry Pearsol completed the postmortem on Tatsuya Inagaki, the tourist from Tokyo whose lifeless form had been removed from the cockpit of the American fighter plane.
“Examination of the cephalic region reveals sharp force trauma resulting in a massive head wound, measuring seven-point-six-four centimeters to right parietal, causing fracture to the skull and bone splinters to penetrate the brain. Thirteen-point-two-centimeter linear penetration to the skin of the forehead noted. Irregular tearing of scalp…” said the ME, removing his surgical gloves. “Sure looks like the same handiwork that felled the last three victims, Lieutenant. But how would the killer pull it off with a twenty-four-hour police presence?”
“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”
Bill Heisek, Manhattan’s borough commander, had been hauled into the Mayor’s office along with Police Commissioner Brandon to explain why the officers of Midtown North looked upon these killings as a “Task Force thing.” One universal shortcoming of the department was that almost everyone was territorial. Where the hell were they while the killer struck and posed his victim? the Mayor wanted to know. Heisek was at a loss for an answer, much to the chagrin of Sully Reirdon and the commissioner. He could only assure both men that it would never happen again. It was a sure bet he’d make good on that promise, for if he didn’t, he’d be demoted to the rank of duty captain.
The Mayor was particularly perturbed because the press had trampled all over the police department. The Daily News headline read: NYPD CAUGHT NAPPING, while the Post ran with COPS BLIND TO LATEST SLAYING.
Driscoll, standing next to the corpse of victim number four, reflected on Pearsol’s findings. What am I missing? he pondered. And what’s with the scalping?
“I do have some good news,” said the ME. “I found some scrapings under the vic’s fingernails. Looks like maybe some skin with traces of blood. Could belong to your suspect. I’ll have the lab boys run the DNA and blood profiles right away.”
Driscoll nodded. The skin tracings and the blood meant this victim had a chance to fight back. With any luck, the next one might survive.
“Larry, what kind of psycho straps a Japanese tourist into the cockpit of an American fighter plane?” asked Driscoll, eyes fixed on Jasper Eliot’s eight-by-ten glossy displaying the newly found cadaver.
“Could it have something to do with Pearl Harbor? Maybe your perp lost a loved one and is seeking revenge?”
“But the other three appear to be random.”
The two men exchanged a puzzled look.
“Let’s see what we’ve got so far,” said Driscoll. “First, the hit on the German woman at the museum. Then Yen Chan, a Chinese male at Coney Island. Number three is Guenther Rubeleit, also from Germany. And now our Japanese friend here. One woman and three men. He, she, or they have crossed gender. That’s something your textbook serial killer doesn’t do. They usually target one or the other.”
“Your whacko is killing tourists and tourism at the same time.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Three of the four victims were discovered by children, weren’t they?”
“Aligante picked up on that. Although his murder sites are places where you’re likely to find kids, we haven’t ruled out there being some sort of correlation. Right now we’re thankful children aren’t his victims.”
“I’ll bet Reirdon’s thankful. I’m sure, sincerely. But the media would go ballistic if a child were killed. Every parent in the city, too.”
The Lieutenant groaned, reaching for his cell phone that was sounding in his pocket. “Driscoll, here.”
A booming voice echoed through the unit’s tiny earphone, causing Driscoll to nod at Pearsol. “Him,” he silently mouthed.
“That’s number four, John. I’m running out of patience.”
“Mr. Mayor, we’re doing all we can.”
“I just got off the phone with the Japanese embassy. They’re screaming bloody murder. According to them, the New York City Police Department has its head up its ass. And the family of the latest victim is suing the city for three hundred million dollars! They’ve been disgraced. The guy’s grandfather survived the Battle of Midway, for chrissake! Now he’s ready to commit hari-kari on his futon! He says it is the greatest dishonor of his life to have his grandson dumped in the cockpit of an American fighter plane. That was the plane that sunk three Japanese aircraft carriers in the South Pacific! And there’s more! Germany’s ambassador called me last night. He wants to know why New York is such an unruly town and why I haven’t caught the killer. You got an answer for him?”
“Mr. Mayor, I’m staring into the chalky white face of that Japanese grandson right now. The thought of his life being snuffed out by some crazed killer sickens me. We will put an end to these murders.” Driscoll lifted the cadaver’s right hand and examined the underside of the nails, where the skin scrapings had been collected. “I believe our perp is getting sloppy, Mr. Mayor. Mistakes usually spell end of story.”
“Soon, John. Make it soon. Like I said, I’m running out of patience.”
Chapter 21
Cassie and Angus were seated across from one another in the makeshift breakfast nook; Angus rearranged the letters in his Alpha-Bits, while his sister read about their murderous exploits heralded in the Post.
“You think they’re on to somethin’, calling us savages? Savages, Indians, Indians, Savages,” said Cassie.
A sly smile crept across her brother’s face. “Could be,” he said, an eyebrow raised.
Cassie rifled through the pages of the paper, stopping when she came to the editorials. “I’m thinkin’ of maybe writin’ to the editor. Tellin’ him and his goddamn writers our side of the story. Savages? Screw him!”
“It does piss you off, doesn’t it?” Angus leaned in, amused by his sister’s reaction.
“What?”
“Them callin’ us savages.”
“They should only know,” said Cassie.
“If they did, they’d be thanking us for riddin’ the world of scum. Take a look on Page Six.”
“What am I lookin’ for?” Her eyes scoured the page.
“The blonde cutie with the pouty lips.”
Cassie zeroed in on a two-by-four snapshot of Debra LaFave. “Who’s she?”
“Babe City!” Angus grabbed the paper from his sister’s hands. “Too bad it’s in black and white. She’s got blue eyes ya could swim in.”
Men!
Angus cleared his throat and read from the article as though he were auditioning for a play.
“Debra Beasley Lafave, a former readin’ teacher at a Florida middle school, once charged with several counts of havin’ sex with a fourteen-year-old…” Angus shot his sister a grin. “And you thought female offenders were a rarity.”
“I never said they were rare. Just unusual.”
“Why couldn’t our pigeons look like that?” Angus’s eyes bored into those of the femme fatale.
“It’s a good thing they don’t. The tomahawk wouldn’t be the only bulge in your pocket.” Cassie swatted him on the side of the head and tore the paper from his hands. “Stay focused!”
“All work and no play…”
“To hell with play! Who’s next?”
“A Pakistani called. Very bad connection.” Angus put his thumb to his ear, finger to his mouth, and mimicked the caller. “‘Hello, Mr. Gus. My name is Abdur Rahim. I’m from Islamabad. I like your Web site. I’m in New York and have U.S. dollars.’” Angus held up a Post-it note displaying the caller’s number. The disposable cell phone rang. “Mmm…another lamb,” he said, answering it. After a series of “uh-huhs,” Angus jotted down a number, depressed the END button, and grinned at his sister. “That was Abigail from the good ole’ US of A. In town on business from California and said she could use some entertainment. Sounded more like she needed a fix. Maybe we oughta switch things round a little. Give the men in blue some domestic fieldwork. Whaddya think?”
Cassie looked like she was mulling it over.