The Celtic Cross Killer Page 10

  ‘It’s reassuring to see you’re up to speed with the details of the case. The killer ought to be quaking in his boots. This case is our number one priority. Hand pick your team, Michael. I would suggest you pull together a small but focused team: yourself, Abrahamsen plus two other senior detectives and their partners. I want the killer behind bars as a matter of some urgency. Relaunch the investigation into the previous murder. Add impetus. I cannot have the entire Italian and Hispanic communities of Brooklyn afraid to go out at night. To set the tone, I suggest you arrange a full team briefing at 11:00 a.m. tomorrow morning. Set up an incident room. I’ll lead the briefing. I want everybody there. No excuses.’

  With that, Johnson dismissed Casey and buzzed his secretary. ‘Crystal, be so kind as to bring me two aspirin. I can feel a migraine coming on.’

  48

  Chief Johnson strode into the boisterous incident room. He cleared his throat, boomed, ‘Good morning, everyone.’ He wore a sharp-pressed uniform. Rays of sunlight glinted from the shiny silver buttons of his black tunic. ‘I’ll keep this brief. We must locate and apprehend the so-called Celtic Cross Killer as soon as humanly possible. Detective Casey has selected each one of you because you’re the best available. This is your opportunity to shine—to prove your capabilities. I demand results. Not in a year, not in six months, but within the shortest possible timeframe. I’ve briefed Mayor Giovanni about the killer’s modus operandi. The press knows nothing of the signature. It must stay that way. We must not encourage copycats. Information such as this has a nasty habit of getting into the public domain. If anyone divulges confidential information to the press, there will be severe consequences. The Mayor—as do I—expects a quick and complete resolution of the case. We cannot tolerate a large section of the community living under the shadow of fear. Casey, I expect one hundred and fifty percent commitment. The killer has struck twice, already. It’s highly probable he’ll kill again. I’ll reward you only for results.’ Johnson scanned the room for dissent. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, Chief,’ replied the room, in near perfect unison, with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

  ‘That’s all from me for now. Thank you, Detective Casey. I’ll observe from the periphery.’

  * * *

  For the next hour, Casey outlined the details of the two murders. He described the victimology, timings, dates and locations for each murder. He described the killer’s modus operandi. Noted that the killer appeared to be forensically aware. Pausing, he directed the assembled officers to maps and photographs pinned around the room. In particular, he asked everyone to study the photographs of the bloody signature—the Celtic cross incisions cut deep into the victims’ backs. Officers scribbled notes capturing information or perceived salient points. Johnson watched with sullen detachment. Studied the reaction to Casey’s words. Found himself disappointed by the lack of interaction from the assembled team.

  ‘So, team, there you have it. Don’t worry if you didn’t capture details. That was a quick summary. I’ll brief each and every one of you, personally. I’ll assign everyone key tasks and responsibilities. I propose that we meet at 6:00 p.m. sharp every evening for a collective debrief and reassignment of tasks for the following day. Questions?’

  Abrahamsen raised a hand. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can we take it that Pecarro is no longer involved in the case? He did after all, lead the first murder investigation.’

  ‘I’ll answer that Detective Casey, if I may,’ interjected Johnson, clearing his throat. ‘Yesterday, I accepted Detective Pecarro’s resignation. He is now, and for the foreseeable future, on garden leave. For personal reasons, Pecarro has decided that his future lies outside of the Department. Therefore, he will have no further involvement in this, or any other NYPD investigations. My door is always open should anyone wish to discuss this matter further. Can we get back to the important task in hand, the timely detention of the perpetrator… Casey, I want daily reports. Keep them brief. A close of business email will suffice; no later than 6:30 p.m. each evening,’ added Johnson, turning to leave.

  49

  As Johnson left, Casey stepped towards the group with a wry smile.

  ‘Time we got down to business. Abrahamsen, organise coffee,’ said Casey.

  ‘Sure thing, boss,’ Abrahamsen said.

  Casey spun his gaze to criminal psychologist Gerard Tooley. ‘Is that okay with you, Tooley?’

  Tooley was famous throughout the department for his irregular working practices and unorthodox, often hilarious outbursts. He’d found celebrity leading the successful manhunt for the notorious ‘Ma’s Best’ baby food extortionist. Before his involvement, it had been a failing investigation—an investigation led by Antonio Pecarro.

  ‘Fine. Only make sure mine is Columbian. And full fat. I can’t abide that decaffeinated garbage they pass off as coffee nowadays,’ said Tooley, gazing out of the window at a jet stream degrading high in the stratosphere. At his side sat forensic scientists Imelda Thompson, MD, and her assistant Thelma Ryan, MD. The two women cast furtive glances at one another.

  Casey’s new team included a criminal psychologist and specialists in forensic science. It was a difficult case. Pecarro was a good friend, yet he’d failed to apprehend the killer first time around. That fact, along with Johnson’s unspoken agenda had pushed Pecarro over the edge. Casey understood from the outset he would need a defendable strategy should the investigation come to nothing. It was a distinct possibility given the lack of witnesses, the forensic awareness displayed by the killer, and the lack of forensic evidence.

  Imelda Thompson raised her hand. ‘Thank you for the briefing, Detective Casey. If you wouldn’t mind, I’ll bring Thelma up to speed from a scientific perspective, outside of the meeting. As usual, I intend to produce a detailed forensic case report highlighting any correlation between the two killings. The report will incorporate the outcomes of both autopsies. You’ll have it by the end of the week. I consider this approach is an effective and pragmatic use of our time. Would you agree?’ said Thompson.

  Casey appreciated her need for quality lab time and quiet reflection.

  ‘Whatever is best for you, Imelda. Just keep in contact. Let me know ASAP if you turn up anything interesting. Okay?’ said Casey.

  ‘Okay,’ said Thompson. The two women collected their possessions and stepped towards the door. Tooley leaned across the table and collected a photograph of the bloody remains of Franco Ricci.

  Thompson commented, ‘Dreadful, Detective Tooley. Just dreadful!’

  Tooley sat back. An indignant injured expression arrived on his face. ‘I’m not all that bad, Doctor. For a man of my age, I try my best,’ said Tooley with strained humour.

  ‘You’re incorrigible, Gerard. You do know that don’t you?’ said Thompson.

  ‘That’s why I’m so loveable.’

  Casey glared at Tooley and Thompson. ‘Enough of the banter. Finish your coffee. It’s time we introduced, Tooley, to the crime scenes.’

  ‘Yeah, good idea,’ said Tooley. ‘Before we do…’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘May I have a copy of these two photographs? I’m fascinated by the visual similarity of the wounds,’ said Tooley, selecting two almost identical images of the wounds across the victim’s backs. ‘They’re fascinating. They provide useful insight into the killer’s psyche.’

  Abrahamsen collected the photographs. ‘I’ll meet you both in the basement in ten minutes. Photocopies won’t take long,’ he said, taking the initiative.

  ‘Thanks. Don’t rush them. Take your time. Quality over expediency. Isn’t that right, Michael,’ said Tooley, fully aware that his comment was contradictory to Chief Johnson’s.

  ‘If you say so, Gerard, if you say so…’

  50

  ‘Detective Tooley, the photographs you requested,’ said Abrahamsen, passing the copies to Tooley, who’d made a beeline for the front passenger seat of the Ford sedan.

  ‘E
h, kid, name’s Gerard. Why don’t you drop the formality? Call me by my first name, and we’ll get along just fine,’ replied Tooley, accepting the photographs. ‘Thank you.’

  Abrahamsen glanced into the rear-view mirror and witnessed Casey’s pained expression.

  ‘What do you think? The mark—the cross—what does it signify?’ asked Casey.

  Tooley ran a hand over the grey stubble covering his chin. ‘No point deluding ourselves, it’s a Celtic cross all right. Even inverted it couldn’t be anything else. First thoughts are … we’re dealing with “Mick versus spic vendetta.” Excuse my language. Political correctness, I’m delighted to say, has passed me by.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I do. It’s the obvious explanation. Nine times from ten the obvious explanation is the correct one,’ replied Tooley, lighting a cigarette, pushing the spent match into the overflowing ashtray, brushing ash residue from green moleskin trousers. He continued, ‘By applying profiling techniques, it’s possible to determine the compelling psychology driving the offender, come up with a likely age, sex, status, potential job role, and narrow down where he, or she, might live. Profiling is an effective tool. With luck, we’ll identify the killer before he kills again. I think it’s probable we’re looking at the actions of a male given the physicality of the attacks.’

  ‘He’ll kill again?’ said Casey.

  ‘I believe he will, yes. He’s compelled to act. It’s a compulsion. Most probably, he will be of Irish descent. He’ll live within the kill zone. Hold a grudge against people of Italian descent. Bullied at a young age, maybe still is by a superior of Italian descent at work. He likes a drink. The vomit at the scene suggests as much,’ Tooley studied the crime scene photographs. Rubbed grey stubble.

  ‘You can hypothesise all that from studying photographs?’ said Abrahamsen.

  ‘Yes, given the severity of the murders, it’s clear he suffers from alcohol induced red mist. He loses control. He’s a loner. But will socialise with a wide circle of acquaintances—not real friends—think of them as drinking props. He’ll frequent a particular bar for a time, then move on when he gets bored. The bad news is he will take some finding, given that most males of Irish descent I’ve ever come across, match the description. Present company excepted, of course. No insult meant, or intended. I take it you are of Irish descent, Detective Casey?’ said Tooley.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ said Casey. ‘I’m third generation and proud of it. That’s irrelevant. We’re here. This is the first crime scene.’

  Abrahamsen brought the Ford to a halt against the kerb at the end of the alley at the rear of Senior’s Fruit and Deli Store at the junction of 8th Avenue and 11th Street, in Brooklyn’s Prospect Park West district.

  51

  The three detectives stepped outside into sunlit brilliance. Meandered over to the alley. Entered the shadows. The all-pervasive odour of rotting vegetables ran to their nostrils, just as it had done the morning after the murder.

  ‘So, Casey, summarise the first murder. Details interest me,’ said Tooley.

  As his words faded, Tooley disappeared into the shadows.

  ‘The victim was Ernest Costa: a fifty-one-year-old male. He owned and ran a pizzeria. A shop assistant found him the morning after he was murdered, here, in this alley, laid face down in the snow. A cross cut across his back. According to the autopsy, he’d been dead for around six hours. The MD estimates he was murdered in the early hours. Vermin consumed the body post mortem. Rats gnawed away his face. Visual identification was impossible. The killer removed the victim’s clothes, either to clean up because he gotten himself injured in the skirmish, or he needed something to conceal the murder weapon. The victim died from stab wounds. Lungs punctured. Throat cut left to right,’ said Casey, tracing the ground with a pointed finger as he recounted the gruesome events. ‘The killer is most likely right-handed. Forensics recovered the imprint of a size nine shoe, a significant quantity of vomit and a small amount of blood not belonging to the victim. Analysis of the vomit showed traces of Irish stout and a small quantity of blood. Forensics confirm the killer is blood group O positive.’ Casey peered into the darkness. ‘You there, Tooley?’ Only the glow of a cigarette marked Tooley’s location.

  ‘I’m here. Continue. And progress to date?’ Tooley rasped.

  ‘We’ve conducted extensive interviews with the owners and staff of every Irish bar and club in Brooklyn and surrounding districts. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, have verifiable alibis for the night of the murder. We’ve accounted for every customer, including those with previous criminal records. So far there’s no blood match to known criminals. The Irish community is either closing ranks, or, they just don’t know the killer. Maybe, he’s a loner, or he lives outside the district,’ said Casey.

  ‘What about security cameras?’ Tooley called out from the alley.

  ‘We checked video surveillance at train and coach terminals. Nothing. Traffic cameras came up clean. We’ve interviewed all the local cab drivers and analysed their records. There’s no record of any business in the early hours within a two-mile vicinity of the crime scene. At our suggestion, the wife of the victim has put up a twenty-five thousand dollars reward for information leading to the arrest of the killer. As of this morning, we’ve had the usual selection of deadbeats on the make.’ Casey stuffed his hands deep in to his pockets and huffed. ‘Come out, Tooley, it’s unnerving speaking to a dark alley,’ he said, nonplussed by Tooley’s unusual behaviour.

  Tooley stepped into the light, marched past the two bemused detectives, reached the end of the alley and glanced along the street.

  ‘Thanks for the synopsis. Appreciated. I think you’re right. The killer most probably lives in Brooklyn. A loner with a limited family circle. A manual worker. Maybe even, retired military. How distant is the other crime scene? I need to see it,’ said Tooley.

  ‘It’s a mile away that’s all. Abrahamsen, you drive,’ said Casey.

  ‘Did anyone consider Costa may have known his assailant? That he might be a regular customer at the pizzeria. There could have been a disagreement. Toppings, they can be emotional.’

  ‘None of his staff mentioned anything and since we’ve no physical description to go on—other than a size nine shoe—that line of enquiry lead us nowhere. Costa ran a very successful business. We analysed his turnover. He had over a hundred regular customers. We’ll ask again. Maybe, just maybe, we missed something.’

  During the car journey to the Ricci crime scene—the alley at the rear of Ricci’s apartment block—Casey considered Tooley. He could see a lot of Pecarro in Tooley. Tooley was a Pecarro unshackled. Despite his offhand manner and unorthodox approach, there was no getting away from the fact that Tooley got results.

  You either loved or loathed, Tooley.

  52

  ‘Tell me about the Ricci murder, Casey. Be brief,’ said Tooley.

  Casey considered his error in selecting Tooley. It wasn’t so much what he said, but how he said it, that was annoying.

  ‘Call me, Michael,’ said Casey, with a frown. ‘Gerard.’

  ‘Okay, Michael, in your own time,’ Tooley said, peering into the narrow alley, hands plunged into raincoat pockets, steeling himself against the chill east wind blowing in off the Bay.

  ‘The victim’s name is Franco Ricci. Married. Aged 55. Wife is Sophia. Their apartment overlooks the crime scene,’ said Casey, pointing up. ‘Mrs Ricci witnessed the killer leaving the alley from her kitchen window. It’s the second window on the third floor. See it?’

  ‘I do,’ said Tooley.

  ‘The victim was returning home from a college reunion. He was attacked from behind and pushed into the alley, overpowered, stabbed, then his throat was cut. Poor son of a bitch suffered massive blood loss. Jugular severed. Bled out in less than a minute. On a point of interest, the killer is adept at making the signature—the Celtic cross. Mrs Ricci estimates it took the killer only two minutes from when she heard the initial scuffle, to seeing him
running out of the alley.’

  ‘Maybe he’s practising in his spare time,’ Tooley interjected.

  Uncertain whether Tooley was a making a serious observation or being darkly humorous, Casey ignored the comment.

  ‘Mrs Ricci witnessed the killer cross the street and disappear into an alley. She couldn’t give us a detailed description of the man she saw. Forensics drew a blank. The killer removed his shirt, cut the cross and removed the murder weapon. Nothing of any forensic value was found at the scene. Franco Ricci was a well-respected and successful restaurant owner,’ said Casey. He paused, then continued, ‘Ricci chaired the local branch of Rotary International. Had no known enemies or financial problems. Underworld snouts confirm he had a “clean bill of health.” He paid his dues on time, every time, with no history of default. Mrs Ricci and a neighbour were first to arrive on the scene. Need to know anything else?’

  Tooley stood stock-still, lost in thought, seemingly oblivious to everyone around him. After a minute of silence, Tooley mumbled something under his breath.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Casey.

  ‘Sorry, I was talking to myself. I think there’s something shared.'

  ‘Shared?’

  ‘The killer, he isn’t the only link between the victims. There’s something else … something deeper… Solve the puzzle by establishing the motive and we’ll identify our killer. So far, we’ve two unrelated victims. I’m certain we’re dealing with one killer. Something links the victims, Casey.’ Tooley touched the reddish-brown stain, inspected the residue, and wiped the excess onto crumpled newspaper. Looked off into the distance. Entered a trance-like state.

  Abrahamsen searched Casey’s face, gauged his reaction to Tooley’s behaviour.