The Celtic Cross Killer Page 6

  Pecarro waited for the assembled team to assimilate the content of the autopsy. Gave them an opportunity to understand the severity of the homicide. Ten minutes passed. The room fell silent.

  ‘In summary, it’s clear we’re dealing with a psychopath. It’s highly probable he or she will be a recidivist. They will kill again. The cutting signature suggests our killer is of Irish heritage. Michael, would you agree?' Pecarro directed his question to his partner Michael Casey; the only person in the room with Irish ancestry.

  Casey shrugged, said, ‘I take it you’re referring to the Celtic cross, boss?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘It’s an interesting theory. One worth pursuing. It’s possible the killer is trying to throw us off the scent? Maybes, he’s trying to gain time? Time to kill again… Whatever is going on in the sad son of a bitches mind, it’s a clever tactic.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I think we ought to keep an open mind. Consider every possibility.’ Casey scanned the room for understanding.

  Pecarro nodded. ‘Yeah, you’re right. We ought to keep an open mind. We’ll start with the obvious and take it from there. I want you out there on the streets making inquiries in Irish owned stores, restaurants, delis and taxi firms. Anything or anybody with an Irish connection. Start with your regular snouts. Find out the word on the street. If you come up with anything plausible—anything at all—I want you to call me on my cell straight away. Don’t mention the cutting—the cross—to anyone. The last thing we need is a copycat. Casey and I, we’ll visit Irish bars. Michael, you want to accompany me on a pub crawl, Irish bars only?’

  An audible groan of derision and a smattering of laughter rose around the room.

  Pecarro gave a wry smile. ‘Team, I know it’s a tough gig, but someone’s got to do it.’

  29

  Requisitioning a pool car delayed Pecarro and Casey. Most of the unmarked cars had been allocated to the continuing operation in Borough Park. The operation there would take a further week to conclude.

  ‘You sure this piece of shit will get us were we need to be, Fats?’ Casey quizzed the pound mechanic, an African American nicknamed Fats on account of his uncanny resemblance to the legendary recording artist, Fats Domino.

  ‘Eh, take it easy. They sure don’t make them like this no more,’ Fats said, referring to the dirty beige, 1980 Mercury Grand Marquis four-door sedan favoured by narcotics for street work and undercover busts. ‘Purrs like a kitten and goes like a honey. I keep her serviced regular. Just like my Imelda. That way I knows I ain’t getting no trouble,’ said Fats, chuckling.

  ‘I’ll take your word for it. You’ll have it back by five. I’ve a terrible feeling today is going be a long one. That all right?’

  ‘Fine by me. Just don’t scratch the paintwork. Spent hours buffing her up, I did.’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Casey, sliding into the driver’s seat.

  Piloting the Mercury, Casey exited the basement compound and swung right in front of the precinct. Pecarro clutched a street map marked with the locations and zip codes of every Irish bar within a ten-block radius of the murder location.

  Pecarro slid into the passenger seat.

  ‘We won’t need that, Tony,’ said Casey, nodding to the map placed on the sun-faded dashboard.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I know every Irish bar in Brooklyn, that’s why.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘I do,’ said Casey, throwing the map into the rear. ‘It’s a family tradition. One that started with my father. My brother, he hones his drinking skills most nights in those same bars. We’ll go round anti-clockwise.’

  The low winter sun broke through the clouds. Blinding rays of golden sun blasted the Mercury’s windshield.

  ‘Okay. I’m in your hands,’ Pecarro said.

  ‘How about we try Delaney’s first? They serve a mean breakfast. I’ll treat you to one,’ said Casey.

  ‘You’re on. I could eat a horse,’ said Pecarro, shuffling into the passenger seat.

  30

  Lost in thought, the pair travelled in silence. The car approached a stoplight.

  ‘A penny for them, Michael,’ said Pecarro, as Casey stamped on the brakes at a late-changing signal, skidding the Mercury to a halt.

  ‘I was thinking about the victim. About his life being snuffed out. The guy probably had a wife, kids and family. The terrible impact on their lives… Sometimes, Tony, this job … it gets to me,’ said Casey.

  ‘I know. All these years on the streets and I will never understand what drives someone to cold-blooded murder,’ said Pecarro. ‘Snuffing out human life in rat-infested alley is insane.’

  The light blinked green. Casey gunned the throttle. Pecarro said, ‘What do you think the cross means? Sorry if you thought I put you on-the-spot back then. Given your heritage, I thought you might be able to provide an insight into the killer.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. You’re right, the cutting, it sure does resemble a Celtic cross. I remember years ago my mother gave me a family heirloom. It was a silver Celtic cross pendant on a chain, passed down to her by my grandfather. His name was Michael, too. I’m named after him. She told me it belonged to one of my grandfather’s brothers. He’d died young. It was real nice. Beautiful even. I still have it. You know the history of the Celtic cross?’

  ‘Can’t say that I do, no.’

  ‘Legend has it that Saint Patrick was converting pagans within sight of a sacred stone. He noticed a stone carved into a circle. He made the mark of a Latin cross through the circle and blessed the stone. It was the first Celtic cross. I don’t know if it’s true or a fable. Irrespective, it’s a nice story. It’s ironic that the killer believes it’s an appropriate symbol to use as his signature,’ said Casey.

  ‘I agree,’ said Pecarro, also raised a Catholic, though lapsed.

  Casey leaned forward, pointed out through the windshield. ‘I’ll pull in next to those green railings. Delaney’s is underneath.’

  The stone steps leading down to Delaney’s Basement Bar were treacherous. The feet of hundreds of thousands of patrons had worn smooth the leading edge of each riser. The wide treads gleamed under the low winter sun.

  ‘Be careful,’ cautioned Casey, ‘there might be ice.’

  Like many bars during the economic downturn, Delaney’s had extended their food offer to include breakfast. Whilst the lucrative weekend drinking trade remained buoyant, trade during the week was almost non-existent.

  Pecarro and Casey entered; selected a booth. Pecarro accepted Casey’s recommendation.

  ‘You boys want breakfast?’ asked the waitress, a buxom, dark-haired, ivory-skinned girl in her twenties.

  ‘We do. Two large Irish breakfasts. Eggs done over easy. Coffee and toast,’ said Casey. ‘You sure you’re okay with that?’

  ‘I’m in your hands,’ said Pecarro. ‘Sounds great to me.’

  The owner had furnished Delaney’s Basement Bar in an antique Victoriana Irish, meets Cheers Bar style. The main bar spanned the entire back wall. Above the bar, frosted glass shelves groaned with glasses of every size. On the back wall, stood a shelf with an extensive collection of whiskies. Branded mirror signs on the wall proclaimed, ‘Guinness is Good for You!’ ‘Jameson’s’ ‘Beamish’ ‘Murphy’s.’ The owner had decided against reproduction bric-à-brac; not a shillelagh or rusty bucket anywhere. Van Morrison’s ‘Brown-Eyed Girl,’ played low in the background.

  The two detectives demolished gargantuan breakfasts without speaking. Neither one had eaten since before the early morning rendezvous in a dingy Brooklyn alley.

  ‘What do you think?’ Asked Casey, sitting back.

  ‘Great. Just great,’ said Pecarro, burping and performing a circular rub over his stomach. ‘Filled a hole.’

  Both men laughed.

  ‘Excuse me, miss, is the owner around? Only, we’d like a word,’ called Pecarro, voice raised above the music.

  ‘Dermot is out back. Far as I know, he�
�s stocktaking. I’ll go see if he’s available. Who shall I say is demanding an audience?’

  ‘NYPD,’ said Pecarro, reaching into his pocket for his ringing cell phone.

  31

  ‘Pecarro,’ he said.

  ‘Boss, it’s Abrahamsen. I think we’ve identified our missing person. I’m pretty certain he’s our victim. This morning, 60th precinct took a call from a Mrs Rebecca Costa. Her husband, Ernest, didn’t return home from work last night. He called to say that he was leaving, but never arrived home. He runs a pizzeria. Journey takes ten minutes. Boss, this is the interesting part. His pizzeria is located on Union Street. He lives on Prospect Park West. His route takes him past the intersection of 8th Avenue and 11th Street. He would have arrived there around the time of the homicide,’ said Abrahamsen, unable to contain his excitement. He continued, ‘Boss, Mrs Costa, she says it’s completely out of character for him. Says he’s never late for anything. Mentioned…’

  Pecarro interjected. ‘You’ve said enough. Give me the address. Meet me there, as soon as possible.’ Pecarro recovered a notebook and pencil from an inside pocket.

  The proprietor of the bar arrived and pointed at his wrist. Shrugged. ‘You going to be much longer?’

  Pecarro looked away. Noted the address. ‘Got it. We’ll be there as soon as we can. Find the victim’s belongings. Bring them with you. Bring the wedding ring, the watch and shoes. They’re bagged in the evidence room and dated today. Bring along a female officer, too. Rodriguez, if she is available.’

  Pecarro turned to the owner. ‘Good morning, Mr?’

  ‘Riordan. Dermot Riordan.’

  ‘Dermot, please take a seat. We’re investigating a recent crime. We’re speaking to every bar owner in the neighbourhood.’

  ‘That so?’

  ‘Tell us about last night. Please be brief. Time is against us,’ said Pecarro.

  32

  Dermot Riordan owned Delaney’s since buying the bar in September 2000. Before then he’d been manager of an Irish-themed ‘chain’ pub. At first business was brisk until the downturn started to bite. Now, Dermot wasn’t so sure buying the bar had been one of his better business decisions.

  Pecarro allowed Casey to lead on the questioning. The two detectives introduced themselves.

  ‘How is business?’ said Casey.

  ‘Okay. We get by. Business could be better. Suppose I ought to count my blessings. The Irish love a drink: lean times or good. Whilst I’d love to share small talk with you all morning, what’s this all about?’

  ‘Last night … were you busy?’

  ‘Just the usual for a Thursday. Like I said … trade isn’t what it used to be.’

  ‘How busy? How many customers?’ said Casey, hoping for a precise reply.

  ‘Early on, it was like a morgue. That was until the loon arrived. It perked up after he arrived.’

  ‘The loon? Tell me more?’ Pecarro said, receiving a good-humoured reproachful glance from Casey.

  ‘Yeah, well… Before nine place was real quiet; just myself and a few regulars.’

  ‘Their names?’

  ‘There was Seamus Malley, James Johnston and Dylan Connolly, usual Thursday night crowd. As I say it was real quiet, then this guy walks in.’

  Dermot Riordan paused, appeared to be considering every word, expression and nuance.

  ‘And before you ask, I’ve never seen him before. Straight off the bat he orders beer for everyone. Says he’s celebrating an anniversary. The atmosphere picked up after that. The boys, they never turn away the offer of a free drink, especially when it’s paid for by an eejit like him,’ said Dermot, with a mischievous grin.

  ‘How many drinks did he buy?’ said Casey.

  ‘I’ll put it this way. There were the four people drinking heavily until midnight. Of course, I’d take the occasional whiskey. It would have been impolite not to,’ said Dermot, guffawing.

  ‘At the end of the night, the till stood at eight hundred and fifty dollars. I’d started the night with a one hundred dollars float. You do the math.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘He was in his mid-to-late forties maybe even early fifties. Tall. Around six two. Built heavy. Black hair, spiked up at the front. He had one of those faces you’ve seen a thousand times before. Good looking … I guess.’

  Casey interrupted with a raised hand. ‘What was he wearing? Anything distinctive?’

  Dermot Riordan hesitated. ‘Blue jeans. Dark blue jeans to be exact. They were narrow around the ankles. A real nice black wool overcoat over a white shirt. I remember his shoes looked expensive. Black. Polished. Sixties style with long pointed fronts. For a Thursday night in Brooklyn, I suppose he cut quite a dash. Talked like he did a manual job. Definitely not white collar, I’m certain of that.’

  ‘So … you say you’ve never seen him before?’

  ‘No, never. Guy seemed to be fixated on his Irish ancestry. Kept mentioning Southern Ireland. Cork. Said he’d got family there. He didn’t have an Irish accent. He was as American as you and me. Towards the end of the night, he spouts aggressive blarney about hating spics. Sorry, persons of Italian descent. He said someone at work was pissing him off. That’s when I’d had enough. I can’t afford to alienate nobody. By then we were all flagging, anyway. So I called time. My license, it, only allows me to serve until midnight.’

  ‘Did he have any distinguishing features?’ said Casey.

  ‘None that I can remember, no.’ Riordan became hesitant. Thoughtful. Then, ‘There was something. It was Jimmy he showed it to first. We all got a look at it.’

  ‘And what was ‘it’?’

  ‘A scar. He kept boasting about a scar. I don’t know how they got onto the subject. He had this big scar running diagonally across his stomach.’

  ‘How big?’

  ‘Five, maybe six inches and about half an inch wide. Like a fat worm. Looked painful. Crazy son of a bitch said he’d done it himself,’ said Riordan, becoming weary at the unwanted intrusion to his daily routine.

  Sensing Riordan’s impatience, Pecarro interjected.

  ‘Michael, we need to get going.’ Directed his gaze at Riordan. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Riordan.’

  ‘No problem. If you do find him, tell him from the boys and me, he’s welcome here any time, criminal or not,’ said Riordan, with a snigger.

  The journey to the Costas’ second-floor apartment took only five minutes.

  For Casey, the five minutes seemed eternal.

  33

  Sick with fear Rebecca Costa put a call into the NYPD a little after 6:00 a.m. Ernest was still missing. Nothing like this had happened before. Usually, she could set her watch by her husband. Panicking, she’d sent her nephew to check the pizzeria. He had found it locked with no sign of life inside.

  Pecarro and Casey, Abrahamsen and a female police officer, Maria Rodriguez, met in the parking lot outside the Costas’ apartment block.

  Pecarro rolled his gaze to Abrahamsen. ‘You brought the ring, watch and shoes, like I asked?’

  ‘Here in my satchel, boss,’ Abrahamsen said, settling his right hand on a black satchel stamped with the NYPD logo, slung low over his right shoulder.

  ‘I’ll lead. Rodriguez sit close to Mrs Costa. I’ll present the facts. The victim may or may not be her husband. There’s every chance it isn’t. We need to consider both eventualities,’ said Pecarro.

  Twenty minutes later, following identification of all three personal effects, the victim’s identity was in little doubt. Rebecca Costa’s life lay in tatters. She’d sobbed. Convulsed. Police Officer Maria Rodriguez had done her best to console the grieving women, but it could never be enough.

  For completeness, Pecarro needed to confirm the victim’s identity with a positive DNA match.

  ‘Abrahamsen, go check the bathroom. Locate a toothbrush, a comb or male underwear,’ Pecarro whispered, keen not to let Rebecca Costa overhear his instructions.

  34

  Over the foll
owing months the investigation floundered. Despite extensive inquiries within the large Irish community in Brooklyn and neighbouring boroughs, Costa’s killer was yet to be identified.

  Reliable underworld snouts—the lowest of the low—knew nothing. At Pecarro’s suggestion Rebecca Costa had offered a twenty-five thousand dollar reward for information leading to the arrest of the killer. It had produced nothing.

  Ernest Costa was a successful businessman. He had no financial worries, history of womanising or known enemies. Costa was a model citizen. Married for thirty years with a grown-up family, two sons and a daughter, he had everything to live for. His callous murder seemed to be a mindless wanton act, performed without premeditation or motive.

  Pecarro became increasingly frustrated. The investigation had ground to a halt, entered a dead-end with no clear exit. Forensics too, were inconclusive.

  Costa was left naked. Someone took his clothes. No progress had been made in identifying the killer from the blood sample. The post-mortem consumption of his body by rats had destroyed vital forensic evidence. The only positive development was that forensics had established the killer’s genetic profile from vomit and blood found near to the victim. It confirmed the killer had consumed a significant quantity of Irish stout and spirits on the night of the murder.

  Pecarro, Casey and the team continued the thankless task of visiting Irish bars within a two-mile radius of the crime scene. They took over one thousand statements and established corroborated alibis for staff and patrons for the night of the murder with one notable exception: the man with the scar at Delaney’s bar.