The Celtic Cross Killer Read online

  ‘I’m pleading the fifth. What about you? You getting out on the town regular?’

  ‘I am. And loving every drunken minute. Do I detect a hint of jealousy, Mr Detective?’ teased Sean.

  ‘Me? No! I’m only making small talk. You been in Delaney’s recently?’ asked Michael, without preliminary.

  In that moment, Sean understood the reason for his brother’s invitation. Time stood still. The world stalled on its axis. Wobbled. Their eyes met. A moment of shared understanding settled in the space between them. Acute. Palpable. Touchable almost. Shared understanding borne in the womb of a woman. Shared for eternity. Damaged by others, yet intimate, resolute and unbreakable.

  Sean shrugged. Glanced away. Quieted. Looked back. ‘Nope. I haven’t been near Delaney’s for going on for a year. Any reason you ask?’ Sean spun his gaze towards a blonde in a bikini stepping down from the podium just inches from where they sat. He turned to face Michael. ‘Well?’

  ‘No particular reason … no.’

  Sean had a selective memory, Michael reminded himself. Cursed his brother’s shallowness. Anna set the sizeable drinks bill down on the bar before him.

  ‘I’ll get the tip,’ said Sean, downing the last of the beer.

  40

  Michael despised the two hundred and fifty mile journey to his mother’s nursing home in the small township of Antrim, New Hampshire. In winter, the roads were treacherous and conditions often proved fatal. Massive snowfalls arrived without warning; catching out the news stations, weathermen, emergency services and private citizens alike. People had taken even short journeys and never arrived at their destinations. Their decomposed remains would be discovered months later in the spring thaw down some dead-end farm track or deep in woodland. For those unfortunate individuals whose final decision had been to abandon their vehicles, identification was often only possible by comparison with dental records or genetic matching.

  Michael Casey, would, before taking on the journey, pay special attention to the regional weather forecast during the winter months. While not something he looked forward to, the boredom-inducing journey provided a certain cathartic release from the pressures of police work. The hypnotic effect of the road ahead, unbroken, for hour upon hour gave him time to think. He often wonder if it was the real reason he took this journey so often?

  They had diagnosed eighty-five-year-old Maeve Casey with early stage senile dementia. Michael didn’t need a diagnosis. Her decline was obvious. Sometimes, she’d be fine. Other times she appeared to recognise him but couldn’t remember his name. It was heart breaking. Her mental faculties fluctuated weekly. One week, she’d have her faculties and could function normally, the next she’d become aggressive, call out for her sons, or claim that her dead husband, Thomas, had visited in the night. The nurses mentioned how she’d instructed them never to let her husband near her. If he came to visit, they were to send him away.

  On his last visit, Michael arranged an appointment with the nursing home’s physician. His assessment had been direct and honest.

  ‘Mr Casey, it saddens me to say, but your mother is experiencing the first stages of dementia. It’s not an uncommon condition for a person of her age. It can be very debilitating. I strongly suspect that within a year, two at the most, your mother’s condition will worsen to a stage where she won’t recognise anyone, including your good self. Please prepare yourself for that. Make the best of the remaining time with your mother. Apologies if this sounds harsh, but I find honesty is the best policy in such cases.’

  ‘No, doctor, I appreciate your candour,’ Michael said, without emotion. Lying, he added, ‘She’s had a good life.’

  That afternoon he found his mother sitting alone in the conservatory staring out across the lake—a featureless slate grey canvas under a drab winter sky. Trying not to startle her, Michael padded in front of the easy chair in which she sat. Maeve rocked like a metronome.

  ‘Is it time for dinner, yet, nurse?’ she asked, in the feeblest of voices.

  In that instant, Michael understood his visit was an utter waste of time. For the next two hours, he attempted to make small talk without a single reciprocal sign of comprehension of his words, from his mother.

  Michael always made a point of noting his departure to the Head Nurse. It placated his guilt. Extinguished the numb, hollow feeling of responsibility he’d felt since admitting his mother to the care home.

  ‘She’ll be fine. Don’t worry. We take good care of all the residents,’ the nurse had told him, as she always did.

  Joining Interstate 94 at Brattleboro,’ Casey had already decided to take the quickest route home. As soon as he joined the freeway, he would hit the cruise control stalk of his Jeep Grand Cherokee station wagon and let the V6 do the talking. He needed time to contemplate things: his life, recent events and ruminate on the Celtic cross murder case. Consider how it would become a massive and enduring blot on his career, should he fail to solve it.

  Part IV

  Brooklyn

  2007

  41

  Pecarro leant back against the pillows; three-year-old son Carlo played with a toy fire engine on his lap. Celine applied make up at the dresser.

  Pecarro considered his dilemma. Chief Johnson was new breed. Pecarro’s policing methods were old school. Every day, Pecarro faced an unrelenting avalanche of reinvention and initiative. It drove him to distraction. Most days, he’d wake up in a foul mood.

  ‘Honey, don’t you get it? He’s a jerk. He’s put me on a case way below my pay grade. To add insult to injury, son of a bitch insists I report to a goddamn detective fifteen years my junior,’ raged Pecarro. ‘Can you believe it?’

  Celine drew a long, silent breath, brushed long blonde hair in vertical strokes. Said, ‘Antonio, do me a favour?’

  ‘What’s that, honey?’

  ‘Change the record. You told me all this last night, remember? You’ve been moaning about Johnson every night for the past year. It’s time you either developed a pair, or put the asshole out of your mind,’ she said, sighing, applying blusher along her cheeks. She spoke to Pecarro’s reflection in the dresser mirror.

  Pecarro burned with anger.

  Celine had grown weary of his gripes about his work. She closed her eyes. Stifled a sigh. His constant berating of his boss, his acolytes and the strategic direction of the Department were driving her crazy. She had made her opinion clear about the situation numerous times. Told him that if he didn’t like it, then he should resign. Leave the NYPD. Do something else. Anything, so long as he changed his tune.

  Celine glanced over her shoulder. ‘You already know what I think. I’m not going over it again. I haven’t got the energy.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll resign. I tell Johnson to shove his job up his bony ass. I’m not having a pen-pusher like him, jerking me around. I can do this.’

  ‘I know you can. Will you do me a favour?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Stop procrastinating. Get your finger out of your ass and resign. Time, it, waits for no man.’

  They’d talked about his desire to become a private investigator. Had discussed it again the previous evening.

  ‘Do you think I’d make a good PI?’

  ‘I’ve every faith in you. Haven’t I told you that a million times before?’ purred Celine, raising up, claiming a Gucci handbag from the floor, smoothing her pinstripe business suit against lean thighs. She stepped over to the bed. Glanced at the clock. Scooped up Carlo in her arms. Gave him a big kiss.

  ‘Shit, look at the time. I’ve got to go. Otherwise, we’ll be late for day care,’ she said, planting a kiss on Pecarro’s forehead. ‘I’ve an important meeting at half nine. I won’t be contactable for at least two hours.’

  Celine’s meeting was with an analyst from a major Japanese investment bank with a reputed hundred million dollar fund to invest. If successful, the deal would earn the company one hundred thousand dollars in commission.

  ‘Do what you think is right. We’ll ma
nage. We always do,’ she said. ‘Shall I stop off and get sushi on the way home?’

  Against his better judgement, Antonio responded with enthusiasm. ‘Yeah, honey, sushi would be great.’

  Celine lifted Carlo from the floor. ‘Come on you. Look, I’ll see you later. Take care. Okay?’

  ‘Okay. Be careful out there.’

  Angry for deferring the decision for so long, Pecarro resolved to quit. It had become a matter of credibility between himself and Celine. He’d resign from the NYPD with immediate effect. Even without a full pension, they’d get by.

  They’ll miss me when I’m gone, he huffed, rolling out of bed.

  His failure to make meaningful progress on the Celtic cross case had, he knew, led to discontented rumblings within the department. Fingers had been pointed. Michael Casey had—despite Pecarro’s protestations to Johnson—been handed the case, after a temporary reassignment to narcotics.

  Whatever, thought Pecarro. All that matters is the future.

  42

  ‘Casey, that you?’ Pecarro pulled the cell phone from his ear and confirmed the connection remained live.

  ‘Tony? This line is terrible. I’m just about to exit the Battery Tunnel… Can you hear me?’ said Casey, against the buzz of static.

  ‘Yeah, I can … just about. I was asking if you’d got time for a coffee and a chat? There’s something personal I’d like to run past you,’ said Pecarro.

  ‘Okay, where and when?’

  ‘Green Point’s on Franklin. We used to go there on the Munnelly murder case. Remember?’

  ‘Yeah, I do.’

  ‘Great. I’ll see you there in fifteen minutes?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Casey.

  Green Point’s had earned itself a reputation for the quality of the service, the huge range of exotic coffee and some of the best breakfast burritos on the East Side. The views across the river were spectacular, roadside parking easy and available. It had a laid-back ambience. Green Point’s was the kind of place to while away the day with a good book or the broadsheets.

  Pecarro decided he’d do just that. At least until his conscience and work ethic kicked in. First, he would inform Michael Casey—his partner for over ten years—of his decision to leave the force. He owed Casey that much. In Pecarro’s world respect mattered.

  Casey swung into the booth opposite Pecarro.

  ‘Howdy, partner. Espresso?’ said Pecarro, with a smile at his soon-to-be-former partner.

  ‘No, thanks. A small cappuccino for me, boss. Otherwise, I’ll be wired,’ said Casey.

  Pecarro liked Casey’s calling him boss. It hadn’t gone unnoticed. Respect.

  Pecarro raised a hand. Caught the waitresses’ attention. Placed the coffee order. Waited a beat. Composed himself.

  ‘You and I, Michael, we’ve been a good team. I’ve enjoyed our partnership not only on a professional level, but on a personal level, too. You’ve always shown respect. It’s important. You’ll go far. Probably further than I have. The thing is … good things come to an end. I’ve been with the department since dinosaurs walked these streets,’ Pecarro said, with a grin. ‘It’s time I passed the baton to a younger man. Time, I moved aside.’ Pecarro stalled. Fought the rising tide of emotion.

  Casey studied Pecarro in stunned silence.

  ‘I wanted you to know first. I’m resigning today with immediate effect. It’s time I moved over for men like you. Younger men better able to cope with the demands placed on them by bureaucrats like Johnson and his political paymasters at City Hall. I’m tired, Michael. I’m tired of pushing back. Tired of being considered a thing of the past. But most of all, I’m tired of being made to feel inadequate. Do you appreciate what it is I’m saying?’

  A curt nod. ‘Course, I do, boss. I feel it often enough myself. The thing is, boss, you get results. You always have and you always will. Why should that change? Fuck Johnson. Son of a bitch is an asshole. Don’t let him dictate your future. He’s not got a goddamned clue what it takes to succeed on the streets,’ said Casey.

  Pecarro interrupted Casey with a raised palm.

  ‘You’re right. And they never will. Because they can’t. They live in fear, yet look down on people like you and me from their ivory towers. They do whatever they need to do, so long as they can bask in the reflected glory of our efforts,’ said Pecarro. ‘They steal our success. When that success isn’t delivered within their timeframe, they’re quick to point the finger.’

  The coffee order arrived.

  ‘The Celtic cross case could be the opportunity you need to prove yourself. I know progress has been slow. Johnson’s taken me off the case. He’s got his own agenda. Now, my friend, I’ve got mine. As of this afternoon, I’m done. I hope you understand.’ Pecarro sipped coffee.

  Casey, stunned into silence, sat back against the backrest.

  ‘They’ll expect you to solve the case quickly. He’ll kill again—the Celtic Cross Killer—I’m sure of it. And what’s certain is, he’ll make a mistake. Understand him. Get under his skin. He’s fallible. Trust no one. And when you’re in sight of the end game and can taste victory, make damn sure you get the rewards you deserve. Protect yourself, Michael. It’s the way of the world. As for Johnson, watch him… He’s a two-faced son of a bitch. He’ll snatch your achievements from under your nose.’ Pecarro’s voice tapered off. Tears welled in his eyes. An involuntary lump formed in his throat. He found it impossible to speak.

  It remained unsaid, but Casey believed the killer had already made just such a mistake.

  The low grumble of a cell phone set to vibrate broke the silence between them.

  ‘Casey…’

  ‘Casey, it’s Abrahamsen.’ The excitement in Abrahamsen’s voice on the other end of the line suggested he had something significant to say. ‘There’s been another murder.’ The words spooled from his mouth like ticker tape at a victorious homecoming.

  ‘Calm down, go slow,’ said Casey.

  ‘And … the guys at the scene … they say it’s got the same hallmark. The same cross… Only this time … it’s deeper … much, much deeper’

  ‘Damn… Give me the address,’ said Casey.

  Pecarro understood that this was the final and irretrievable turning point of his career. The baton irreversibly passed to Casey.

  For a long minute the two men eyed one another across the table in silence contemplation.

  Pecarro was the first to speak. ‘I know I’m not formally on the case, Michael, only … I’d like to come along. Is that okay with you? I’ll be discreet. Make sure nothing gets back.’

  A grin settled on Casey’s face. ‘We’d better get going, boss. Sounded to me like Abrahamsen was just about to wet his pants. We’d better get over there and help clean up the mess.’

  43

  The killer’s modus operandi was disturbingly familiar. The victim was found in an alley between two residential blocks on the east side of 11th Street; laid face down, naked from the waist up, a male of Hispanic or Mediterranean ethnicity. Cause of death was a series of stab wounds to the neck and a long lateral cut across the throat. Small quantities of cerebrospinal fluid mixed within the pooled blood around the victim’s head. It created an iridescent bluish tinge, not unlike an oil-spill over water. The victim’s head and shoulders swam in a reddish-brown pool of gelatinous, coagulated blood.

  The killer had removed the victim’s shirt. Casey speculated the killer removed it, to clean, conceal and remove the murder weapon from the scene. The killer had cut the broad outline of a Celtic cross into the victim’s back. The cross was deeper than before. Was the killer becoming angrier?

  Three crime scene investigators in white coveralls stood over the victim speaking in hushed tones. A fourth swabbed the victim’s wounds, face and trousers.

  The victim had been unlucky. Murdered within sight of home just moments from safety.

  Casey lumbered from the unmarked car and made his way over to his colleague.

  ‘Okay, Abrahamsen. What we
got? Take it nice and slow.’

  Abrahamsen took a long breath. Flicked open his notebook. ‘The murdered man is Franco Ricci. The body was found by a neighbour and his wife, Sophia, at 3:30 a.m. Mrs Ricci couldn’t sleep. Her husband Franco had failed to return home as planned. He’d been attending a college reunion. Mrs Ricci was sat at the kitchen table in their third-floor apartment, up there.’ Abrahamsen stalled, pointed up the elevation. ‘The kitchen window is second in from the left.’

  ‘I see it. Go on,’ said Casey.

  ‘As you can see the window is located directly above the crime scene. Seems she heard a scuffle. Initially, she thought it was a cat fight or a stray dog rummaging around in the garbage. I’m told the neighbourhood has a problem with feral cats. At first she didn’t pay much attention to it, that is until she hears a muffled scream. To quote Mrs Ricci, the scream, “sounded like a person being tortured.” So she jumps up from the kitchen table and goes over to the window. Sees someone running out of the alley. The street was empty; no other people, cars, nothing. Says she lost sight of the figure as he disappeared into the alley across the street. That’s when she saw the outline of a body laid next to the garbage cans.’ Abrahamsen referred to his notebook.

  ‘Anyone else notice anything?’

  ‘Not that I know of … no. Mrs Ricci raised a neighbour; a Dr Mathewson. Told him what she’d heard and seen. At first, he’d been reluctant to do anything, preferring instead to call 911. Anyway, after a little persuasion they made their way downstairs into the alley. She said she felt a sense of doom. Sensed the body was Franco. She identified his shoes.’ Abrahamsen took a deep breath, continued, ‘Mrs Ricci asked the doctor to turn the body over. Wanted to see the face. The doctor advised against it. He didn’t want to disturb evidence, but she’d insisted. She identified the victim as Franco. Dr Mathewson told me he’s never seen someone enter shock so quickly. She broke down. Fell to the floor. Sobbed. The doc, he, took it upon himself to carry Mrs Ricci upstairs to her apartment.’