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A TV sat high on the wall, playing the news on channel 1. The anchor was quizzing someone from the mayor’s office about the investigation into the murders. His murders. The city staffer, a man named John Macy, didn’t sound particularly confident that an arrest would be made any time soon.
Ott sipped a Diet Coke and realized the sweat that had soaked his collar and under his arms was now dry. No one seemed to be looking for him. He was safe—at least for the moment. He swiveled his head, trying to work out one of the kinks he’d developed after hiding in that junction box for over twenty minutes. Then he straightened out both legs and heard his knees click with relief.
He smiled at a very cute Asian child whose mother had her strapped in a harness, with a leash attached. An older daughter carried shopping bags from inexpensive chain stores, like Claire’s and H&M. The little girl on the leash paused right in front of Ott’s table, level with his french fries. Her eyes cut from the fries to Ott, and back again.
All Ott could do was smile and nod his head. The little girl snuck two fries and rewarded him with a beautiful smile.
That happy smile reminded him of his own young daughters, waiting for him at home. He would be there with them soon. Now he was starting to feel normal. He relaxed slightly, allowing himself some perspective on the uncharacteristic stumble he had made back at the library, the moment the police had gotten close.
He was still a little freaked-out to have been reading an article about one of the city’s best detectives, Michael Bennett, the one working his cases—only to look up and see the man in person. But even the so-called great detective hadn’t been able to find him in the lower level of the library.
Daniel Ott sat at the table, finishing the last of his Diet Coke and fries and thinking about what needed to be done. Maybe he’d been thinking too broadly. He didn’t need to send more emails to other newspapers. He could stir things up and disrupt the police investigation via more decisive and specific action.
He got out his burner smartphone to do a little research. There was one plan of attack that would surely rock the city. Killing Michael Bennett.
He knew the detective worked out of the Manhattan North Homicide office. Had to look at a few city maps to find the exact location of that office, but he was able to discover that the NYPD operated that department from a rented floor and four extra offices in an office building owned by Columbia University on upper Broadway near 133rd Street. Bennett’s home address was unlisted, but Ott was good…and smart enough to know that hunting a target who lived in a city apartment with eleven other people was too risky. And he didn’t like the idea of threatening children to incite panic.
He reassessed. Okay, maybe killing Bennett was too complicated.
Briefly, he thought about Bennett’s family. Ten kids was a lot of children. Ott didn’t care what culture you were raised in or how big a farm you had to work—he didn’t see how raising ten kids was viable. Especially for a NYPD detective with a high-profile caseload. But Ott dismissed the idea of harming the kids. Besides, if Bennett were sidetracked by a personal issue, another detective would just take his place. And Bennett would probably still be available to consult.
He just needed to get Bennett off the case for a while. If Ott succeeded in injuring the detective or one of his colleagues, he could really throw a monkey wrench into the investigation. If he could do it without making it look like an intentional act of violence, no one would even connect him to the sneak attack on the NYPD.
He enjoyed having a problem like this to work on. His engineering background helped with almost any decision.
Chapter 54
I felt like a Christian walking the halls of the Roman Colosseum on my way to judgment in the arena. Every pair of eyes that set on me made me feel uncomfortable. For some reason, all FBI offices made me feel this way.
A lot of people don’t realize that when it comes to law-enforcement agents and employees, the NYPD is much larger than the FBI. We number almost forty thousand cops, while the FBI has only approximately fifteen thousand agents active at any given time. The NYPD even has offices outside New York City. After the 9/11 terrorist attacks, NYPD and city officials felt the FBI could have done a better job providing them with information prior to the attacks, so now NYPD detectives are in several Middle Eastern cities as well as European cities. There’s even a contingent of uniformed officers at the Vatican so visitors from New York City can feel reassured if there’s a problem and they need to turn to a trusted element.
I was here at the FBI offices today to meet with Emily Parker. She knew my preference was to meet at a restaurant or coffee shop so I didn’t have to venture into federal offices like this, but today she’d forced me to come here. Her “invitation” was making me feel like she was playing a prank on me.
Emily greeted me with a hug as she met me in the hallway and led me back to her cluttered cubicle. Before I could sit on the hard plastic chair next to her desk, I had to move aside a pile of files and
notebooks. Though who was I to criticize, given the unruly stacks currently covering my desk and floor? Especially since I understood she probably knew exactly where to locate everything she needed. With a mind like hers, filing systems were a waste of time.
Emily smiled and said, “What’s so important that I got Michael Bennett to actually come to the FBI office voluntarily? Honestly, the only thing that surprises me more is that you’re not in custody.”
“Ha ha,” I replied. “All jokes aside, I need a sharp brain like yours to consider something we discovered about the killer.”
“I can’t wait to hear this one.” She scooted her chair away from her desk and closer to me.
I cleared off a space on her desk and carefully laid out copies of the crime-scene photographs from New York, San Francisco, and Atlanta. I explained in great detail exactly what Hollis and I had discovered, not only about the bloody crime scenes but also the deliberate arrangement of the collections of objects found inside the victims’ homes in each location. I explained our interpretation of them as the killer’s way of tallying up his murders.
Emily was attentive but silent, never interrupting me as I explained our theory. That was a sign of a professional law-enforcement agent. Too bad more FBI agents didn’t follow her example.
When I was finally finished, she looked me in the eye and said, “Impressive. I usually only hear about a personality mosaic this elaborate being pieced together by one of our people down at the Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico.”
“What do you think of our theory?”
“It’s pretty convincing,” she said. “And I’m even more impressed knowing you guys came up with it on no budget, very little time, and using only crime-scene photos and public newspaper databases. But not all of the crime scenes have these messages. Like the one on Staten Island.”
“That bugs the shit out of me. I’ve been over those crime-scene photos and back to that apartment several times. Nothing. I don’t know if the killer was interrupted and had to leave or if there’s some other explanation. But I still think we’re onto something.”
Emily said, “Maybe the message at the Staten Island crime scene is tiny. Or just not as obvious as these, like a handful of buttons or some grains of sand. Something someone could have accidentally swept up or knocked over. Based on your theory, this guy clearly needs to taunt us. That’s ballsy.”
I smiled at her dispassionate evaluation of our killer.
