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Macy nodded his head reluctantly. Arms still folded across his chest.
I continued. “Crime scenes usually show the underlying personality of the killer, especially when we’re dealing with serial killers.”
Hollis chimed in. “That’s correct. My research has shown that a particular killer’s MO is often reflected in the scene he leaves
behind. Some killers rush, and others take their time. Some killers have serious OCD and the compulsions are reflected in their murder scenes. Maybe the victim’s body has to be laid out in a certain way, or the wounds must be inflicted at exactly the same angle every time.”
I picked the thread of the conversation back up. “And in this case, while the crime scenes in SoHo and Staten Island seem similar to each other, they don’t really seem like any of the others. The differences are significant enough that we can’t discount the possibility that they are the work of a second killer.”
Macy said, “Are you shitting me? Now you’re saying not only that you don’t think this most recent murder is part of the pattern but that you don’t even think the Staten Island murder is related?” A vein on his forehead started to throb. “A second-killer theory is not going to fly. Do you have any idea what kind of panic that will cause?”
I didn’t know what more to say. “Just giving you my experienced opinion. Obviously you’re going to have one of your own.”
“This is no time for a standoff, Bennett,” Macy said. “We need results. Go get some. Now.”
With that statement of the obvious, Macy was out the door.
Hollis was next. He sighed and wiped his face. “That was a serious dick-waving contest,” he said. “I gotta get out of here for a few minutes. I’m running down those leads I mentioned. All of them are fairly close by and shouldn’t take me too long.”
“I’ll go with you.”
Hollis shook his head. “I got this. I can handle a simple lead or two.” He winked and patted me on the shoulder, leaving me in charge of the Task Force Halo headquarters.
Four victims—six, if I was wrong about the second killer—and zero suspects. The numbers didn’t look good.
Chapter 61
Daniel Ott found himself in the Manhattanville neighborhood of West Harlem, standing outside the building that housed Michael Bennett’s Manhattan North Homicide unit. He stood next to a steel support for the elevated train that ran directly across the street from the building.
There were cars parked under the track for blocks in each direction. Many of them looked like police vehicles. A lot of Ford Crown Victorias and Chevy Impalas. He supposed that was one of the main perks of working this far uptown: parking. Apparently free parking. Something that was pretty much lacking everywhere else on the island of Manhattan.
Ott had handled quite a lot of surveillance over the years. With the exception of his first, spontaneous kill and the librarian’s unexpected friend—his loose end’s loose end—he always researched his victims’ movements and habits. But none of them had ever had the slightest idea that Ott was watching them. None of that was as serious as what he was doing now, surveilling a police officer.
He stared across the street at the entrance to the office building. There was a furniture truck in the midst of a delivery. The crew had set several temporary ramps next to curbs so they could roll all kinds of office equipment into the building. There were three stacks of chairs on specialized dollies, each stack more than six feet tall. On separate dollies rested two desks, turned on their sides so that they too rose almost six feet in the air. Everything on the sidewalk was some sort of obstruction.
Great.
Daniel Ott didn’t want to be here, watching the building. He was supposed to be at work in Queens, though really, he was ready to get home. He wanted to see his girls. But Bennett was getting too close to identifying him. And he had to admit he did feel a twinge of excitement as he bounced several plans through his head. What could he do to disrupt the investigation, starting right now?
As he watched, he spotted the young detective he’d seen with Bennett at the library, the one with the broken nose, stroll out the front of the building. Today the man wore a blue shirt and tie, and was walking with a woman in a bright yellow skirt. Ott could tell by their body language that the two young people were attracted to each other.
They stopped on the sidewalk near all the office furniture. They stood right on the curb as a bus whizzed past them, yet they barely noticed. The detective said something and smiled. The young woman laughed and placed her hand on his arm.
Another bus rolled past. Ott lost sight of the couple for a few seconds. Then an idea popped into his head.
He crossed the street quickly. He had to balance patience with speed. He wove through the office furniture deliveries, using them as cover to obscure his approach, though they also blocked his vision. Each time the couple shifted position as they continued their animated conversation, Ott lost sight of them.
Ott pulled from his pocket a pair of rubber surgical gloves and, with his gloved right hand, extracted his Gerber folding knife and opened the blade.
Then he heard the hiss of air brakes and a diesel engine. Another of the fast-moving buses coming this way. Ott couldn’t believe the timing. He closed the knife and stepped over one of the small ramps lying on the sidewalk. He took a moment behind one of the chair stacks to calculate how fast the bus was moving. The big diesel unit looked to be gaining speed quickly.
All Ott had to do was knock the detective into the middle of the street, where the bus would have no choice but to make him a headline in tomorrow’s paper.
The time was now. Ott stepped quickly from behind the stack of chairs, his head down and his legs driving. But he lost his bearings slightly when sidestepping a ramp, and realized that instead of the detective, he was about to run into the woman in the yellow skirt.
Ott tried to redirect or slow his charge, but it was too late. His shoulder connected with the woman’s midsection and she let out a loud gasp as he knocked the wind out of her. The woman staggered from the blow and stepped awkwardly from the curb onto the asphalt.
Ott had screwed up. There was no other way to view it. He just stood there, frozen.
