That was the first resting-point, with blood from the abdomen and legs. Then he waited, rolled his upper torso and head and shot him.
Harper imagined Capske waking up in his steel cage. He could feel the horror, the constriction. He could see the face of the attacker above him. Smiling, laughing? A terrifying end. But why would a killer wait to shoot him? Denise was right. It wasn’t just political. He wanted to hurt and punish Capske. Or maybe there was something else. Harper took out his sketchpad and opened it. He stared at the sketches of the crime scene, the placing of the body.
In his mind, he saw the corpse. There was something there, but he couldn’t bring it to mind. Harper nodded to the patrol still guarding the entrance of the alleyway as he headed out of the darkness.
Now he had the MO, the how and the what, the next thing Harper needed to work out was the why — the motive was everything. And this murder had many potential motives — drugs, politics, anti-Semitism. But none quite accounted for the ritualized kill scene, the sudden, brutal ambush, the waiting game and the execution, except for Denise’s description of some form of deranged narcissism.
Harper walked across the street. They’d not found a single piece of the kill kit. They’d been chasing down CCTV from every municipal and private source for five blocks. They had plenty of people on tape, but it was impossible to judge if any of them were involved. No one on the tape was seen carrying anything. So either the killer was in a car or, if he was on foot, he dumped his kill kit as soon as he used it.
Harper looked up and down East 112th Street. There were CCTV cameras at either end of the street. Rows of garbage from the cafes and eateries lined the sidewalks. Harper looked across again. Even if the killer cut through the housing project up to East 113th Street, the CCTV tapes would have caught him coming out further up. No, thought Harper. We would’ve found the kill kit. Somehow he got the stuff taken away.
He watched as the garbage truck turned up, and the men threw the bags lining the streets into the back of the truck. Harper looked at his watch and cursed. It was only 1.45 a.m. He had imagined that the killer might have waited until 3.30 a.m. in order to catch the garbage truck, so that he could dispose of his kill kit as he left the scene. But it was too early.
Harper crossed the street. A surly garbage man was tossing bags into the back of the loader. ‘Detective Harper, NYPD, can I ask you a question?’ said Harper.
The guy looked up. ‘Go ahead.’
‘We had a murder at this site last night. We reckon the victim got here at around this time — one forty-three a.m. He was hurt real bad. So bad, he must’ve been screaming at some point. Were you working this route last night?’
‘Sure was, and every other night.’
‘Did you see or hear anything?’
‘What time you say?’
‘The victim arrived around this time.’
‘Well then, I heard nothing and saw nothing.’
‘Why’s that?’ asked Harper.
‘We’re a couple of hours ahead of schedule tonight.’
‘So what time did you get here last night?’
‘Last night? About three-thirty a.m., give or take a few minutes.’
‘Last night, you were here at that time? You see anything?’
‘Not a thing worth noting.’
‘Where do you go from here?’ said Harper.
‘We got this street, then we complete the round.’
‘Then where do you go?’
‘Queens.’
‘What for?’
‘To unload. You’re very interested in garbage for a cop.’
‘Can I ride with you?’
‘Ask the driver. I don’t see why not.’
Harper jumped up to the cab and introduced himself. ‘Can I ride with you, ask some questions?’
The driver shrugged. ‘Whatever turns you on.’
‘Where do you unload?’
‘Queens.’
‘I know. Where in Queens?’
‘North Shore Marine Transfer Facility.’
‘And what happens to the trash at the North Shore?’
‘It gets loaded into a container. When it’s full, it gets put on a barge and it sails away, to where I do not know or care.’
‘What about last night’s garbage? Will it have gone already?’
‘Hey, what do you think I do, keep tags on my garbage? I’ve no fucking idea, Detective.’
‘That’s okay. I can find that out.’ Harper took out his cell and called Eddie. He answered on the first ring. ‘You at the Station House, Eddie?’
‘Still chasing down these leads, but getting nowhere fast.’
‘I think I might know where the killer dumped his kill kit.’
‘What are you thinking?’
‘This killer is smart,’ said Harper. ‘And if he’s smart, he’s going to dump it somewhere we won’t find it.’
‘They checked the storm drains, the sewage, the trash, the streets, the houses, the roofs, the alleys; they’ve been everywhere, Harper,’ said Eddie.
‘I’ve been wondering why he waited until three-thirty a.m. to shoot this guy. It’s risky, right?’
‘It’s damn risky.’
‘Maybe he was waiting for Department of Sanitation.’
‘How so?’
‘Garbage trucks, Eddie. On Saturday, they collect around three-thirty a.m., and all our killer has to do is take his bloody clothes, the barbed-wire spool, the gloves and maybe even the murder weapon, put it out on the sidewalk and watch the city pick it up and take it away for him. Then he walks.’
‘That’s brilliant. Where are you now?’
‘In a garbage truck on the way to the North Shore Marine Transfer Facility in Queens. Meet me there in one hour with Blue Team and Crime Scene Unit. See if you can get the Logistics and Operational Manager for the Facility. We need to trace last night’s garbage.’
‘I’m on it, Harps. They work the same routes each night, right? We just need the truck number and the dumpsite. It’s going to be a dirty night’s work for someone in the Crime Scene Unit.’
Chapter Twenty
Harper arrived at the huge blue warehouse at the North Shore Transfer Facility. Eddie Kasper, the team and two CSU trucks were sitting there waiting. Harper thanked the driver and jumped off. The air was cold next to the river, and in the distance he could hear the industrial hum of hundreds of loaders, dump trucks and garbage trucks transporting New York’s waste to someplace else.
‘Quick work, Eddie, what have you got?’
‘Dogs are on their way. We’ve got David Capske’s jacket coming across from the OCME to give them something to work on, but the handlers aren’t sure how they’ll cope. Depends on how rancid the trash is.’
‘That’s great, Eddie. What about the location of our load?’
‘We’ve dragged the Logistics Supervisor out of bed, the Operations Manager and the roll-on team. We’ve got tonight’s team on hold. Nothing leaves until we find our trash.’
