communicate. He left quotations with Amy and Jessica. The quotations are both poets, Rilke and John Milton. I’ve been up to Columbia University so we’ve got a little background. They were both visionary poets. Milton was also blind. Rilke was a radical. God knows what he’s getting at.’
‘Maybe he just likes poetry,’ said Eddie. ‘You know, hobbies — walking, poetry, serial killing.’
The guys laughed as Williamson edged away from the circle with his coffee and turned to Rick Swanson. ‘How about the progress on Amy, our angel?’
‘We got a hit on the nail art. There’s a salon up in Harlem. Quite a low rent affair, not the kind of place a banker’s wife would be in, except, in nail art circles, it’s got Harlem kudos. Anyway, they claim the designs are theirs, but they don’t recognize her photo. So we’re still digging. They say that sometimes these high society girls get their maids to come in for designs, get a one-off and then repeat them themselves in their more upmarket beauticians.’
‘So, what we can conclude is that we got nothing,’ said Mark Garcia. ‘You want me to do the press release? A guy goes out on a date with a church-going virgin, doesn’t get his way so he kills the poor kid.’
‘Garcia, fucking button it,’ said Eddie.
‘Fuck you! That’s all we got.’
The captain had entered the room during their intense conversation. No one had noticed him, but he was watching them all closely. He had some news.
‘Williamson, we had a caller wanting to speak to you.’ The room stopped dead.
Williamson stood up. ‘Was it our guy?’
‘He said he’s got a handful of cherry blossom that he wants to shove up your ass.’
There was a murmur of laughter throughout the room but the captain wasn’t smiling at all. The room went still for a moment.
‘He hung up real quick,’ said Lafayette. ‘He said he was busy, but he’d call back when he had a moment.’
‘Was it him?’ said Harper.
‘He said he’d cut Jessica sixty-four times. He said the career girl murderer only managed sixty-three. He wanted to see if he could go one better.’
‘No one knew that detail,’ said Harper. ‘It’s got to be him.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Blue Team Major Incident Room
November 20, 10.55 p.m.
The detectives from Blue Team were all crushed into the small interview room and had been ever since the news of the first call. At 10.55 p.m., the phone rang again. Williamson signalled through the big glass window into the observation room which was set up with the technical team. They patched through the call and started the trace.
‘Hello, this is Detective Williamson, lead detective on the American Devil murder case. How can I help?’
There was a crackle and a pause on the line. The seven police officers in the room all held their breath.
‘Hello? This is Detective Williamson. Are you the man we want to speak to? You want to talk about your mistakes? You want to know how we know all about you?’
Again there was silence. Williamson looked up at the window and shrugged. The technical guys rolled their fingers. Whoever it was, he was still on the line and Williamson needed to keep talking.
The silence from the other end continued. Williamson started up again. ‘If you want to keep me talking, let me know you’re not just another timewaster. I get a hundred calls a days claiming to be this guy and every one is a fake. So give me something or get back into your hole and stop wasting police time.’
The men waited. Taking a harsh position could go either way. Harper glanced at the clock. A minute had elapsed. It was good, but they hadn’t traced the call so Harper presumed it was a cell phone, probably unregistered. The only hope of getting anything was by triangulating the call. The technical guys had set it all up. They just needed to get the signal of the cell phone transmitter received by two or three base stations, then they could work out the location based on the time difference from each station. But it needed more time than tracing a traditional phone and it was fallible.
Keep going, mouthed Harper.
‘Okay, Mr Silent, let’s get one or two things straight: this is my investigation.’
‘Shut… the… fuck… up.’ Bingo. The killer had replied. The first time they’d heard the voice. It was deep, slow and considered. A frightening voice. A voice you didn’t want to find in your apartment after dark.
‘You’re talking to me, then,’ said Williamson.
‘First things first, you fucking loser. You make claims about me in public like that again and I’ll kill two a day. I can do it and you know it. I don’t need to do all the embellishments, I can just cut and go. You get me? So less of the disrespect and lies. I have got you boys pissing your pants and sucking your fucking thumbs because you don’t know who the hell you’re dealing with. Well, let me tell you who I am. I’m not no trailer park inadequate with a fucking speech impediment. I’m an artist. One day you’ll see my grand work, The Progression of Love. It’s taken years and years to put together. Some day soon I’m going to reveal it to you all. My name’s Sebastian, and I’m an artist. I’m the American Devil. I’m Abaddon — that’s where I am. But you’ll never find me. Open the door and I’ll be gone.’
The seven detectives stared at the small speaker. Williamson was not coming back. You could see that his head was empty. He drew some saliva back into his dry mouth. ‘Fuck you, you asshole,’ he said. It was his standard reply when he felt threatened. It was not a good move.
‘Okay, Detective, let’s be quite clear what we’re dealing with now. I’m in her apartment already. She is probably walking home as we speak. You can’t stop her, you can’t warn her, you can’t stop me, but you know it’s going to happen, as inevitable as the sun rising. I’ve got a blade here sitting on my lap and I’m going to dedicate this one to you boys. I’m going to give you a real show, but then again you only ever turn up after the show’s over. Like the cleaner in the movie house with your brush and scoop.’
‘Who is she?’ said Williamson.
‘I’m looking at her picture right now. Pretty girl, blue eyes, skin fine as silk. Her name, in case you’re interested, is Elizabeth. I’m going to pull her apart and put her back together again. When you see her, she’ll be transformed. It’s just the way of the world — angels become whores, whores become angels. It’s a damn shame you can’t save her. She’s going to be mine by the end of tonight. Sealed with a kiss. You know I like to do that, don’t you?’
Tom Harper was copying out every word into his small black notebook, under the previous note, which read: Connecticut warbler, Red-eyed vireo, long-eared owl.
It was bad news — the killer was active again. Every two days. He was in there. There was a woman returning home with no idea of what was waiting for her and there wasn’t anything they could do. Harper looked at the technical staff. One guy was holding up ten fingers. They had to keep him on the line.
Harper grabbed the phone from Williamson. ‘Sebastian, it’s Detective Harper here. Sorry for the lack of courtesy. Truth is, we haven’t got a clue who or what you are. You’ve stumped every one of us and we’re scratching our heads. We don’t know how in hell you do it. You’ve got to give us something, or you’re just pissing on us from a great height. Tell me something, you feel bad afterwards, don’t you? You pose them because you regret it and you feel bad about hurting these girls.’
‘Bad?’
‘You feel bad for hurting these girls, don’t you?’
‘A curious word, Detective, but no, I never feel bad. They feel bad, not me. They feel fucking terrible, in fact.’
Suddenly, the dialling tone cut in. He had gone. The four technical staff could be seen leaving their seats in the next room and rushing out into the corridor. In a moment they entered the small interview room.
‘Did you get it?’ shouted Harper.
The lead guy was nodding. They were all nodding.
