“Eighteen years, two months, and three days.”
Why do you keep track so precisely?
“I’m detail oriented.”
What’s your experience with serial killings?
“I’ve spent my entire career working these cases. I’ve been agent-in-charge of eight of them, the Asheville Rapist, the White River Killer in Indianapolis, six others. We caught all of them, we’ll catch this one too.”
Why don’t you have a profile of the killer yet?
“Believe, me, we’ve been trying, but he’s not profilable in a conventional way. No two murders are alike. There’s no pattern. If it weren’t for the warning postcards, you wouldn’t know the cases were connected.”
What’s your theory?
“I think we’re dealing with a very twisted and very intelligent man. I have no idea what’s motivating him. He wants attention, that’s a certainty, and thanks to you he’s getting it.”
You think we shouldn’t be covering this?
“You don’t have a choice. I’m just stating a fact.”
How are you going to catch him?
“He’s not perfect. He’s left clues, which I’m not going to go into for obvious reasons. We’ll get him.”
What’s your bet? Is he going to strike again?
“Let me answer that this way. My bet is that he’s watching this on TV right now, so I’m saying this to you.” Will stared straight into the cameras. Those blue eyes. “I will catch you and I will put you down. It’s only a matter of time.”
Wright, who was hovering, practically hip-checked Will away from the mikes. “Okay, I think that’s it for today. We’ll let you know the time and location of our next briefing.”
The press rose to their feet and one voice, a female reporter from the Post, rose above the others and screamed out, “Promise us you’ll bring the Pied Piper back!”
Number 941 Park Ave was a solid cube, a thirteen-story brick prewar, its two lower floors clad in fine white granite, the lobby done up tastefully in marble and chintz. Will had been there before, retracing David Swisher’s last steps from the lobby to the precise spot on 82nd Street where the blood had drained from his body. He had walked the walk in the same predawn darkness, and lowering himself on his haunches, right on the spot-still discolored despite a good scrubbing from the sanitation department-had tried to visualize the last thing the victim might have seen before his brain went off-line. A section of mottled sidewalk? A black iron window grate? The rim on a parked car? A thin oak rising out of a square of compacted dirt?
The tree, hopefully.
As expected, Helen Swisher rubbed Will the wrong way. She had played too hard to get these past weeks with her telephone tag, her scheduling problems, her out-of-town travel. “She was a victim’s wife, for Christ’s sake,” he had vented to Nancy, “not a goddamned suspect! Show some fucking cooperation, why don’t you?” Then, while he was in the middle of being blessed out by Sue Sanchez over his Al Haig, “I’m in charge here” performance at the press conference, wifey rang his mobile just to let him know he needed to be punctual as her time was extremely limited. And the topper-she greeted them at Apartment 9B with a faraway look of condescension, like they were carpet cleaners there to roll up one of the Persians.
“I don’t know what I can tell you that I haven’t already told the police,” Helen Swisher said as she led them through a palladium arch into the living room, a formidable expanse overlooking Park Avenue. Will stiffened at the decor and furnishings-all this fineness, a lifetime’s salary shoveled into one room, decorators-gone-wild heirloom furniture, chandeliers and rugs, each the price of a good car.
“Nice place,” Will said, his eyebrows arched.
“Thank you,” she replied coolly. “David liked to read the Sunday paper in here. I’ve just put it on the market.”
They sat and she immediately began fiddling with the band of her wristwatch, a signal they were on the clock. Will sized her up quickly, a miniprofile. She was attractive in a horsey kind of way, her looks enhanced by perfect hair and a designer suit. Swisher was Jewish, she wasn’t, probably a Wasp from old money, a banker and a lawyer who met, not through social circles, but on a deal. This gal wasn’t a cold fish, she was frozen. Her lack of visible grief didn’t mean she wasn’t attached to her husband-she probably liked him fine-it was simply a reflection of her ice-in-the-veins nature. If he ever had to sue someone, someone he really hated, this was the woman he’d want.
She made eye contact exclusively with him. Nancy might as well have been invisible. Subordinates, such as the law associates at Helen’s white-shoe firm, were implements, background features. It was only when Nancy opened her notebook that Helen acknowledged her presence with a dimpling scowl.
Will thought it was pointless to start with manufactured sympathy. He wasn’t selling and she wasn’t buying. Right out of the box he asked, “Do you know any Hispanic men who drive a blue car?”
“Goodness!” she replied. “Has your investigation become that narrowed?”
He ignored the question. “Do you?”
“The only Hispanic gentleman I know is our former dog walker, Ricardo. I have no idea if he owns a car.”
“Why former?”
“I gave David’s dog away. Funnily enough, one of the EMTs that morning from Lenox Hill Hospital took a shine to him.”
“Can I get Ricardo’s contact information?” Nancy asked.
“Of course,” she sniffed.
Will asked, “If you had a dog walker, why was your husband walking it the morning he was killed?”
“Ricardo only came in the afternoon, while we were at work. David walked him otherwise.”
“Same time every morning?”
“Yes. About five A.M.”
“Who knew his routine?”
“The night doorman, I suppose.”
“Did your husband have any enemies? The kind who might want him dead?”
“Absolutely not! I mean, anyone in the banking business has adversaries, that’s normal, but David was involved in standard, generally amiable transactions. He was a mild person,” she said, as if mildness was not a virtue.
“Did you receive the e-mail of the updated victims’ list?”
“Yes, I looked at it.”
“And?”
Her face contorted. “Well, of course neither David or I knew anyone on that list!”
There he had it, an explanation for her lack of cooperation. Apart from the inconvenience of losing a reliable spouse, she loathed the association with the Doomsday case. It was high-profile but low-rent. Most of the victims were anonymously underclass. David’s murder was bad for her image, bad for her career, her Waspy partners whispering about her while they peed in their urinals and putted on their greens. On some level she was probably angry at David for getting his neck slashed.
“Las Vegas,” he said suddenly.
“Las Vegas,” she countered suspiciously.
“Who did David know from Las Vegas?”
“He asked the same question when he saw the postmark, the night before he was killed. He couldn’t recall anyone offhand and neither can I.”
“We’ve been trying to get his client list from his bank without success,” Nancy said.
She addressed Will. “With whom have you been dealing?”
“The general council’s office,” he said.
“I know Steve Gartner very well. I’ll call him if you like.”
“That would be helpful.”
Will’s phone started to play its inappropriate tune and he unapologetically answered it, listened for a few seconds then rose for privacy and moved toward a cluster of chairs and sofas in a far corner, leaving the two women uncomfortably alone.
