'Was that a nod?' she asked. 'Were you nodding?'
He composed himself enough to say, 'I can't say anything about what goes on there. Please!'
She looked bummed then brightened up and started to work again. 'Okay! That's cool. Tell you what, Peter,' she said, swinging her hips, slowly approaching the sofa, 'I'll be your personal UFO tonight-unidentified fucking object. How would that be?'
JUNE 23, 2009
W ill had a devastating hangover, the kind that felt like a weasel had woken up warm and cozy inside his skull then panicked at its confinement and tried to scratch and bite its way out through his eyes.
The evening had begun benignly enough. On his way home he stopped at his local dive, a yeasty smelling cave called Dunigan's, and downed a couple of pops on an empty stomach. Next up, the Pantheon Diner, where he grunted at the heavily stubbled waiter who grunted back at him and without exchanging any fully formed phrases brought him the same dish he ate two to three days a week-lamb kebabs and rice, washed down, of course, with a couple of beers. Then before decamping to his place for the night he paid his wobbly respects to his friendly package store and picked up a fresh half gallon of Black Label, pretty much the only luxury item to adorn his life.
The apartment was small and spartan, and stripped of Jennifer's feminizing touches, a truly bleak uninteresting piece of real estate-two sparse white-walled rooms with shiny parquet floors, meager views of the building across the street, and a few thousand dollars' worth of generic furniture and rugs. Truth be told, the apartment was almost too small for him. The living room was fourteen by seventeen, the bedroom ten by twelve, the kitchen and bathroom each the size of a good closet. Some of the criminals he had put away for life wouldn't see the place as a major upgrade. How had he put up with sharing the flat with Jennifer for four months? Whose bright idea was that?
He hadn't intended to drink himself stupid but the heavy full bottle seemed to hold so much promise. He twisted off the top, cracking its seal, then hoisted it by its built-in handle and glugged a half tumbler of scotch into his favorite whiskey glass. With the TV droning in the background he sofa-drank, steadily sinking into a deep dark hole as he thought about his effing day, his effing case, his effing life.
Notwithstanding his reluctance to take on the Doomsday case, the first few days had been, in fact, rejuvenating. Clive Robertson was killed right under his nose and the audacity and perplexity of the crime electrified him. It reminded him of the way big cases used to make him feel, and the kicky pulses of adrenaline agreed with him.
He'd immersed himself in the tangle of facts, and though he knew that epiphanous moments were the stuff of fiction, had a powerful urge to drill down and discover something that had been missed, the overlooked link that would tie together two murders, then a third, then another, until the case was cracked.
The distraction of important work had been as soothing as butter on a burn. He started by running hot, pounding the files, pushing Nancy, exhausting both of them in a marathon of days bleeding into nights bleeding into days. For a while he actually took Sue Sanchez's words to heart: Okay, this would be his last big case. Let's ride this sucker out and retire with a big old bang.
Crescendo.
Decrescendo.
Within a week he'd been burnt out, spent and dispirited. Robertson's autopsy and toxicology reports made no sense to him. The seven other cases made no sense to him. He couldn't get any feeling for who the killer was or what gratification he was getting from the murders. None of his initial ideas were panning out. All he could fathom was a tableau of randomness, and that was something he had never seen in a serial killer.
The first scotch was to dull the unpleasantness of his afternoon in Queens interviewing the family of the hit- and-run victim, nice solid people who were still inconsolable. The second scotch was to blunt his frustration. The third was to fill some of his emptiness with maudlin remembrances, the fourth was for loneliness. The fifth…?
In spite of his pounding head and hollow nausea, he stubbornly dragged himself into work by eight. In his book, if you made it to work on time, never drank on the job, and never touched a drop before happy hour, you didn't have a booze problem. Still, he couldn't ignore the searing headache, and as he rode the elevator he clutched an extra large coffee to his chest like a life preserver. He flinched at the memory of waking, fully clothed, at 6:00 A.M., a third of the mighty bottle empty. He had Advil in his office. He needed to get there.
Doomsday files were stacked on his desk, his credenza, his bookcase, and all over the floor, stalagmites of notes, reports, research, computer printouts, and crime scene photos. He had carved himself walking corridors through the piles-from door to desk chair, chair to bookcase, chair to window, so he could adjust the blinds and keep the afternoon sun out of his eyes. He made his way through the obstacle course, landed hard on his chair, and hunted down the pain relievers, which he painfully swallowed with a gulp of hot coffee. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, and when he opened them Nancy was standing there, looking at him like a doctor.
'Are you all right?'
'I'm fine.'
'You don't look fine. You look sick.'
'I'm fine.' He fumbled for a file at random and opened it. She was still there. 'What?'
'What's the plan for today?' she asked.
'The plan is for me to drink my coffee and for you to come back in an hour.'
Dutifully, she reappeared in precisely one hour. His pain and nausea were subsiding but his thinking was still milky. 'Okay,' he began, 'what's our schedule?'
She opened the ubiquitous notebook. 'Ten o'clock, telecon with Dr. Sofer from Johns Hopkins. Two o'clock, task force press conference. Four o'clock, uptown to see Helen Swisher. You look better.'
He was curt. 'I was good an hour ago and I'm good now.' She didn't look convinced, and he wondered if she knew he was hung over. Then it dawned on him- she looked better. Her face was a little thinner, her body a little sleeker, her skirt didn't pinch as much at the waist. They had been constant companions for ten days and he'd only just realized she was eating like a parakeet. 'Can I ask you a question?'
'Sure.'
'Are you on a diet or something?'
She blushed instantly. 'Sort of. I started jogging again too.'
'Well, it looks good. Keep it up.'
She lowered her eyes in embarrassment. 'Thanks.'
He quickly changed the subject. 'Okay, let's take a step back and try to see the big picture,' he said foggily. 'We're getting killed with details. Let's go through these, one more time, focusing on connections.' He joined her at the conference table and moved the files onto other files to give them an uncluttered surface. He took a clean pad and wrote on it, Key Observations, and underlined the words twice. He willed his brain to work and loosened his tie to encourage blood flow.
There had been three deaths on May 22, three on May 25, two on June 11, and none since. 'What does that tell us?' he asked. She shook her head, so he answered his own question. 'They're all weekdays.'
'Maybe the guy has a weekend job,' she offered.
'Okay. Maybe.' He entered his first key observation: Weekdays. 'Find the Swisher files. I think they're on the bookcase.'
Case #1: David Paul Swisher, thirty-six-year-old investment banker at HSBC. Park Avenue, wealthy, all-Ivy background. Married, nothing obvious on the side. No Enron skeletons in his closet as far as they knew. Took the family mutt for a predawn walk, found by a jogger just after 5:00 A.M. in a river of blood-watch, rings, and wallet missing, left carotid cleanly sliced. The body was still warm, about twenty feet out of range of the nearest CCTV camera located on the roof of a co-op on the south side of 82nd Street-twenty goddamned feet and they would've have had the killing on tape.
However, they did have a glimpse of a person of interest, a nine-second sequence time-coded at 5:02:23-
