“Except notes,” someone says.
“And his murder weapons. But that’s intentional,” I answer. “No doubt, he wants us to make the connection. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to let us catch him.”
McDermott runs his hands through his hair and groans. “I’m supposed to ask you if you’ll work with us on this.”
I smirk. He couldn’t have been less enthusiastic. It isn’t his call, I can see. It’s Carolyn Pendry’s. The police commander is not stupid, not so naive that he can’t recognize the utility of an ally in the television media. Carolyn wants, Carolyn gets.
“If I have a question,” I say, “you answer.”
His smile is tight, forced. “Whatever you say, Counselor.” Then he moves to the center of the room. These are his detectives, I assume, though I didn’t catch a title from him. He reads from a clipboard. “Kopecky, Collins. I want to know every newspaper article Evelyn Pendry worked on for the last year. Especially crime, but whatever. And talk to everyone at the Watch. See if Evelyn dropped some hint about what she was doing. Pittacora, I want you to listen to every song that Torcher ever released. Find the lyrics. They’re probably on the Internet somewhere.
“Speaking of Internet,” he continues, “Sloan and Koessl, look at every Web site devoted to Terry Burgos. The chat rooms, especially. Anything looks interesting, get a subpoena from Judge Ahlfors and get the URLs. If this guy had a Burgos fixation, maybe he decided to drop a line or two.”
One of those two, either Koessl or Sloan, a guy who’s paying too much attention to his hair, asks me, “Any idea how many Web sites we’re talking about?”
“No telling. Dozens, probably.” I snap my fingers. “You better look at Web sites devoted to Tyler Skye and Torcher, too. He wrote the lyrics, after all.”
“Good.” McDermott nods. “Yeah, especially any cross-reference between Torcher and Burgos. Grab as many uniforms as you need. We need that fast. We need all of this fast. Okay.” He scans his list. “On that same note, Ashley and Knape, hit the DOC. I want to read every letter that anyone ever wrote to Burgos in prison. You will definitely need uniforms for that. Keep in touch with Koessl and Sloan. Again, a cross-reference would be great.”
“You can probably skip the marriage proposals,” I add, getting a laugh. At least three women proposed to Burgos while he was on death row. I don’t get people. Or maybe my problem is, I do.
“Saltzman, Bax,” says McDermott. “On Fred Ciancio. Follow up with this guy, Wally Monk, that Riley was talking about. The guy at the security company. I want to know where Fred Ciancio was working back then. I want to hear from everyone who worked at Bristol Security with Ciancio. Anyone who worked side by side with him, or had a beer with him, or ever smelled one of his farts. And look at everyone assigned to Mansbury College back then.
“Williams and Covatta, also on Ciancio. Find his daughter. Talk to neighbors. Find his safe-deposit box. Anything that could tell us why he might have some secret. And find out who this goon in the background of this photograph is.” McDermott takes a photograph, which I can’t see, and hands it to one of the cops. “Tell me why Ciancio had a copy of this photo,” he says.
I crane to look at the photo but can’t see it.
“Powers and Peterson, Ciancio used to work at Ensign Correctional. I want to know about him there. I want to know if he was a good guard or a bad one. And take a copy of this photograph”-he hands another copy of the photo to the nearest cop, who hands it down, again avoiding my eyes-“and see if the goon ever did time at Ensign.
“Kinzler,” he adds, dropping the clipboard to his side. “Look at recent releases, especially violent offenders.”
Recent releases from prison, he means. A good thought. That might explain the sixteen-year gap in the murders.
“Look at mental institutions, too,” I add.
McDermott points at the guy who must be Kinzler, who writes it down.
“Yeah, he’s probably a whack job,” says Kinzler.
McDermott winces, like someone swatted him in the face. The room goes silent a moment-why, I have no idea.
“Jann, Abrams, Beatty.” McDermott, his face colored now, checks off another box on his list. “Recanvass both crime scenes. Maybe Evelyn Pendry talked to Ciancio’s neighbors. I want to know what she was asking them.”
“Everyone keeps this quiet,” Stoletti says. “Our anchorwoman out there”-she gestures toward Carolyn, I assume, wherever she is-“is willing to keep a lid on this for now. I don’t think she’ll give us long. But let’s keep it down as long as we can.”
“Go,” says McDermott. “Meet back here at five. Get me some answers.”
The group gets up, eager to move forward. The one detective, Kinzler, approaches McDermott, but he waves him off, pats him on the arm. Something about the “whack job” comment but I have no idea what.
When the place empties, McDermott touches my arm. “Where would you start? Just on a gut call.”
I think about that, and the answer comes surprisingly quickly.
“The nutty professor,” I say. “Frankfort Albany. Cassie and Ellie’s teacher, the class about violence and women. Burgos’s employer back then, too.”
“I’ll do it,” says Stoletti.
“Let me go, too,” I say.
Stoletti looks at McDermott, who has the ultimate call. By the look on her face, I think she would rather share a car ride with a flatulent child molester.
“It’s not a bad idea,” he says. Seems like he enjoys his decision, too.
“What are you going to do?” I ask him.
He tugs at his ear, the corner of his mouth turned up. “I want to see your file on Terry Burgos,” he says.
25
Head DOWN. Baseball cap, sunglasses. Mustache, beard, eyebrows are fakes, easy to tell it’s a getup, but it’s okay, point is, he won’t see your face, he’ll only see the money.
Not the way to do it, but no time, have to hurry, there he is, parking his bike by the building, fluorescent vest, removing the biker’s helmet, locking up the bike, now, now-
Leo approaches the messenger, a bag of parcels over his shoulder, Leo clears his throat, holds out the package, look at the package, pay no attention to the face-
He does his best, shows the man the package, bearing the name Shaker, Riley & Flemming. Shows him a fifty-dollar bill, too.
“Yeah-they’re up there. You want me-you want me to deliver this?” His eyes focus less on the package, more on the fifty.
Leo nods.
“This”-the kid shakes it-“this is a letter?”
Leo nods. Yeah, a letter.
“Why don’t you deliver it? Is this like a joke or something?”
