88 Killer th&dl-2 Page 9

  ‘Sociopathic not political. Maybe the killer thinks he’s fulfilling some political purpose, but this kind of behavior is compulsive. The need to mark the corpse, to torture, to execute.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Harper. ‘What about the word on the card?’

  ‘Loyalty. It might give you a clue to the motive or it might be related to his conceptual framework, his ideology. He thinks this is purposeful, even necessary.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A typed card in black. Like an execution card, right? Like his target has been pre-ordained.’

  ‘Could it be from someone David betrayed?’

  ‘He might feel that David has betrayed him. I wouldn’t imagine that the betrayal is real. This is someone’s psychosis working things through on real people. It’s dangerous, Tom.’

  ‘These other marks, what do they mean? Just dots…’

  Harper looked down at the pattern on the page in front of him.

  ‘What do you think it means?’ he asked, looking at Eddie and Denise. They stared hard and shrugged.

  ‘No idea,’ said Eddie. ‘If that helps.’

  ‘Thanks, Laura,’ said Harper. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

  Dr Pense stood up and followed him out. ‘Can I take a look at your face?’

  Harper stopped. ‘What for?’

  ‘How’s your sight?’

  ‘Right eye good. Left eye not so good.’

  Laura pushed Harper through the double doors into her office. ‘Sit down. I want a closer look.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Because if I don’t, no one will, right?’

  Harper sat down at her desk and waited. Laura scrubbed her hands in a sink by the side wall, brought a pen light and pulled his head back. She shone the light into his eye and held it there for a minute.

  ‘Feds are looking into it too,’ said Harper. ‘They want to know if it’s to do with Judge Capske’s ruling and the reaction from the Gun Lobby.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ He looked up. ‘What’s the damage?’

  Laura clicked the pen light off and put it in her pocket. ‘I think you’re okay. Your eye’s responding well to the light. But you should get it looked at properly.’

  ‘I just did,’ said Harper, rising and offering his hand. She took it and they shook.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hate Crime Task Force, Brooklyn

  March 7, 7.03 p.m.

  Denise stood outside the rundown precinct in Brooklyn that housed the Brooklyn Hate Crime Squad. Harper had squared things with the Lieutenant, a friendly cop called Phil Trigg. They’d talk to Dr Levene, give her some background and chase up the records of the four men accused of bias attack on the Goldenbergs. All she wanted was something to take back to Detectives Munroe and Gauge that indicated abduction or worse.

  Harper went with Eddie to Ballistics. The mangled bullet was the only piece of physical evidence that came from the killer, so Harper wanted to know if there was anything in it. Time was ticking down fast.

  Denise headed up to the fourth floor. She still had her Civilian NYPD ID card with her photograph against a blue background. She approached the tall gray-haired figure ahead of her. ‘Dr Levene,’ she said, and held out her hand.

  Lieutenant Trigg shook it firmly. ‘Harper explained,’ he said. ‘I’ve kept one of the team back for you. Detective Carney’s the man you want to speak to. His knowledge of the area is second to none. He’s got every hate group mapped and tagged. It’s an impressive operation he runs.’

  ‘I appreciate this,’ said Denise.

  ‘We all got daughters, Doctor, so if this might help some poor guy, then we’re happy to assist.’ The Lieutenant pointed. Denise found herself looking at the back of Jack Carney. He was tall, athletic with broad shoulders.

  ‘Detective Carney,’ said Denise.

  Jack Carney turned. He stared across the precinct investigation room. His eyes were clear blue. He was handsome and confident. ‘You must be Dr Levene. Good to meet you.’

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to help.’

  ‘Not a problem. Harper gave me four names: Raymond Hicks, Patrick Ellery, Leonard Lukanov and Thomas Ocksborough.’

  ‘You know them?’

  ‘I know them as Ray Hicks, Paddy Ellery, Leo Lukanov, Tommy Ocks. I’ve done a quick check. I know a couple of them pretty well. That’s not usually a good sign.’ He smiled. Denise smiled back.

  ‘You married?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Is that relevant?’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ said Carney. Denise stared. ‘Come on, I’m kidding you. You got to loosen up, Doctor. This is no comedy show down here, so we’ve got to cheer ourselves up.’

  ‘Can we concentrate on these four guys, rather than my marital status?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Carney. ‘Let’s go find a seat somewhere.’ He led Denise into one of the interview rooms, asking, ‘You got any indications of hate crime on this missing girl?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Words, symbols… any indication that it was because of her religion?’

  ‘No. There’s nothing except this attack which happened much earlier.’

  ‘But you think these guys might have held a grudge?’

  ‘That’s what I’d like to take a look at. Where do they hang out?’

  ‘Brooklyn.’

  ‘Any chance you can take me on a tour? Maybe speak to them?’

  ‘These aren’t nice characters, Dr Levene — you sure you want to?’

  ‘I’m sure as long as you can spare the time.’

  ‘You’re not going to like what you see. They’re sick little thugs and they believe what they spout. It’s pretty hard not to react and I know you’re the kind to react.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ said Denise.

  The third name on the list was Leo Lukanov. Carney and his partner muscled up close to the door. They were an intimidating pair. They knocked hard and loud and shouted out ‘NYPD — open up!’ They kept it going until the person inside felt that this was drawing too much attention to him.

  The door opened. Leo Lukanov stood there. Close-cropped blond hair, pale blue eyes, full red lips. He was wearing a tank top, the number eighty-eight tattooed on one shoulder above an iron cross, some SS symbols on the right. Denise shied away immediately. She hadn’t expected the Nazi symbols.

  Carney stared at Lukanov. He was strong and wiry. He didn’t smile or speak.

  ‘This is Dr Levene, Leo. Now you be nice and answer the lady’s questions or I’ll serve this warrant here and tear your digs to pieces.’ Carney waved a warrant. Denise had been told that it wasn’t real, but it didn’t need to be. Leo Lukanov’s eyes settled on her. ‘She’s working on the disappearance of Abby Goldenberg,’ added Carney.

  Denise looked at the big tattooed figure ahead of her. He was cold, difficult — not bright, she guessed.

  ‘Mr Lukanov, you were questioned in relation to an alleged bias-attack on Abby Goldenberg,’ said Denise. ‘Do you remember the allegation?’

  Lukanov smiled and leaned against the door. ‘The girl who thought someone grabbed her ass and shouted “Let’s fuck a Jew”? It was just wishful thinking. She couldn’t even say who grabbed her ass and who shouted something.’

  ‘Is that right?’ said Denise.

  Leo leered forward. ‘Some girls just want to improve their bloodline,’ he said. ‘Maybe you like the look of what you see, too?’

  The back of Carney’s hand hit Lukanov’s shoulder. ‘Be polite, retard.’

  Denise flicked open her notes. ‘This your line, Leo, sexually motivated hate crime? You into that — hate and lust? That make you tick?’

  ‘We didn’t do nothing. She imagined it. We were shouting all kinds of things. Just walking and shoving. Nothing about or against anyone. She must’ve got confused.’

  ‘You’re wearing some Nazi symbols,’ said Denise. ‘Do you hate Jews?’

  ‘I don’t take political
stances, lady.’

  ‘She also heard someone say, “Die you kike bitch”.’

  ‘She misheard.’

  ‘She heard it twice.’

  ‘She misheard it twice. Some kids, some Jews, they’ve got a persecution complex. One of us says something innocent and because we’re wearing Nazi symbols, they get confused and bitter. We’re the victims, here.’

  ‘I think we all know you’re lying, Mr Lukanov. Those symbols are offensive.’

  ‘HCU will tell you that it ain’t a crime. Pro-Nazi symbols aren’t anti-Semitic in their own right, did you know that?’

  ‘Is that right?’ asked Denise.

  Jack Carney nodded and twisted his mouth.

  ‘You heard or seen or know anything about Abby’s disappearance?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘You know anything?’

  ‘No,’ said Lukanov. He took a rolled cigarette from behind his ear and lit it.

  ‘You ever think about going round to her house after she reported the four of you to the police?’

  ‘No, we never thought that.’

  ‘Don’t get smart, Leo, or I’ll put it about that you’re an informer.’

  ‘Sorry, Detective.’

  ‘You be very sorry, Leo, now answer the questions.’

  ‘Look, lady, we might do some shit, but we don’t do no serious shit.’

  Denise looked at him. She sensed that he was capable of cruelty. ‘I’m just saying, Mr Lukanov, that one story going around my head is about the four of you, becoming angry that some little high-school girl gets you all a night in the cells. Must’ve been embarrassing. Two of you lost your jobs on account of it. What do you say about that?’

  ‘I’d say you should stop telling stories,’ said Lukanov.

  ‘You have a few drinks, decide to go see her. Maybe you follow her into the woods. Maybe things got out of hand and maybe you hurt her, maybe worse.’

  ‘Fuck you. Is she allowed to make these fucking allegations, Detective? Fuck you, bitch.’

  Jack Carney moved in close and pushed Leo’s head against the door. He held it there tight. ‘Don’t you ever speak like that to anyone in my company, Leo, or you’ll be in serious trouble.’

  ‘You got a car,’ said Denise, ‘between you?’

  ‘Answer the question, deadbeat,’ said Carney.

  ‘Yeah, Paddy rolls.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Red Ford.’

  ‘We’re going to check this car, we’re going to check your story, Leo. I want to know where you were at five-fifteen on Thursday, February 26.’

  ‘Don’t remember,’ said Lukanov.

  ‘Try,’ said Carney.

  ‘Do whatever, some kid runs away, that’s all and I get the fucking shakedown.’

  ‘What were you doing?’

  Leo thought for a moment. ‘Nothing. Finished work, probably having a drink with Paddy.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘We go to the pool hall.’

  Denise nodded. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Lukanov.’

  They left him at the door, returned to the car and drove off.

  ‘What did you think?’ said Carney.

  ‘Nice boys,’ said Denise. ‘Leo’s the one hiding something, though.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Yeah. The other two we found didn’t seem as cagey or as aggressive.’

  ‘He’s bad news all right. A little sadist. You should try to get a warrant to turn him over.’

  ‘I’ve got nothing at all to put him at the scene.’

  ‘Well, I hope it helped,’ said Carney. ‘You want to try Tommy Ocks? He’s not blessed with looks or brains. And his politics stink too.’

  ‘Let’s make it a full house,’ said Denise.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Crown Heights, Brooklyn

  March 7, 9.03 p.m.

  Brooklyn wasn’t Brooklyn any more. That’s what Martin Heming was fond of saying. He walked with his head high, an odd little twitch in his neck making its presence known every few paces. Heming was born and bred in Brooklyn, schooled and beaten and mugged in Brooklyn. His first kiss was a Brooklyn kiss, his first love was a Brooklyn high-school beauty queen whom he had won, married, beaten and lost. And now, the whole world was caving in, even in Brooklyn.

  He paced up the sidewalk with Leo Lukanov at his side. ‘What did the bitch have on you?’

  ‘Nothing. Not a thing. Just went on about the time we put the frighteners on the girl.’

  ‘Her name?’

  ‘Denise Levene.’

  ‘Another Jew,’ said Heming. ‘Look at these people, Leo.’ They stared across the street. The black and whites were out and about in numbers. Alien faces, alien customs, alien dress. Heming felt the anger well up. It was happening all over and now they were hanging around in his street. In his own fucking street.

  ‘We should teach this Jew cop a lesson.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ said Leo. ‘She needs a slap.’

  ‘She needs to know she doesn’t fuck with us,’ said Heming.

  Leo nodded and bristled, his shoulders moving back and forth, a kind of semi-conscious limbering up. ‘What are you looking at?’ he shouted across the street. He licked his upper lip that carried a line of hair, masquerading as a mustache.

  Heming and Lukanov each had a fist of leaflets. They’d produced them themselves. It was important, as a cell, to become active and to keep active. Heming said it every damn day — they spent too long waiting around doing too little as these immigrant communities grew stronger. Action made sense. It was an imperative. Every moment of inaction tipped the balance against the future for real Americans.

  As they walked, they dropped a leaflet every few yards, scattered them outside the Jewish schools, up the pathways to synagogues, in parks and along busy walkways. The type was in a gothic script, chosen on Lukanov’s computer in his dirty little room in a poor part of Brooklyn. A neat little Swastika had been cut and pasted in each corner and in the middle they’d typed three bold words:

  KILL ALL JEWS

  The message had the desired impact on the local Jewish population. It created outrage and outrage was good. It made Section 88 feel strong and powerful.

  Heming was twenty-eight. Lukanov was two years younger. They’d met at a neo-Nazi rally, when Heming and his Section 88 gang started to turn up the heat in Brooklyn with placards and signs declaring God Hates Jews and more. Heming had been involved in the neo-Nazi movement for over eight years before he set up his own group two years earlier.

  Heming knew that attacking illegal immigrants would find sympathy in the jobless communities in Brooklyn; graffiti on synagogues seemed to capture people’s hidden internal hatreds.

  Heming sent orders down the line, where he wanted more or less action. He followed political elections, trying to ramp up pressure on the liberal Left and secure greater popular appeal for his movement from the far Right. His gang organized small riots, attacks on immigrant communities, right-wing graffiti, harassment and — the pinnacle for any Section 88 member — violence against persons of Jewish or non-white origin. The 88s even had a tattoo, worn like a badge of honor, that members were entitled to if they spilled the blood of the undesirables. It was a blue eagle.

  Heming and Lukanov threw the last few leaflets down on the sidewalk and continued to walk. Heming had been working closely with Lukanov for a few months, trying to get him more involved. Lukanov was strong, stupid and impressionable. He’d kill if you told him to, and that made Heming excited.

  Across the street, a group of Hasidic Jews stared at them. One of them was showing a leaflet to the other men. Their mutterings in Hebrew started low and secretive, but they soon became louder. Their long curled strands of hair started to shake and they pointed across the street at the pair.

  ‘Get the fuck out of here!’ shouted Heming.

  There was a switch in Heming’s head and he didn’t know much about how it got there, but once it was turned on, he felt
anger welling up like water in a blocked drain. Over time, the little things had become the big things: a feeling of being an outsider turned into anger against the invader, a feeling of being judged became harsh judgment, a feeling of being spat on and disenfranchised by the American government became a need to express hatred. Now he hated the Jews, the Federal government and non-whites in that order.

  ‘I just want to hurt them,’ said Heming, staring hard at the group of angry men. His tattooed knuckles twisted into fists. His gun was tight in his waistband. He touched it with the heel of his hand for reassurance.

  ‘They’re so fucking in your face,’ said Leo. ‘What do you want me to do, Martin? Talking that shit. This is America! You want me to hurt them?’

  The group of men continued to stare. It felt like a challenge to Lukanov and Heming.

  ‘Fuck them up,’ said Martin.

  ‘I’ll do it, Martin, I’ll do all of them.’ Lukanov felt a jerk of excitement. He pulled a switchblade out of the back pocket of his jeans.

  ‘Turn away! Turn your fucking eyes away!’ shouted Heming, but none of the seven pairs of eyes moved or seemed to understand. They looked like a group of deer staring up at a distant noise. Heming stepped out into the street. ‘Stop fucking looking at me, you fucking Yids.’

  Lukanov moved past Heming and started to march across the street. The rising tide of anger was impossible to contain.

  Heming strode with confidence towards the group, a step behind Lukanov. One or two started to say something. But they didn’t scatter and that annoyed Heming even more. ‘Cut them, Leo,’ he shouted.

  Lukanov flicked open his blade and held it at arm’s reach, pointing towards the seven men. He felt good now, he felt like a hero, ready to clean up his city. He just wanted to cut, wanted to kill. ‘Now, Martin?’

  ‘Make them run, Leo.’

  Leo ran at the sidewalk. The group didn’t wait any longer to find out if this thug was willing to kill. They scattered both ways.