Killer Heat

THIRTY-THREE

Mike drove me home on his way to his place, a cramped walkup apartment not far from my high-rise that he nicknamed "the coffin. I went upstairs alone and used the deadbolt and chain to lock up, even though I had the luxury of two doormen on each of the three shifts. Every twist in this case seemed creepier and creepier, and the idea of a serial killer at large-spreading his victims' bodies beyond the city like a growing cancer-was chilling.

I slept fitfully, leaving home later than usual because there was no need to get Kerry Hastings to the courthouse much earlier than her ten o'clock appearance before Judge Lamont. Before I left my apartment to hail a cab, I called to tell her I was on my way and would wait right in front of her hotel.

Mercer was going to meet us in my office. He had put too much into this case not to see Floyd Warren through to his sentence. And now he would try to pitch Kerry on the idea of using her rapist to help us understand our killer's motive. It seemed senseless to me, especially as the evidence against Dylan seemed to be mounting.

I could see Kerry under the awning of her hotel when my taxi pulled up at nine fifteen, and I slid across behind the driver's seat to let her in

Good morning. I guess I don't have to ask about your weekend. The newspapers and television are full of it. I don't know how you do it, Alex. Doesn't it ever get to you, all this violence and pain? "Sure it does. But it's an awfully good feeling to be able to try to do something about it, try to put people's lives back together. Were you able to relax at all? "It's beginning to sink in now. I'm starting to feel like there is life after Floyd Warren-that we've turned the tables on him at last."

I shifted in my seat and stared out the window as the driver went back to the FDR Drive for the ride downtown. Kerry Hastings wasn't a vindictive woman, but I didn't think she'd like the idea that Mercer was about to propose.

"Do I need to tell you what I'm going to say to Judge Lamont?"

"Only if you want to," I said. Impact statements were a relatively new phenomenon, a result of the advocacy movement of the 1980s, which expanded the rights of crime victims. I didn't have to try to articulate what effect Kerry's night of terror had had on the rest of her life-she would address Lamont directly, expressing her own thoughts and emotions.

"I wrote it out. I'm sort of worried about breaking down."

I smiled at her. "This part is so much easier. You'll do fine."

She handed me a copy of the words she intended to say and I skimmed it as we cruised down the highway. "I ceased to be human during the rape," she wrote, after detailing the facts. The thoughts she had during the occurrence of the crime were things she was never allowed to speak at either trial. "I became prey to Floyd Warren, who attacked me like a rabid beast."

"Too strong?"

The cab veered from side to side as a livery driver cut into our lane. "Take it easy," I said to the driver. "We're not in a hurry, okay?"

"Is it too much?"

"It's great. If I'd been half as descriptive to the jury, the verdict would be overturned on appeal. People who don't understand these crimes need to hear this."

The driver made the turn off the highway under the Brooklyn Bridge and began to wind through the streets of Chinatown that would bring him behind the courthouse, around to the DA's office at One Hogan Place.

We came to a full stop at the intersection of Baxter Street and Hogan. I waved at a couple of colleagues crossing in front of us. One of them spotted me through the open window and gave me a thumbs-up, shouting out, "Nice win on that Warren case."

The block was unusually short and narrow for the city. The avenues on either end of it were restricted to one-way traffic, but the only two doors on Hogan Place were the entrances to our office-the south end of the vast criminal courthouse that fronted on Centre Street-and the rear door of our satellite building across the way.

The driver stopped the cab as I directed, and I leaned forward to hand him the fare. Kerry unbuckled her seat belt and started to get out.

She had one foot on the pavement and the other still in the cab when we were rear-ended with enormous force. The taxi lurched forward and my head slammed against the partition. Kerry screamed as she fell out onto the ground and was dragged along for almost fifteen feet, hanging on to the door, as the driver's foot hit the gas instead of the brake.