The Caller

TWELVE

Joe shared the elevator to the sixth floor with Irene, who he knew only from her name badge; black backing, gold print. They had never spoken. She had thin lips, flossy grey hair and sharp metal glasses. Joe pitied anyone who had to go through Irene to get what they wanted. They had taken the elevator with babies, bouquets of flowers, beautiful people, singing people, even a clown, and none of them had cracked her. She represented a day he hoped he wouldn’t have.

The smell of Colombian coffee filled the office, but when he went to get some, both pots were empty. The detectives in the task force corner all had fresh cups.

Denis Cullen sat alone at his desk.

‘Yes,’ he said suddenly, slamming his hands onto the desk. He stood up. ‘Everyone? I’ve got the perp’s way in.’

‘Go ahead,’ said Joe.

‘He’s got something the vics want,’ said Cullen.

He cleared his throat. ‘All the vics cancelled their credit cards a week or two before they died.’

Some of the men nodded. Others waited for more.

‘Right, OK,’ said Joe. ‘So they all had their wallets stolen. That would explain Lowry’s two wallets. He got the cards re-issued. Then he gets his original one back. The night he died.’

Cullen nodded. ‘Perp’s got their wallet means he has their address, phone number, place of work. Calls them up, they’re so grateful. And hey, everyone’s going to trust the guy who’s honest enough to return a wallet.’

‘He can spend as long as he likes with it beforehand,’ said Joe, ‘thinking about the victim’s potential, looking through their things, checking where they shop. He can call the house at different times, see whether there’s always someone home. He might rule someone out if they’ve kids, someone with kids is going to have photos in the wallet-’

‘Lowry had a kid,’ said Rencher.

‘Yeah,’ said Joe, ‘but every Sunday they went to her ma’s. The perp could have noticed that, Lowry could have mentioned it on the phone, we don’t know.’

‘Also,’ said Cullen. ‘He can take a wallet and never choose that person as a victim. He could have wallets of people he’s never called.’

‘Bobby, Pace – you were on the phone records, right?’ said Joe. ‘No-one noticed they all must have got an incoming call the night they died?’

‘That’s not for sure,’ said Bobby.

‘Well, did you notice anything unusual in the incoming phone records?’ said Joe.

‘We would have said,’ said Pace.

‘Do you mind if I take a look at them?’ said Cullen.

‘Sure. Go ahead,’ said Bobby. ‘Knock yourself out.’

Joe was walking away when the phone on his desk rang.

‘Detective Lucchesi? Joe Lucchesi?’

‘Yeah.’

‘My name is Preston Blake.’

‘Yeah?’

‘I… uh… is this confidential?’

‘If that’s what you want, sure,’ said Joe.

There was silence at the other end. Then faint breathing, deep, but quiet.

‘Sir? What can I do for you?’ said Joe.

‘You’re working on The Caller case. I saw your name in the paper.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I think… The Caller…’ He inhaled, long and slow.

Joe waited.

‘He tried to kill me.’

Joe sat down. ‘Kill you?’

‘Yes.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘Six months ago.’

‘Mr Blake, have you been following all the media reports on the investigation?’

‘Yes… but that’s not why I’m calling. This is real. This really happened.’

‘Is this your first time getting in touch with us, Mr Blake?’

‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

‘No reason,’ said Joe. ‘Please, tell me what makes you think it was The Caller.’

‘I let him into my home, he stripped me naked and beat my face and pulled a gun on me.’

‘How did you get away?’

‘I overpowered him and he ran.’

‘Are you sure it was the same guy?’

‘Did any of the victims have… was there a phone near them…?’

This time Joe went silent.

‘Mr Blake, can I take some of your details? My partner and I would like to pay a visit to your house, talk to you a bit more, if that’s all right with you.’

‘I… don’t know if it is.’

‘Let me start with getting a few details, OK? Your name again.’

‘Preston. P-R-E-S-T-O-N Blake.’

‘Date of birth?’

‘04/16/72.’

‘And where do you live?’ said Joe.

‘1890 Willow Street in Brooklyn Heights.’

‘Me and my partner would like to drop by. You home this afternoon?’

‘I don’t know if I can do this. I… no-one has been here since… no-one.’

‘You’ve made this call, Mr Blake. That means you want to help. We’re not going to do anything to make things worse for you. I can promise you that. We’ll stop by, ask you some questions and then we’ll be outta there. If this is the killer, you’d like to see him caught, right?’

Blake sucked in a deep breath. ‘You must have seen what he did to his victims. You must have seen their corpses… the living proof might be harder to take.’

Brooklyn Heights was a quiet upper middle class neighborhood, one subway stop – but a world away – from Wall Street. At three o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, the main action on the residential streets was nannies with strollers taking kids to the tiny playground by the promenade.

‘These are some very nice houses,’ said Joe.

He took a left onto Willow Street, lined with trees and perfectly kept terraced brownstones. Preston Blake’s house was on the right-hand side, close to the corner, a narrow, three-storey over-basement Anglo-Italianate design with an antique black door.

Joe rang the bell and spoke into the intercom. ‘Mr Blake? It’s Detectives Joe Lucchesi, Danny Markey.’ They held their badges up to a small security camera mounted in the right-hand corner above the door. After several seconds, they heard a series of muted beeps from inside. They waited, then counted the halting slide of bolts that ran from the top of the door to its base. The door opened inwards, but was hinged on the same side as the keyhole. Joe and Danny exchanged glances. No-one appeared. Joe pushed the door gently and walked inside. His chest was hit with a constricting spasm as he took in the vast white expanse around him. Suspended from the ceiling by thick steel cables were evenly spaced rows of six-foot tall, two-foot wide white perspex bookshelves. White, high-gloss floor tiles shone with the reflected overkill of hundreds of shelf-mounted spotlights. Joe stepped forward and felt a surge of regret. Every book title was a desperate search for relief, a net cast wide across disciplines; acupuncture, angels, auras, Buddhism, meditation, reflexology, reiki, yoga. Joe and Danny hovered, emotional intruders. They turned to the man who didn’t look like he’d found an answer in any of these pages.

Blake raised his hands. ‘Don’t worry. I have The DaVinci Code too.’ He flashed a lopsided smile from the right-hand side of his mouth. A small pool of saliva leaked onto his lower lip. He dabbed at it with a handkerchief. ‘But codes…’ He gestured to the security panel by the door. ‘I’m sure someone could… well, maybe that’s not a great leap.’

Joe smiled.

‘Anyway, hello.’ Blake stretched out his hand from behind the door.

‘Thanks for letting us come over,’ said Joe, shaking it firmly.

Blake was lean and stooped. Whatever he had been through had left his face older and shadowed, his most striking feature, loose flesh hanging under dark, weary eyes. The skin on the right side of his chin was lumpy and uneven. He was dressed in baggy chinos and a lightweight black turtleneck. A red baseball cap was pulled low on his head. Panic flickered in his eyes. Danny followed his gaze to the open door and quickly closed it. Blake walked past him and ground the bolts back into place.

‘Follow me,’ he said when he was finished.

He led them through the complex of shelves and through heavy white double doors into a sparse and spacious living room. The floors were polished oak, the walls soft yellow. There was no dining table, no sideboard. Heavy green drapes hung down by the windows.

Blake sat on a white sofa facing the door and gestured to the matching one opposite. Danny and Joe sat down.

‘You’ve got a nice home here,’ said Joe.

‘Thank you,’ said Blake. ‘Can I offer you something to drink, coffee…’

‘Coffee would be great,’ said Joe.

‘Yeah,’ said Danny. ‘Thanks. Black for both of us.’

Blake paused, but got up and walked across the room to a discreet door that led into a dim hallway. Joe stood up and wandered over to a vase of dried white flowers that stood by the huge, empty fireplace. Just behind it, Joe noticed the corner of a picture frame. He bent down and picked it up. In it was a faded colour photograph that looked like it was taken in the eighties – an older couple, the man thin and stern, the woman chubby, heavily made up and with a sparkle in her eye.

‘My parents,’ said Blake, coming back in, smiling at the photo. ‘They adored each other.’ He set a tray on an ottoman between them with three mugs of black coffee.

‘How long have you been living here?’ said Joe.

‘All my life. My parents both passed away. I have no siblings.’

‘What do you do for a living?’

‘I make jewelry.’

‘Did you make that?’ said Joe, pointing to a black leather cuff Blake was wearing.

Blake nodded.

‘My son wears things like that.’

‘I have more up in my-’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Joe. ‘I didn’t mean-’

‘It’s not a problem. It’d be a pleasure.’

Joe smiled. ‘Thanks, but he needs to get a handle on his schoolwork before I come back with any gifts for him.’

‘Well, let me know if he does.’

‘Thanks,’ said Joe. ‘So, where do you work?’

‘Here.’ He gestured upstairs.

‘So does that mean customers come to your home or suppliers or whoever? I’m just trying to get a feel for people who would know you, know the house.’

‘I have a small client base. I design high-end pieces, made to order. I will meet with a client at their home, discuss designs, go away and create. None of them come here.’

‘OK. Suppliers?’

‘I get the leather sent here. Metals and diamonds I go to 47th Street.’

‘You have cleaning staff? Delivery people coming through?’

‘No. I’m the cleaning staff.’

‘For the whole house?’

‘I got a lot of time on my hands,’ said Blake.

‘Have you ever been the victim of another crime?’ said Joe.

‘Like what?’

‘A burglary, a robbery?’

Blake shook his head. ‘No – why?’

‘Or even had your wallet stolen?’ said Joe.

Blake frowned. ‘No. Never. Why?’

‘Just wondering. OK. Do you think you could talk us through what happened that night?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Blake.

‘You take your time,’ said Danny. ‘We think you’ll be able to do it. We really do. That’s why we’re here.’

Blake took off his baseball cap, smoothed down the black, wiry hair that bounced up, then put it back on. He took a deep breath. ‘It was Monday night. March 13th, I think. I was home watching a movie… two movies. Back to back.’

‘What about that morning?’ said Joe. ‘I’m going to need as much detail as I can about what you were doing that day, where you went, who you spoke with… I’m sorry, but it’s important. If the perp chose you, it could be that by some twist of fate, a change in your routine meant you crossed paths with him. Monday, you stop for coffee at the deli outside your apartment building, Tuesday you hold off ‘til you get to the subway, right next to the killer’s hotdog stand. You get the picture.’

‘OK,’ said Blake. ‘I got up. And I started work immediately. I didn’t go out that day. And no-one called. I get so absorbed in work sometimes, I lose track of time. Which, I guess wouldn’t make me the most reliable witness.’ He smiled. ‘I can’t even tell you what time he called to my door.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Danny. ‘Neither of us know, here, what details might help. That’s why we’ll go back and forth with some questions and answers and see what comes up. How about that?’

Blake nodded. ‘I’m sorry. This is so hard.’

‘I understand that,’ said Danny. ‘But I’m betting you’ll feel a hell of a lot better once you’ve got it all out.’

‘It was late,’ said Blake. ‘He… he called to my door, saying he was a realtor. He was admiring the building and asked to talk to me about selling or wanted to tell me about house prices in the area…’

‘And you let him in.’

‘Yes. I let him in. He had material from Acheson amp; Grant, the realtors on Montague Street… and yes, I know, it sounds kind of dumb.’ He took in what looked like it would be a deep breath, but ended up halting and shallow.

‘It’s the way we are,’ said Danny, ‘most of us want to trust people. Even I want that.’

‘Thanks,’ said Blake. ‘So I invited him in to the foyer and next thing I remember, I was under the kitchen counter-’

‘Sorry – before that,’ said Joe. ‘When you opened the door, did you get a good look at the guy? Could you describe him?’

Blake shook his head. ‘I wish I could. What I can tell you is he was slightly shorter than me, maybe five nine? He was normal build, that’s the best I can do. And his clothes were black – you know, as opposed to the usual bright pink criminals wear.’ He smiled. So did Danny and Joe.

‘He must have looked like a realtor to you – so, was he in a suit?’ said Joe.

Blake shrugged. ‘From what I remember. I think. But I couldn’t swear to it.’

‘What about hair color?’

‘I don’t know. Blond? Grey? I think it was light.’

‘Or any facial features that stood out?’ said Joe.

‘Not that I can think of. Believe me,’ said Blake. ‘I’ve spent so much time going through that night, replaying everything… if I haven’t remembered already, I don’t think I ever will.’

‘It’s OK,’ said Danny. ‘Don’t get yourself worked up about it. Something might come back to you again. Let’s go back to after you woke up on the kitchen floor.’

‘Everything felt wrong. I remember peeling one eye open, literally, with my fingers, because it was stuck shut with blood. I was lying in a foetal position under the island at the centre and I could make out, above me, the corner of the work surface.’

‘Can we go take a look at the kitchen?’ said Joe.

‘Sure.’

Blake led them down the hallway. A bike leaned against the wall with a black helmet hanging from the handlebars. The kitchen was a modern chunky design, granite, walnut and stainless steel. Blake stood by the island and rested a hand on the corner.

‘My own blood was dripping down onto me from here. I remember raising my hand up towards it to prove it. I thought I was in the middle of a nightmare; you know the part where you start to realize what you’re experiencing isn’t real and something physical you do will wake you up; like, you wake up when you’re just about to walk out in front of a speeding car?

‘I can’t describe how I felt knowing that this was real, just the combination of sensations in my head – these throbbing, aching, piercing, stabbing pains. And I can not describe the terror of hearing his footsteps come back towards me.’ He looked away. A tear ran down his face.

‘He came back?’ said Danny.

Blake nodded. ‘And somewhere inside me, I got this overwhelming urge to get away, like an actual physical sensation. I… I basically dragged myself off the floor and was on my hands and knees by the time he walked back in. I made it look like I was about to collapse back on the floor, but instead when he came closer, I kind of jumped up and I punched him, really hard. He staggered backwards into the foyer. That’s when I saw he had a gun in his waistband. And when I looked past him, I could see he had laid something out on the floor, I don’t know what it was. But I knew he was going to do something to me there. So I punched him again, back towards the door. He had my phone – the cordless phone. That went flying out of his hand. He didn’t go pick it up. And then, he… I mean, I guess he wasn’t expecting I would fight back. He grabbed what he had left by the door and… he was gone.’

‘Did he tell you why he was there, why he was doing this to you?’ said Joe.

‘No.’

‘Did he speak at all?’

‘No.’

‘What do you think he had left in the foyer?’

‘I couldn’t see.’

‘What did you do after the attack?’ said Joe.

‘I cleaned myself up, I took some sleeping pills and I went to bed.’

‘Didn’t you need stitches?’ said Danny.

‘Probably. I managed. Well,’ he said pointing to his chin. ‘Maybe not. But I didn’t want to see anyone, didn’t want to go to a doctor. I just wanted to get into bed and sleep through it all.’

‘Why did you not come forward earlier?’ said Joe.

Blake sighed. ‘There are several reasons, I guess. The first is, like anyone, I didn’t ask for this, it was forced on me. If you’re a private person to start with, you’re definitely not going to want to be public at the most personal, damaging time of your life. Do you know what I mean? When I see people on TV with a microphone thrust into their face as they’re walking away from an explosion or a shooting, I can’t bear it. I turn it off. Everyone wants to be inside everyone else’s pain these days. I don’t think it’s right. Do you remember when you could watch the news or read the papers and you would barely see blood or dead bodies and it was all just too sanitised? Then they gradually began showing us more of the reality of war and violence and it worked to an extent, it woke people up to what happens in the world. But that point has been made. Now it’s all about satisfying this imagined prurient curiosity we all have. We want to see how violent death looks on someone’s face. We want to see how losing your wife two minutes ago looks on someone’s face. It’s not right. I would never want to be looked at that way. I think it’s the worst kind of invasion. Worse for me than this Caller entering my home.’

‘This will be kept within the task force,’ said Joe. ‘You don’t have anything to worry about.’

‘Thank you. I’m also thinking of my neighbors. Another reason I didn’t come forward – this is going to sound nuts – was the residents’ association around here. They work so hard for everyone, making sure the neighborhood is not compromised in any way. It would devastate them if they knew about this. Also, if in any way… you know… I invited this on myself-’

‘This is not your fault,’ said Danny.

‘Other people might feel differently.’

‘And why did you come forward now?’ said Joe.

‘When I saw that press conference, I felt I would have support. I would have the backing of the Police Commissioner and the detectives investigating this. And I guess I felt I could speak out for the guys who didn’t make it.’

‘We appreciate you talking to us,’ said Joe. ‘We don’t always have a victim who gets away.’

‘Why do you think he’s targeting us?’ said Blake. ‘Me and the other victims.’

‘He mightn’t like what you represent to him,’ said Danny.

‘But-’ said Blake.

‘We’re not sure why,’ said Joe. ‘We’re looking at different things. Talking to you helps us get closer to what that might be.’

‘Do you think he’s crazy?’

‘Did he seem crazy to you?’ said Joe.

‘Uh, I guess not. I don’t know. Isn’t he crazy to do what he’s doing?’

‘Maybe not,’ said Joe. ‘We’ll know when we find him.’

‘Do you think you’re getting close?’

‘We have lots of information we’re working on, some very reliable directions to go in.’

‘Do you think… look, I guess what I want to know is… do you think he’ll come back for me?’

‘I see no reason why he would do that, Mr Blake. He left when he had the chance. I don’t think he’s going to come back around. Why would he?’

‘The house appears to be very safe,’ said Danny. ‘Look, if you’re ever worried about anything, take our cards, call us.’

‘Thank you.’ He stood up. They shook hands and walked to the front door.

‘Did you have that security system all along or just… after?’ said Joe, pointing to the keypad by the door.

Blake nodded. ‘After.’ He shrugged. ‘But even if I had it before, it wouldn’t have mattered if I was going to go inviting the guy into my house anyway. I mean, a security system is only as good as the guy with the codes.’

‘We had a guy once who wrote the combination to his safe on the ceiling above it,’ said Danny. ‘We have people who never change the factory settings, which are the same in a lot of places. That’s one thing you got to do.’

‘Oh, I do everything that has to be done,’ said Blake. ‘I keep closing the gate and the horse has bolted so long ago…’

‘You do whatever you need to feel safe,’ said Danny.

‘Thanks for coming. I guess I’m lucky I can hole myself up here and not have to face the world if I don’t want to.’

Joe thought of Anna and felt a stab of guilt for making a link. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Blake.’

‘Yeah,’ said Danny.

‘No problem,’ said Blake. ‘Take care.’