The Caller

THIRTEEN

Rufo sat in his office chewing cherry Gas X, thinking it was time to give up on raw broccoli. Just because something was good for you, didn’t mean it tasted good. Or that your body reacted well to it.

‘So,’ he said when Joe and Danny walked in. ‘How did Brooklyn Heights work out for you?’

‘The guy’s name is Blake,’ said Danny. ‘Rencher did a work-up on him and he’s clean. Lives in a nice house – he’s got a foyer. He has never been in trouble, pays his taxes. He looked expensive-’

‘Yeah, but did you see those Target bags in the hallway by the bike?’ said Joe. ‘Maybe he doesn’t like to spend his money too much.’

‘Either way,’ said Danny, ‘he’s another rich guy who finally realizes it doesn’t protect you from shit. I feel sorry for him, don’t get me wrong. There’s something just so fucking tragic about him.’

‘Gay, straight?’ said Rufo.

‘Straight.’

‘What makes him think he was a victim of our perp?’ said Rufo.

‘He talked about letting the guy into the house,’ said Joe, ‘no struggle, he was bashed off the corner of a work surface, guy had a gun-’

‘But,’ said Danny, ‘the wallet ruse wasn’t used on him – the guy said he was a realtor.’

‘Yeah,’ said Joe. ‘But it’s just not like on TV. No-one is going to work the same way every time. It’s not natural. Like no-one does anything exactly the same way every time…’

Danny nodded.

‘I think what’s important to the perp is bashing in the vics’ faces and finishing them off with a twenty-two,’ said Joe. ‘They’re the two things that have not changed in each homicide. He doesn’t care how he gets there. So he chooses one mode of entry, restrains them one way, one time, another way the next.’

‘Maybe the only thing he cares about is bashing in their faces,’ said Rufo. ‘And shooting them is just to make sure they’ll never identify him.’ He shrugged.

‘Jesus, Blake’s face was something else…’ said Danny. ‘I mean, I was firefighting.’

Rufo looked at him. ‘You were what?’

Joe answered. ‘Firefighting. It’s when there’s a bunch of reactions Danny wants to have, but can’t because they’re not appropriate. He imagines them as fires inside his mind that he has to put out-’

Danny nodded. ‘First I wanted to shout out “Holy shit!” Then I wanted to puke. Then I wanted to reach over and just feel that weird skin. Then I wanted to take a picture with my phone. So,’ he said reasonably, ‘I had to put my energies into controlling these impulses. Firefighting.’

Rufo shook his head. ‘Do you have one of those firefighter’s poles inside too so’s we can get the happy pills into you quicker? You’re a fucking nut job, Markey. Really, I’d like to know what one of New York’s finest looks like to another human being when all this firefighting shit is happening.’

‘Don’t worry about it, boss,’ said Joe. ‘He’s worked it into some sort of sane-looking stare.’

‘Sometimes I tilt an eyebrow,’ said Danny, ‘touch a few fingers to the chin area.’

Rufo shook his head. ‘I spend my whole time shaking my head around you, Markey. It’s an impulse I just can’t control.’

‘Hey, I think I can work with you on that,’ said Danny.

‘Get out, get out of my office,’ said Rufo, smiling.

Victor Nicotero was sitting at his kitchen table with a beer, a notebook and a silver pen. Joe walked right in.

‘Nice security system,’ he said.

‘Patti,’ said Old Nic shaking his head. ‘The woman is like a force of nature. Closing doors, turning off lights, they’re just not things she thinks about.’

Joe laughed. ‘It was wide open.’

‘Your serial guy could have butchered me to death.’

‘I think he likes the city too much.’

‘Let’s go out on the deck. I’m done here.’

‘You’re writing it all longhand?’

‘Longhand,’ said Nic. ‘I’m writing it. That’s what it’s called – writing. Whether my hands are long or short doesn’t come into it.’

Joe took a beer from the fridge and sat out beside him.

‘Would you like to move in?’ said Nic.

Joe smiled. ‘And live with your grumpy ass? No. I’ll take my chances with an out-of-control teenager.’

‘Easy when there’s a beautiful French woman tied into the deal. How are things there? You take my advice?’

‘Course I did. And things were better,’ said Joe. ‘And then she storms out of dinner last night.’

‘Hormones,’ said Nic. ‘They go nuts. Every frickin-’

The kitchen door banged open behind them and heavy footsteps tracked through to the sliding door. Joe and Nic looked up. Bobby leaned out, a cheap bouquet of flowers in his hand. He frowned, then glanced around the garden.

‘Is ma here?’ he said. He barely nodded at Joe.

‘She’s at the store,’ said Nic. ‘Do you want a beer?’

‘Uh – no, thank you. Ma wanted me to fix some door in the bedroom, there’s some problem-’

‘I took care of it,’ said Nic. ‘Sit down, it’s a nice evening.’

‘You took care of it?’ said Bobby. ‘When did you do that?’

‘This afternoon. She’s been bothering me about it for weeks.’

‘Yeah, which is why I came over,’ said Bobby.

‘You were here with her at the weekend – why didn’t you do it then?’

‘What are you talking about? You were the one who was supposed to-’ Bobby glanced towards Joe who had picked up a magazine from the table.

‘Have you eaten?’ said Nic.

‘No,’ said Bobby and Joe at the same time.

‘Sorry,’ said Joe. ‘I thought you meant me.’

‘I meant both of you,’ said Nic.

‘I can’t hang around,’ said Joe.

‘No, you stay where you are,’ said Bobby. ‘I’m going to go see the kids, now that I’m out here. These are for ma,’ he said, raising the flowers. ‘I’ll leave them by the sink.’

‘OK,’ said Nic. ‘You take care.’ He let out a breath and turned to Joe. But Joe sat in silence, staring into the distance, thinking about Shaun.

The next morning, Joe made it in to the office early to get his suits ready for the dry cleaning service that picked up three times a week. He liked to keep two full sets of clothes in his locker, but he was down to one. He was walking back to his desk when his phone rang.

‘Joe, it’s Giulio.’

‘Hi. Everything all right?’

‘Yes. I saw your name in the paper the other day.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes. It’s a shame.’

‘What’s a shame?’

‘All that attention.’

‘What attention?’

‘Can’t they leave you out of it?’

‘Who?’

‘The media.’

‘Dad, I haven’t even spoken to one journalist. They do their thing. I’m someone who was involved in some prominent cases. They make something of it, that’s not my fault.’

‘What I mean is you’re in the spotlight again, people are dredging up what happened to you and Anna and Shaun. You’ve got to think what this is doing to the family every time you put yourself out there.’

‘Here we go,’ said Joe. ‘I am not “putting myself out there” for the hell of it. I am heading up an investigation. It’s not like I heard there was a few homicides and some media attention and I said, “Great, yeah, sign me up for that, please make me the case detective.”’

‘I’m just saying-’

‘I know what you’re saying. Your facts are wrong. You can’t control the whole world, OK?’

‘I’m… concerned.’

‘Yeah, great. Look, I gotta go.’

Joe put down the phone and walked over to the coffee machine. It stank of sour milk and burned coffee. There were rings on the surfaces and coffee grounds scattered on the floor.

‘Everyone, clean up, already,’ he shouted. ‘Stop leaving this for Ruthie to do. She cracks because she can’t stand the mess. It’s not her job. She is too busy doing every other fucking job for you lazy sons of bitches!’

‘Thank you, Joe!’ shouted Ruthie from the reception desk.

‘Sorry, Mom,’ shouted Martinez.

Joe grabbed a paper towel and started wiping the surfaces. He bent down to pick up a ball of paper that had missed the bin. It was a stray printout from the Pages program he used. He opened it out. Someone had written ‘Season’s Greetings’ across the top in red felt-tip pen and drawn Santa hats on all the victims. Handwritten under the photo of Gary Ortis was: ‘Greetings from the Ortis family. This year Gary was murdered! His battered body was found in his hallway! He spent hours being tortured! And his killer’s still on the loose! Haaappy Holidays!’

Joe looked around the room at the people who first came together on this case: Denis Cullen – a man who would rather stare at figures all day so he could save his energy for visiting his sick little girl. Tom Blazkow – tough and thorough, Aldos Martinez – dedicated, but narrow-minded, Roger Pace – nothing more than Bobby Nicotero’s long skinny shadow, Fred Rencher – good guy, but not too sharp. And then Bobby Nicotero – Joe glanced down at the page – and his girlie handwriting.

‘For Christ’s sake, Lucchesi, that’s your freakin’ phone,’ shouted Martinez from across the room.

Joe threw the paper back into the bin and went to his desk.

‘Detective Lucchesi? Preston Blake.’

Joe couldn’t tell whether it was the line that had a hiss in it or Preston Blake’s voice.

‘Oh, hi ‘You fucking asshole.’

‘Mr Blake?’ said Joe, sitting down.

‘You clueless son of a bitch.’ He was sobbing.

Joe looked around the room, but couldn’t find anyone to get eye contact with. His cell phone vibrated on the desk in front of him. It was Danny.

‘Mr Blake, could you hold a moment?’ said Joe, punching the button anyway.

‘Joe? It’s Danny. I’m on my way in. Have you seen the front page of the Post? Do not take a call from Preston Blake until you do.’

‘What the hell is going on? And you’re too late – I’ve got him on hold.’

‘Uh-oh. Go to Martinez’s desk. He’ll have a copy. Blake has been named by the press as “the one who got away”. How the hell did that happen?’

‘How do I know?’ said Joe, walking over to Martinez’s desk and picking up the newspaper. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘We were the only ones who knew. I mean, very few people knew I was there. Rencher, Martinez, me, you, Rufo.’

‘Think you can hang up on him? Think the line might be faulty?’

‘I’d love to.’

‘Or tell him you think you hear someone at his front door.’

Joe laughed. ‘I’ll do the honorable thing…’

‘What? Put him through to Rufo?’

‘Something like that. Gotta go.’

‘Call me after.’

Joe took the handset back up. ‘My apologies, Mr Blake. Could you give me the opportunity to read through the article before we have this conversation?’

‘Let me save you the trouble. “ Preston Blake, seen here in happier times ” – insert smiling photo – “ before he became the alleged victim of The Caller, the only one lucky enough to survive his horrendous attack.” And “ Preston Blake has been living the life of a recluse in his luxury Brooklyn Heights brownstone, rumoured to be the location of his vicious assault six months ago. Mr Blake refused to comment on The Caller’s latest victim, following the discovery of the mutilated body of Ethan Lowry on September 7th.” And let’s skip down here: “ While unclear how prolonged his ordeal was at the hands of The Caller or how extensive his injuries, Mr Blake has been visited by Manhattan North Homicide Detective Joe Lucchesi for assistance in his inquiries. Detective Lucchesi came to prominence -” and then there’s a bit about your tale of suffering and woe. You have my sympathies for that, as do your wife and son, but I am furious here. I am betrayed and exposed.’

‘I feel for you, Mr Blake. I really do. But I can promise you I had nothing to do with this disclosure. I have respected your wishes throughout this whole process. Would you like us to have someone watch the house? Would you feel safer?’

‘No. I invited you into my home, Detective. Do you know how many people have been inside my home since the attack?’ He paused. ‘I don’t have visitors. I spend months, sequestered, happily, if that makes sense, you show up and the game is up. Did you see? I’ve made the news. “How ironic” people will think in the way that stupid people do not understand the meaning of the word ironic-’

‘I don’t know what happened here, but I can assure you this did not come from me or anyone involved in the investigation.’

‘I just don’t buy that. Because it sure as hell did not come from me. This should not have gotten out. Can you imagine how violated I feel? Violation after violation. Is that what I can expect from life now, Detective? Do I sit back and accept that fate?’

‘You don’t. This will pass. The press are more interested in the perp. Because they didn’t have a bright, shiny new victim this week, yours is the story they went for. How they got it, we don’t know, but they’ll move on.’

‘Just like me, Detective. I’ve nothing more to say. What you need to do now is read and re-read every word of what I told you the day I was foolish enough to let you into my home. And here’s hoping you’ll find enlightenment in those pages. Because my cooperation ends there.’

‘It can’t.’

‘Oh yes it can.’

‘But you’re the only one who has seen-’

‘I’ve told you everything. And honestly? I can’t imagine a time where I’m sitting on the stand pointing at The Caller across a courtroom. Because I can’t imagine a time where you will gain the insight to apprehend him. If you ain’t got him now, Detective, you ain’t never will.’

‘I disagree, Mr Blake. My colleagues and I won’t let that happen.’

‘Your colleagues and you are leaking, Detective. And a leaky vessel won’t hold water. And a leaky vessel sinks.’

Joe hung up on the dial tone and went to Rufo’s office.

‘Come in,’ said Rufo. ‘Close the door.’

‘You see the-’

‘ Post? Yeah I did. What’s going on?’

Joe shook his head. ‘Blake is really pissed. He just called saying all kinds of shit, me and Danny ratted him out, left him exposed…’

‘What did you say?’

‘I set him straight, obviously, but he didn’t want to listen.’

‘Do you know the guy who wrote this? Artie Blackwell? Why don’t you make a few calls, see if we can find out who did tip him off.’

‘Artie fucking Blackwell. I didn’t notice.’

Rufo scanned the page again. ‘Whole thing seems kinda weird to me. You think Blake likes the attention?’

‘Not if you heard him on the phone just now. The guy’s like a recluse, far as I can tell.’

‘Was he screaming for the Chief, the mayor, Larry King Live?’

‘Nah.’

‘Was he looking for anything else? Did you tell him we can have a few guys watch the house?’

‘Yeah. He wasn’t interested.’

‘OK,’ said Rufo. ‘Let me put a call in to him, see if I can’t talk him off the ledge.’

‘Danny and me are heading out,’ said Joe. ‘Surveillance on the post office.’

‘Good luck,’ said Rufo, reaching for the phone.

There was never a weekday quiet time on 21st Street. Danny and Joe were parked opposite the post office where the letters were mailed. The air conditioning was on high and the sun was beating down on the shiny black hood. Danny and Joe were quietly focused on everyone entering and leaving the building.

Suddenly, something slammed against the driver’s window. Joe turned to see the white hairy crack of someone’s ass pressed up against the glass. Outside someone else was roaring, ‘You motherfucker! You fucking motherfucker!’

A huge paper cup landed on the car, splashing strawberry milkshake up onto the windshield of Manhattan North’s new Chevy Impala.

‘Son of a bitch,’ said Danny.

Joe hammered his forearm against the glass and shouted. ‘Get away from the car.’

Danny got out the passenger side. ‘What’s going on here?’ he said to the two men.

‘None of your business,’ said the guy forcing the other one against Joe’s window. He was massively overweight and the skinny guy underneath him was feeling the pressure.

‘You’re going to suffocate him if you don’t get up off of him,’ said Danny. ‘And either way, my friend in there is going to climb out the passenger door and kill you both. Now, back away from the car.’

The overweight guy pulled his friend off the door and Joe got out.

‘What’s going on?’ said Joe. ‘That I need to get so intimately acquainted with your spotty ass?’

The skinny guy checked behind him and pulled up his jeans.

‘I… I…’ said the fat guy, gradually realizing he was dealing with two cops.

‘We don’t care,’ said Danny. ‘Long as you’re not going to hurt your friend here, we just want you to get away from our car.’

‘Sure,’ said the fat guy.

The skinny guy had a plastic Gristedes shopping bag beside him on the ground. He bent down and pulled out a liter bottle of Poland Springs and handed it to Joe.

‘For the car,’ he said, pointing at the milkshake.

‘Thank you,’ said Joe, turning to Danny.

‘This is a caring neighborhood,’ said Danny.

Joe poured the water over the hood and got rid of as much of the milkshake as he could. They got back in the car. Joe ignored the greasy smear on the driver’s window. He flicked on the wipers and a watery mix of milkshake and soap washed across the glass. As it was clearing, Danny sat forward. ‘Check this guy out,’ he said.

The man walking towards the post office was about five foot eight, in his mid-forties, dressed in pristine blue Carhartt workpants, heavy black boots and a denim shirt with two buttons open and the sleeves rolled up. He had light brown hair, thinning on top and an unremarkable face. They looked at the photos they had printed from the tape.

‘That’s our guy,’ said Joe. ‘Let’s go.’

They jumped from the car and ran. ‘Police,’ shouted Joe, flashing his badge. The man didn’t move. He stood, frozen, with his letter. Joe grabbed his wrists, yanking them hard behind his back and snapping cuffs on him.

‘Tell us your name, sir. What is your name?’

‘Stanley Frayte! My name is Stanley Frayte! What are you doing? What have I done?’