The Caller

SIXTEEN

Dr Makkar led Joe into his office. He offered him a seat, then stood by the wall, gently swinging his putter and guiding a fluorescent golf ball into a green machine that fired it right back at him.

‘Precision,’ he said. He kneeled on an ergonomic stool behind his desk. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I have a question,’ said Joe. ‘What would stop you getting your teeth fixed if they’d been injured or broken in some way?’

He shrugged. ‘Depends what you mean.’

Joe held out a brown envelope.

‘Could you look at a few crime scene photos for me? I think the perp spent some time working on the victims’ teeth or mouths for some reason before they were murdered. These are graphic images.’

‘I’m unshockable,’ said Dr Makkar, taking them from him. He looked down, his eyes wide. ‘Or at least, I used to be. Holy crap. These are hardcore. I liked that you said “ working ” on their teeth or mouths. I work on people’s teeth. This guy… wow. Wow. My breakfast is not happy.’ He took a drink from a plastic cup.

‘I know,’ said Joe. ‘So, what do you think?’

‘I don’t know, but your guy’s got some reason for smashing these teeth in. He’s not fooling around. Do you think it’s a torture thing to get information out of someone? Or maybe the victims already gave away some information they shouldn’t have?’

Joe shrugged. ‘It could be anything.’

Makkar looked through the photos again. ‘He was definitely going for a big psychological impact. It’s a primal thing with teeth. That’s why it freaks us all out so much when we dream they’re falling out. You’ve had that dream, right? And it’s like you’re trying to imagine how your life can go on without your teeth? It’s an apocalyptic thing.’ He paused. ‘Do you know what’s so cruel about messing with people’s teeth or their mouths? It’s that if you don’t heal one hundred per cent, there are so many reminders of your assault: every time you chew, kiss, smoke, go out in the cold, whatever. It’s there all the time. Psychologically, you could have to relive the whole thing over and over.’ He looked down. ‘Although, most of your victims, well, they don’t have to.’

‘Don’t dentists have the most stressful jobs, highest rate of suicides?’ said Joe.

Dr Makkar frowned. ‘I see where you’re going. Sure. And, man, you should see all the serial killers that’ve come out of dental school over the years.’

‘OK, but do you think what we’re looking for here is a dentist?’

‘Yes, I think that’s what you’re looking for, but that doesn’t mean you’re right.’

Joe smiled. ‘Well, what do you think?’

’I don’t know.’ Makkar pointed to the photo of Preston Blake that Joe had cut from the newspaper. ‘But I’d say the reason someone like this guy wouldn’t get their teeth fixed is that he will never ever let anyone near his mouth again. Look at those eyes, even. That is the look of a damaged man.’ He turned to Joe. ‘And he’s not the only one.’

‘You’re too hard on me, Dr Mak. Anyway, look, I appreciate all this. Thanks for your help.’

‘Now,’ said Dr Makkar, holding on to the photos. ‘I’m afraid I have some good news for you. I got a call from a doctor friend of mine who has one of the most experienced surgeons in arthroscopy visiting the Facial Pain Clinic next week and has offered me a slot for a patient. I’d like that to be you.’

Joe stared at him. ‘Am I supposed to be grateful for that?’

‘You’re hurting my feelings here. What am I going to do with you? Your face looks so, just rigid. It’s crazy. You can’t look at this kind of stuff,’ he pointed to the photos, ‘you can’t live this life without getting affected. You can’t fool me. You really want to spend the rest of your life in this kind of pain?’

‘No, definitely not. But I can’t do surgery.’

‘I’m telling you, you can.’

‘What day’s it on?’

‘Friday – ten days from now.’

Joe sighed. ‘OK. Fine, put me down. But I’d like the record to show-’

‘I don’t keep records for babies,’ said Dr Makkar. ‘Or cats, scaredy cats.’

When Joe got back to the office, everyone was gathered around Danny’s desk and there was an atmosphere he couldn’t quite put his finger on until Martinez opened his mouth.

‘Ease yourself into the morning, that’s right.’

‘I was getting someone to take a look at the teeth angle,’ said Joe. ‘From 7 a.m. When you were in bed.’

Martinez nodded, but was looking away.

‘OK,’ said Rencher. ‘Mary Burig is twenty-eight, single, from Boulder, Colorado, got a degree in psychology, moved to New York just over a year ago, took an apartment in the East Village, which is possibly where she was attacked.’

‘What did she work at?’ said Joe.

‘She had a part-time job at a deli.’

‘Was she dating anyone around the time of the attack?’ said Bobby.

‘No. Not since she got to New York,’ said Joe.

‘And you said she’s got no memory of what happened,’ said Bobby.

‘No,’ said Joe. ‘And there’s nothing we can do about that for now. She does remember a teeth thing. So I’ve put the word out on the teletype and updated VICAP. But whatever happens, now we know about her, it changes everything. Female vic, late twenties, happened after William Aneto and Gary Ortis, but before Preston Blake and Ethan Lowry. So Mary was the third intended victim that we know about. And she got away. And so did Preston Blake.’ He raised his hands. ‘How did two victims get away? What did the perp do differently? What did the vics do differently? Was it a physical thing – the vic gets a surge of adrenaline and overpowers the perp? Or a psychological thing – the vic says or does something that makes the perp stop? Or maybe he was interrupted – someone calls to the door, an alarm goes off, the police show up. We need to find out what Mary Burig did and what Preston Blake did that made them the lucky ones.’

‘Yeah, real lucky,’ said Danny. ‘I’d give my left arm to be living in some rehab apartment or holed up like a recluse in a-’

‘Huge mansion,’ said Martinez.

‘Yeah, well, it doesn’t sound like Preston Blake’s going to be too happy to talk to us again one way or the other.’

‘Maybe the perp wanted them to get away,’ said Danny.

‘But Blake saw his face’ said Joe. ‘He must have been planning to kill him.’

‘I guess so. And Mary was shot in the head… I need sleep.’

Joe laughed. ‘William Aneto. Gary Ortis. Mary Burig. Preston Blake. Ethan Lowry. What is the connection? Is there a connection?’

‘Back to the getting away,’ said Rencher. ‘There’s no way from what you say about Mary Burig that she got away by overpowering the guy. He had to have been interrupted or it was something psychological.’ He paused. ‘Of course, he had shot her. He probably thought she was dead.’

‘She’s too cute to kill,’ said Danny.

‘Yeah, that’ll stop ‘em,’ said Martinez.

‘Maybe it was just the fact that she was a woman made some difference,’ said Rencher.

‘Yeah, that’ll stop ‘em,’ said Martinez.

Joe snapped his pen in half. Everyone looked at him. He shrugged. Danny smiled.

‘OK,’ said Joe. ‘Martinez and Rencher, can you look into another canvass at Mary Burig’s old apartment building in case you’re right, he was interrupted. Same goes for Blake’s street, see if anyone saw or heard anything.’

‘Blake will be on to Rufo again for that one,’ said Danny.

‘Like we give a shit,’ said Joe. ‘We will have to go back and talk to him. He’ll have to deal with it.’

‘Did Mary make a phone call the night she was attacked?’ said Bobby.

‘Cullen is on that.’

‘Maybe that’s the key,’ said Danny.

‘Maybe the people they called are linked and the vics are all guilty by association?’ said Bobby.

‘Maybe, maybe, maybe,’ said Joe. ‘So, let’s get the phone calls straight: Aneto calls his Mom to say he’s responsible for killing his brother. Gary Ortis calls his former business partner just to catch up. Mary Burig, we don’t know. Preston Blake – no phone call. Ethan Lowry – calls his ex-girlfriend to tell her he still loves her.’

‘That’s two confessions we got right there,’ said Danny. ‘Maybe that’s what this is about.’

‘Could be it’s some religious nut,’ said Joe. ‘Listens to their confessions. I mean, he’s got to be right there while they’re making the call, otherwise they could tip the person off and none of them did.’

‘Maybe the perp’s used to it. He could be a priest… an ex-priest or could make out to be one,’ said Rencher.

‘Yeah,’ said Bobby. ‘And I don’t believe Ortis was calling his business partner just for the hell of it. He might have had something else to tell him.’

‘OK,’ said Joe. ‘Find out some more about him, go back, talk to him again.’

‘No problem.’

Joe took a stack of pages and spread them out in front of him. ‘There are things they have in common and things they don’t. Look at these.’ He laid out the close-ups of each of the dead victims’ faces in chronological order: Gary Ortis, William Aneto, Ethan Lowry. ‘Gary Ortis’s face was the most damaged. His right eye socket was completely impacted. His father had identified him by a scar on his lower back from a childhood operation. His head had been slammed against the corner of the counter top. With William Aneto, most of the facial injuries were around the mouth, but his nose was shattered. Ethan Lowry’s injuries were around the mouth and his nose was untouched.

‘I don’t think the perp set out to create a signature, like a really identifiable MO for every crime,’ said Joe. ‘I think he’s just doing his thing as he goes along, the best way he knows how. It’s evolving. So he started bashing the guys heads off the corners of counter tops. But that’s hard to do, right?’

The men nodded.

‘You saw by the hand prints and drag marks all over the Aneto scene that there was some serious effort to fight back,’ said Joe. ‘The perp tried a similar approach again with Ortis. But then Mary Burig, a woman, survives. And Preston Blake gets away. The perp comes back again with Ethan Lowry and we see he’s finely tuned his act. He has the hammer. He seems to have done it exactly the way he wanted to. Almost tidier. More focused. Ethan Lowry is probably a good example of what he wanted to do.’ He paused. ‘But what’s his ultimate fantasy? What is it he really wants?’

‘Bashing their faces in is important,’ said Danny. ‘Because it’s not going to kill them. So that’s got to have something to do with it. And the asphyxiation…’

‘I don’t think he even realized at first that he was constricting their lungs,’ said Joe. ‘I think he was gone, his head was somewhere else…’

‘Probably,’ said Rencher.

‘We need to talk with Mary Burig’s brother, David, see if we can’t find out more about her and why this might have happened,’ said Joe.

It was 8 p.m. and David Burig stood in the kitchen of his Chambers Street apartment. A pot of chilli was cooking on the stove, an open carton of sour cream beside that. He was looking for a jar of jalapenos in the fridge when a call came in from the lobby.

‘David? I’ve got a Detective Lucchesi here to see you. Shall I send him up?’

David took a deep breath. ‘Uh, sure… Benny? Could you do me a major favor and pick me up a jar of jalapenos?’

Benny laughed. ‘Yeah. I’m good with emergencies.’

David went into the kitchen and took the chilli off the stove, replacing it with the kettle. He took down a packet of coffee.

The doorbell rang. He walked to the front door. He could see just the top of a man’s head in a black beanie. David opened the door. He quickly realized it wasn’t a beanie, it was a mask. And the man was drawing it down over his face. With one step, he pushed forward, his full force slamming against David’s chest, stunning him, sending him stumbling backwards. The door was closed. And a gun was an inch from his face.

‘I changed my mind,’ said The Caller.

Danny drove the Gran Fury down Chambers Street. Cars lined both sides.

‘Give me a space, someone,’ he said.

‘There,’ said Joe, pointing.

‘Too tight,’ said Danny.

‘You’ll make it,’ said Joe. ‘Come on. I’m starving. I need to eat.’

‘Before we go to Burig’s place?’

Joe shrugged. ‘I guess I can wait ‘til after.’

Standing in his kitchen, stripped bare, David had no control over his body as it shook, rigidly, spasmodically and violently. The Caller watched. David thought he could see sinews raised at his neck, but the ridges were evenly spaced and he realized the mask the man wore was boned, finely, contoured up his neck, crafted only for him.

‘What are you going to do to me?’ said David. But David knew what this man did. He had never considered that a victim’s first terror of knowing his death was in someone else’s hands could be followed by the second terror of knowing exactly how it would unfold. David’s rising fear was that fear itself would overwhelm him before he suffered the first physical wound. The more The Caller watched him, the more his body racked.

‘What do you want?’ said David.

‘To show you why what you did was wrong. You will have the pleasure of going through exactly what the other victims did.’

‘No,’ said David. ‘Please. I… no. Please don’t do that.’

‘Accept your responsibility.’

‘I’m not responsible-’

‘Tell me your big lie,’ said The Caller.

‘What?’

‘Just tell me. Everyone has a big lie. Everyone has little lies, don’t they?’

‘What are you talking about? I’ve never lied to you. I’ve helped-’

‘You have not helped me,’ said The Caller. ‘Do I look helped to you?’

‘I don’t know.’

The Caller stared at him, then shook his head. ‘You have lied to me, David Burig. You have. Think about it. Ever got involved in something you knew was a violation? Of the law? Of people’s trust?’

An ice cold trickle of sweat ran down David’s side as he contemplated his answer. He chose silence.

The Caller stared at him. ‘I want you to reveal the rotten, twisted shit scraped out from the cracks of your fractured mind.’

‘There’s nothing there.’

‘There are a lot of dead bodies there.’

David’s heart pounded, heavy and irregular.

The Caller, again, stared. This time something indefinable came to life in his eyes, a dark flame behind the whites. And he smiled.

‘Come with me. Open your closet.’ He gestured towards the bedroom and pressed his face close to David’s. ‘Show me the space under your bed. What do you hide there? What toys do you take out to play with in the dark when no-one’s around?’

‘Jesus Christ,’ said David. ‘This is what you do to people? Humiliate them. I don’t know where you’re going with this but-’ David released a breath. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Please. Try me.’

‘Why?’

‘I could help you this time.’

‘Believe me. You are helping me. You helped me into your home. You helped me into your soul.’

He raised his head and stared at the ceiling. ‘You helped me affirm my beliefs. You helped me, David. You can take that with you.’ He wiped a hand down the black fabric of the mask. ‘And you will go on helping me.’

Joe and Danny walked in through the open door of the apartment building. There was no doorman at the desk.

‘Hello?’ said Joe.

‘These people pay all this money to feel safe in their apartments and this guy just goes out, takes a walk,’ said Danny. ‘Come on.’

David lay on his back on the hardwood floor, his head inches from the front door. The Caller was on top of him, pinning him down, his knees on either side of his chest.

‘If you remain silent through this, trust me that I will stop at a point,’ said The Caller. ‘And you will survive.’

The sudden urgent siren of a fire truck made David turn his head towards the window. The glass shone with silent rain and reflected lights. Nine floors down, people walked the wet pavement. Cars drove past. And no-one knew what was happening inside his apartment.

Joe and Danny took the elevator to the ninth floor and rang the doorbell. There was no answer. Danny rang again. Still no answer.

‘Do you have his number?’ said Danny.

‘Yeah,’ said Joe, scrolling through his phone. He dialled and waited. ‘Nothing.’

‘Let’s go eat, come back in a little while,’ said Danny. ‘He could be at the gym or something.’

The chime of the doorbell seemed a distant memory as David Burig felt the metal of the gun barrel pressed hard into his eye socket. It pushed his head back against the floor, his chin high in the air. And then it was gone. Instead, he watched the swift descent of a hammer towards his face. A surge of strength rushed through him, his body still wired to fight attack in whatever small, useless way. He closed his eyes. He lifted his head a fraction from the ground, pitching it frantically from side to side, crazed and desperate thrashing. At his temples, veins bulged. His jaw clamped shut. Every muscle in his face and neck strained. His legs bucked, the only part of him free, but not free. His bare feet scrambled for grip on the floor, their damp heat stopping them, sticking them to the varnished floorboards, burning up his heels. Laid open, bare, exposed, bucking and writhing for his life. He waited, still rolling his head from side to side, dizzy and sick with the movement. For a tired second, he stopped. His breath exploded outwards, saliva spraying into the air. Seconds followed in the quiet, eerie expectation of pain.

Nothing happened. Then he could feel it. Slowly at first. Muscular thighs on either side of his ribcage. Squeezing. The pounding in his head was dull and steady. His eyes still closed, his breathing faltered, shaken by the first sensations of constriction. He took the pressure off his neck, resting his head back on the floor, his entire focus switched to his lungs. He imagined them filled with air, maximum expansion, charging his body with oxygen, rushing it to his cells, keeping him here. He coughed, choking against the constriction.

Crushing tighter against his chest, the muscles in The Caller’s legs began to tremble, then shake violently, each spasm and rise in temperature transferred to the body beneath him. He rose briefly on his knees and the air flared with ammonia and spices, a stale steam-room smell.

David could feel the moisture on his chest. A thin stream of sweat rolled down it. His head was light, tingling all over. His scalp was cold and damp. Just as his breath was leaving him, the pressure was released. His mouth shot open, followed by his eyes, faulty reflexes; the exact position The Caller wanted him to be in as the hammer crashed down on his teeth.

The blows came over and over, splitting, breaking and cracking, splintering and shattering bones, flesh, teeth. The sounds the hammer made, through the air, against his face, caught in torn flesh, were like another wound in the silence. He was secure in his achievement; David had created a vacuum where he stored up every scream that wanted to rip up his throat and take on the pain. Then it stopped. Tears streamed down his face, sobs choked in his throat, his stomach heaved. His whole body shook. He slowly opened his eyes, smearing the droplets of blood caught in his eyelashes.

The Caller reached across for his bag and took out two dental impression trays. He placed them on the floor beside him. He filled the top tray with a thick blue liquid.

‘Open wide,’ he said. David’s mouth shook. The Caller paused. ‘Stop.’

David nodded, closed his eyes and opened his mouth. The Caller slipped in the tray and pressed it hard against the bloodied roof of David’s mouth, coating every surface and filling every space with the cool silicone. A chill seeped into his damaged bones, shooting pain through his head.

‘Four minutes to set,’ said The Caller.

David’s eyes shot wide. He started to swallow uncontrollably. The Caller bent low, staring into his eyes, trying to force calm into him. He stayed that way, then grabbed the tray and pulled it free, pausing to look into it before he laid it beside him. He wiped David’s mouth with a folded paper towel.

‘Please,’ said David, spitting blood and saliva. ‘I have to look after my sister. You can’t-’

The Caller pretended to consider his plea. ‘OK, now the bottom teeth,’ he said. ‘Same again.’

David closed his eyes and tilted back his head. He wanted to hear another siren, louder than the first, one that was bringing police officers and battering rams to his door. He was restrained well, tightly bound, his wrists and hands now numb. And the blows started again, hard, fast and brutal.

David slowly opened his eyes and through the blood leaking into them, he caught flashes of The Caller and how – from somewhere closed and locked inside him, unleashed only now – he raged. As The Caller’s thighs locked on, unyielding, his upper body rocked from side to side, the hammer – a relentless onslaught of strikes. Without slowing, The Caller’s free hand tore at his mask, wrenching it over his head, throwing it to the ground. His face, flooded with anger, his eyes, closed and sucked into their sockets, his jaw moving, his mouth wide, his lips forming every word he wanted to roar. But no sound escaped. The message was silence.

All David could do now was take himself away. His spacious hallway became the smallest place he had ever been, but also as high and wide and deep as his greatest fear.