“Does Scully agree we should look at him for Angel’s death?”
“Whoa, Alex. Slow this one down. What’s your thinking? Tanner’s never killed anybody, has he?”
“Not that we were able to link him to. Where do I start? He likes young girls-teenagers. I know what you’re thinking, that Angel is white but Flo is black. Black and white-he’s done both.”
“Nothing young about the Austin sisters,” Mercer said.
“He was just gaming them, I bet. Shock value, but they’re not his type. He’s at his best in a park setting, though. That’s for sure. The three we tagged him for last time were farther uptown in St. Nick’s, but he’s clearly into Central Park now-as per the Austin sisters as well as last night’s attempt. He’s an ambush kind of attacker-the foliage in the Park gives him perfect cover to hide and to escape. He carries a lead pipe, and Angel had her head busted open with a weapon like that. No DNA, so maybe she was resisting the assault and Tanner went wild, like he started to do when Flo pushed back.”
“Possible.”
“Tanner’s got a thing for the devil, so maybe he’s sending a message to the Angel of the Waters. Not bad for openers, is it, Mercer?”
“Nice circumstantial picture. But that’s all you’ve got and may be all you’re likely to get, so let’s keep steady. Stick to what we know.”
At 8:01 I sat down and dialed the number again. This time a man answered, identifying himself as the director of the mental facility at Fishkill prison, about an hour and a half north of New York City.
“I’m Alexandra Cooper. I’m bureau chief of the Special Victims Unit of the Manhattan DA’s office. I’m calling to check on one of your prisoners. His name is Raymond Tanner.”
“How do you mean, Ms. Cooper? Check on- In what way?”
“I prosecuted Tanner for three rapes. The verdict was NGRI. Last I knew he was institutionalized at Clinton,” I said, referring to a maximum security prison tucked away on a bleak stretch of land near the Canadian border. “Our computer system tells me he’s under your roof now.”
“I don’t know all our men by name. I may have to get back to you.”
“Tanner’s memorable, sir. Three rapes of teenage girls in a park in Harlem, and a suspect in more than five other similar assaults. Has a psych history of auditory hallucinations, regular communications from Lucifer himself.”
“Many of our prisoners are in touch with the devil, Ms. Cooper. Directly or indirectly. Let me take your number and call you after I pull the file.”
I repeated the number twice. “My purpose is to find out whether Tanner is still in your custody or back at Clinton.” I decided not to include a third possibility-that he had fled the prison system and was out on the street. “We’re investigating a matter about which he might have information. There are two officers on the highway coming to interview you, so I just wanted to give you the courtesy of a heads-up. Thanks so much.”
“And who would those two officers be?” Mercer asked as I hung up the phone.
“I just figured that if I told him he’d lost a prisoner, I might not get a call back so fast. But if Tanner’s in the wind and cops are on their way up to speak with him, this guy is far more likely to freak out and tell me to put the brakes on our team.”
“And so far you beat the commissioner’s office to that call. Drink some coffee. You need all the caffeine you can get to fuel that competitive streak, Alex.”
“I would so love to deliver Tanner to Scully,” I said, taking the lid off my second container. I scooped some papers off the floor and handed them to Mercer. “See what this bastard did? I’m hoping there’s something in these folders that will tell us where he hangs out.”
It was eighteen minutes later when the prison administrator called back.
“Ms. Cooper? I don’t know how far along your detectives are, but if you can reach them on the highway, it might be good to stop them.”
“Why? Is there a problem with Raymond Tanner?”
The three-second hesitation said it all. “We’re trying to locate him for you.”
“For me? Don’t your people want to know where he is?”
“Of course we do.”
“What are the choices? His cell, the yard, the infirmary, the mess hall? Or could he be back at Clinton?”
“We’re working on that, Ms. Cooper.”
“I never received notice of a parole hearing or any action suggesting his release was imminent. Are you with me on that?”
“Yes. Yes, but-”
“I’d suggest you get past the ‘but’ as soon as possible.”
The faceless administrator with the mild-mannered voice was slow to respond. “Raymond Tanner has been a model prisoner, Ms. Cooper.”
“Sociopaths often are. I assume you’re not taken in by that fact.”
I’d had a murder case in which the defendant, a parolee, had tutored the warden’s children and given piano lessons to his wife. It was part of the well-documented manipulative character of some of the worst homicidal maniacs.
“He’s participated in all his compulsory therapeutic programs.”
“There is no known therapy for recidivist sex offenders, sir. That’s meaningless to me.”
“Nine weeks ago, Ms. Cooper, Raymond qualified for two-day passes.”
“He what?”
“Raymond qualified for work release. Two days each week, he’s on an early morning bus to the Bronx and he’s back here by late the next evening.”
I wanted to reach through the phone line and throttle the administrator, who sounded as though he’d taken horse tranquilizers.
“Right now. Right this very minute, do you know where Raymond Tanner is?”
“Most certainly. He should be at his job today. He’s training in food services at a nursing home in the Bronx.”
“Give me that name and address, please. And the person he stays overnight with while he’s away. We’ll need that, too.”
“Not without a subpoena.”
“Hardball, is it? I’ll have one for you shortly.”
“Why, Ms. Cooper? Has Raymond done something?”
“What’s your worst nightmare about one of your prisoners, sir?”
My rigid attitude was met by silence.
“One more thing, if you’ll tell me,” I said. “Do you keep a record of your prisoners’ tattoos?”
“Yes. Yes, these days we do.”
“So tell me about Raymond Tanner, please.”
“Give me a minute to examine the file,” he said. “Yes. A lot of graphics on his chest, his back, his upper arms.”
“Anything to suggest violence?”
“I can’t interpret these drawings, Ms. Cooper. Someone will have to do that for you.”
“How about his hands. Anything on his hands?”
“No images,” he said. “Looks like just words.”
Just. Just words. “Is one of them ‘kill’?”
“Could be that. It’s rough and hard to read, like so many prison tats are. Could say ‘kill.’ And it looks like the other word is ‘coop’-oh, Coop-as in Cooper? Now I see your worry.”
“I’m not worried a bit, sir. Tanner’s obviously had more than enough time to find me, if that was his primary goal. But I think you ought to be.” I thanked him and hung up the phone.
“Tanner’s out?” Mercer said.
“No hearing, no notice to us. Model prisoner and all that bullshit.”
“Let me call Peterson. He should be the one to give Scully the news.”
“Nan opened a grand jury investigation for Angel on Monday. I’ll ask her to go in again at ten and start one for Flo.” Prosecutors did not have subpoena power. That request for evidence or testimony could only come from one of the six grand juries that sat five days a week for an entire month.
“When did the work release start?” Mercer asked.
“Nine weeks ago. And Dr. Mayes said Angel may have been dead as long as a month or more. Add that point to my list of circumstances.”