“Hey, that gives me an idea, boss,” I yelled. “From here on out, I’m legally changing my name to Mike ‘-La-di-da’ Bennett. If you don’t like that and you want my resignation, you’re welcome to it. Or maybe you should just go ahead and bring me up on departmental charges. Canoodling in the first degree.”
I endured another icy pause before McGinnis said, “Don’t tempt me, Bennett,” and hung up.
I sat there for a second, my face red, my head pounding. His giving me an earful was one thing, but to imply that I’d jeopardize a case over a reporter was a really low blow. They asked me to come in on this, right? What an idiot I’d been – so proud to be handpicked, and worried sick about letting down the team. Now my team was kicking me in the teeth.
I guess William Tell’s son had been handpicked, too. Right before they’d put an apple on his head.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I yelled to the wailing horns all around me. No wonder people in this town went nuts. I added my own horn to the chorus as I peeled out.
Chapter 29
In a conference room on the twelfth floor of One Police Plaza, I met Detective Beth Peters face-to-face for the first time, by the coffee cups. Fortyish, petite, and fine-boned, she looked more like a news anchor than a cop. She was pleasant but sharp, with a quick smile. Again, I got the sense that we were going to get along.
But there was no time for small talk. This was an emergency task force on the shootings, put together by Chief of Detectives McGinnis. After my morning’s conversation with him, I was almost surprised that I was actually allowed to take part.
There were about twenty of us crammed into the room, mostly NYPD, but I spotted a few FBI agents and civilians. Beth and I found seats at the back end of the conference table as Paul Hanbury, a young black forensic psychologist and Columbia professor, spoke first.
“I think from this person’s attention to detail, we can rule out the possibility that he’s a paranoid schizophrenic. If he were hearing voices, he probably would have been caught by now. However, he does seem to be somewhat delusional. And with his changing clothes and using two different weapons, I don’t think I’d completely rule out that a multiple personality is involved. At this point, I can only guess at a motive, but he fits the model of a reclusive type who doesn’t get along with others – maybe someone who suffered an early childhood trauma and is seeking revenge through a homicidal fantasy.”
Next to give us his take was Tom Lamb, a thin, harried-looking FBI profiler from 26 Federal Plaza.
“Our shooter is almost definitely a male, probably in his thirties. I don’t know if I go along with the fact that he’s reclusive. He certainly has no qualms about getting up close and personal with his victims. The fact that he’s using two different caliber weapons leads me to believe he’s either ex-military or a gun nut. I’d lean toward the latter, so maybe we should take a look at the usual Guns and Ammo suspects.”
“Do you think there could be more than one killer?” Beth Peters asked him. “Maybe a team of shooters, like the Malvo thing down in DC?”
The federal agent gripped his sharp chin in concentration. “That’s an interesting idea. Let’s face it. This guy isn’t exactly acting in a way that fits previous homicide models. But like Paul said, all we can do so far is guess.”
Then I stood up. Heads turned toward me.
“In that case, why don’t we slow down a little and consider the possibility that the shooter has a personal connection to the victims?” I said. “This guy is a cool customer. Not just angry, emotionally disturbed, out of control, like a lot of them.”
Paul Hanbury spoke up again. “Mass murderers often plan their crimes for years, Detective,” he said. “It’s what comforts them when they’re stonewalled or hurt. The old ‘Some day I’ll come back and then I’ll get the respect I deserve.’ That buildup of frustration can have surprising results.”
“Point taken,” I said, looking straight at Chief McGinnis. “Still, I’m not completely convinced yet that he’s a garden-variety serial. Shouldn’t he have contacted the press by now?”
“So you’re saying maybe he’s just acting like he’s nuts?” Beth said to me.
“If he’s just acting,” Detective Lavery joined in from across the table, “I’d like to be the first to nominate him for an Academy Award.”
“What I’m saying is, if this guy’s got a program, maybe that gives us something to go on,” I said. “Otherwise, what’s our alternative? Just blanket Manhattan with cops, and cross our fingers that one’s around when he goes off again?”
Then McGinnis himself stood up, glaring back at me.
“That’s exactly what we’re going to do, Bennett. It’s called being proactive. Please explain your plan, Agent Lamb.”
I sat back down as the FBI agent recommended that beefed-up patrols, and especially the Counter-Terror Unit, should be stationed at certain affluent areas – Rockefeller Center, the Harvard Club, the New York Athletic Club, Lincoln Center, Carnegie Hall, and Tiffany’s.
Tiffany’s, I thought. Like they needed more security! And what about MoMA and half the restaurants in the Zagat guide? This was New York. There weren’t enough cops on the force to play goalie at every high-end institution.
“And let me remind everyone that this is confidential information,” McGinnis finished. His hard stare returned to my face and stayed there.
I rolled my eyes, thinking again about defending myself, but decided the hell with it. Instead, I got another cup of coffee, took a hot, sour sip, and stared out the conference room window at headquarters’ breathtaking view of the Brooklyn Bridge.
Maybe the killer would do me a personal favor and go terrorize one of the other boroughs today.
Chapter 30
Behind his Diesel sunglasses, the Teacher squinted into the bright sunlight that hit him as he cornered the sidewalk off Eighth Avenue and onto 42nd Street.
He was into his next chameleon act, now wearing a Piero Tucci lambskin jacket over a distressed graffiti T, Morphine jeans, and Lucchese stingray-skin boots – an outfit that looked casual, but people with eyes for that sort of thing would know it cost more than a lot of monthly paychecks. He hadn’t shaved, and his fashionable stubble gave him the look of a rock or film star.
He felt like bursting into laughter as he marched toward Times Square with the mass of clueless rat-racers. The fact that he was doing all this in broad daylight was so crazy, so bold. It was like being high on the greatest drug he could possibly imagine.
Finally – being able to unload a lifetime of pent-up venom! Ever since he was little, people had tried to sell him the big lie. How great everything was, the holy privilege of being alive. Worst of all was his god-awful, annoying mother. The world is a gift from God, life is precious, count your blessings, she’d always say. He’d loved her, of course, but Christ, sometimes he’d thought her gums would never stop flapping.
She’d been gone three years now, along with her witless philosophy degree from the University of Hallmark. Near the end, at her deathbed, he’d had to restrain himself from pushing aside the IV cords that entangled her like vines in a plastic rain forest, and asking her, If life was such a precious gift, then why the hell was He such a frigging Indian giver?
He hadn’t, of course. Despite her faults, she was his mother. She’d sacrificed for him. The least he could do was to let her die as deluded as she’d lived.
But now he no longer had to play charades. Let’s face it, he thought – in this insanely decadent modern mess called society, being negative and antisocial was downright proper. He wanted no part of the pointless mistake that humanity had become.