“Yes, matter of fact.”
“Son of Sam.”
She heard Linderman’s gasp.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Positive. David Berkowitz, aka Son of Sam, wrote a number of letters to a New York Post columnist named Jimmy Breslin. He signed the later letters SOS. I wrote a paper about Berkowitz as part of my graduate thesis on serial killers.”
“Why would Crutch write “Just like SOS’ on the cards?”
“There could be a number of reasons. Berkowitz was an arsonist, and set over a thousand fires in Brooklyn and the Bronx. He carried on a lengthy correspondence with the media until his arrest. He also believed his dog was the devil, and was telling him to kill people. His dog’s name was Sam, so he called himself Son of Sam. Crutch must have seen something in Mr. Clean’s crimes that was just like Son of Sam.”
“That’s brilliant, Rachel.”
“Thank you. If we can examine Mr. Clean’s crimes, we should be able to find the link to Son of Sam.”
“I’ve already done that. Got a pencil?”
Vick grabbed a pad and pencil from the shelf next to the nook.
“Ready,” she said.
“Mr. Clean’s victims were female prostitutes between the ages of twenty and thirty. They were raped, then had their throats slit. Their bodies were dumped near public roads or highways. Most of them were Latino or black, but a few were white. None used call services. All of the victims were last seen at night.”
Vick wrote in large, block letters on the notepad. Finished, she placed her pencil down, and stared at the list. “Huh,” she said.
“What’s wrong?” Linderman asked.
“I’m not seeing any connection to Son of Sam in this list.”
“Go through it with me.”
“All right. Berkowitz killed young couples sitting in cars, not prostitutes. He used a gun, never a knife. He left his victims in their cars, and never attempted to move their bodies. He often returned to the scene of his killings, and masturbated where the cars had been parked. None of those things resemble what you just told me about Mr. Clean.”
There was a pause as Linderman digested what she’d just said.
“There has to be a link,” he said.
Another pause, this time with Vick doing the thinking.
“I’ve got an idea,” she said. “Berkowitz kept a diary which the police discovered after he was arrested. It was filled with information about what he was thinking at the time of his crimes. I have a transcript on my laptop that I referred to while writing my thesis. I’ll reread it, and try to make a connection to Mr. Clean.”
“I’m counting on you, Rachel. We need to crack this,” Linderman said.
“I’ll do my best. Are you coming back to South Florida?”
“Not yet. I’m going to take another stab at getting Crutch to tell me what he knows. I’m going to break this little bastard.”
Linderman’s ability to extract information from witnesses and suspects was extraordinary, and Vick would have liked to have seen him work over Crutch.
“Good luck,” she said.
“Thanks. I’m going to need some.”
She cleaned up the kitchen floor and took a hot shower. She emerged from the bathroom feeling ready to take on the challenge Linderman had given her.
Every crime had a solution. It came down to knowing what you were looking for, and where to look for it. Vick sat at her dining room table with her laptop and began the tedious process of reading David Berkowitz’s diary.
The transcript was several hundred pages long. Many of the early entries were trivial, and talked about Berkowitz’s dreary, day-to-day existence. The product of an illicit love affair, he’d been raised by foster parents, a situation that had gone well until his foster mother had unexpectedly died. His relationship with his foster father had deteriorated, and he’d begun to fantasize about connecting with his real family, and starting his life anew. He’d finally gotten his wish, only to have his mother and sister reject him. His slide into madness had started soon after that.
A hundred pages into the transcript, the neighbor’s dog started barking orders to Berkowitz, telling him to kill. Berkowitz would later claim that the dog was possessed by a three thousand year old demon. Prison psychiatrists believed that Berkowitz had made up the story to avoid the death chamber. Others were not so sure.
Vick decided to take a break.
She ate a sandwich at the kitchen sink, a habit from living alone. Through the window, she stared at the blight of downtown Miami. The city had been filled with promise when she’d moved in, a happening place with people her age looking for new experiences. The Great Recession had changed that. Construction had come to a screeching halt, and thousands had defaulted on their loans and rent. Downtown was now filled with empty shells of buildings, many of which were occupied by squatters, their campfires burning brightly at night in the empty floors.
Her apartment buzzer rang. The only other person on her floor was a chatty eighty-year-old widow named Mrs. Rosenberg. Mrs. Rosenberg was rarely home during the day, and Vick put down her sandwich and removed a loaded Sig Sauer from the kitchen drawer.
She went to the front door and looked through the peephole. Mrs. Rosenberg stood outside with a sweet smile on her face. Again the buzzer rang.
“Coming,” Vick said.
She stuck the Sig behind her back, and opened the door.
“Hey, Mrs. Rosenberg, how are you?” she asked.
“I’m splendid, Rachel,” her neighbor said. “I was in the lobby waiting for my cab, and this nice man asked me to let him in. He said he knew you, so of course I did.”
Mrs. Rosenberg giggled, no doubt thinking she was playing cupid. Vick stuck her head out, and saw the nice man standing in the hall, his eyes downcast.
It was fucking DuCharme.
Chapter 32
Mrs. Rosenberg giggled into her hand. “Well, I suppose I must be going. I’m sure you two young people have lots of talk about.”
“We certainly do,” Vick said. “Would you like Roger to escort you downstairs?”
“No, I need to get something from my apartment. Thank you, anyway.”
DuCharme walked Mrs. Rosenberg to her door across the hallway. When the detective returned to Vick’s door, she showed him the Sig.
“Is that a gun, or are you just happy to see me?” DuCharme asked.
“Go fuck yourself,” Vick replied.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Send me an email. And don’t ever come into this apartment house unannounced again.”
DuCharme let out a deep, exaggerated breath. He was not the same man she’d seen on CNN earlier that day. His necktie was undone, the knot hanging halfway down his shirt like a hangman’s knot, his eyes watery and red. His silk sports jacket, so perfect for the television cameras, had not held up in the South Florida humidity, and had more creases than if he’d rolled down a hill.
“I’m sorry for everything I said. I was wrong,” the detective said.
Vick knew how well men lied. She held her ground.
“Go away.”
DuCharme reached into his jacket and removed several sheets of paper which were paper-clipped together. Vick spied the heading. It was a Broward Sheriff’s Department initial crime scene report.
“You need to see this, Rachel.”
“Piss off.”
“Come on, hear me out.”
“Give me one good reason why I should.”
“There’s been another killing.”
The sound of someone sneezing snapped both their heads. The door to Mrs. Rosenberg’s apartment creaked shut. Vick’s nosy neighbor was eavesdropping on their conversation.
“For the love of Christ, get your ass in here,” Vick said.
DuCharme shuffled into her apartment. She closed the door behind him and threw the deadbolt.
“Why the Sig?” he asked.
“The building’s had a lot of break-ins. I keep a loaded gun in every room.”
“It must be like living in Baghdad.”