Dead Cold Mystery Box Set 4 Page 59

  “Why don’t you?”

  I didn’t answer. I sat for a long while looking at her, wondering what was stopping me. I didn’t believe I had enough for an arrest, but at the same time I knew Dehan and I should be dragging her over the coals and giving her a hard time, trying to find cracks in her story and force a confession.

  I stood. “I need you to come in and make a statement, no later than tomorrow morning. At that time I will decide whether to charge you or not. You better pray that Grant confirms your story when I talk to him. Meantime, don’t leave the city. If you try to, I will arrest you and you will be in deep, deep trouble.”

  “I’ll come in this afternoon. John, everything I have told you is true. I lied because I panicked, but I am not a liar.”

  “There will be an officer watching your block. I’ll expect to see you this afternoon. I’ll see myself out.”

  I crossed the living room to the front door of the apartment, wondering at my own behavior and the motivation behind it. I opened the door and stepped out into the red-carpeted landing. The elevators were down on my left. A distorted lozenge of light lay across the carpet where it was beaming in from the passage on the left. I closed the door behind me and walked toward the elevators, still turning over Penelope’s story in my head, and wondering what it was that had made me hold back from taking her in for interrogation.

  I stopped in front of the elevator door and reached for the button.

  That was when everything went black.

  TWELVE

  I opened my eyes and saw only blackness. I wondered for a second if I was blind, but noticed patches of blackness that were less dark than others, where amorphous areas of density loomed and pressed in. There was panic inside me. I had no recollection of where I had been before the blackness, no knowledge of how I had gotten there. An impulse made me want to shout, call out for help. But my instincts made me hold back, lie still and quiet, and listen.

  Then thoughts started to filter in.

  Dehan.

  She would be wondering where I was, which led me to wonder how long I had been wherever I was, and how I had gotten there. Where had I been before? What was the last thing in my mind, before the darkness?

  Dehan.

  Dehan had been mad at me. I could see her face, scowling. What had she been mad about? I hadn’t been sharing my thoughts. That was what usually made her mad, but it hadn’t been that. Not this time. She had been sharing her thoughts, about Jack’s head, about Jack’s murder and the white van…

  Penelope.

  I tried to sit up and realized for the first time that my body was numb. A couple more attempts gave me pins and needles in my feet and my hands. And when I tried to reach my right hand with my left, it began to dawn on me that my wrists and my ankles were bound tight.

  Then there was a moment when I felt real panic in my belly and fought hard with my mind to keep my thinking cool and rational.

  Dehan.

  I had told Dehan I would be a couple of hours. It must have been that long. I had been roughly half an hour getting to Penelope’s apartment. We had been at least half an hour talking. Then what? Had I left? I struggled to bring back images. She had been crying. I had risen and moved toward the door. And then…

  Then nothing.

  If I had been clubbed or drugged, it would have taken at least half an hour to get me wherever I was, bind me and leave me to come around. If Dehan was not already aware of my absence, she would be very soon. The only question was, soon enough?

  I tried to concentrate on my sense of touch. Absurdly I closed my eyes, then concentrated my attention on my wrists. They were down beside my hips. I turned and twisted them and found they had a little give. They were bound with fine rope, not tape, and by the texture on my skin, it felt like nylon. There was not a hope in hell of breaking it.

  I tried to sit up again, slowly, and found there were a couple of ropes across my chest and shoulders. I was pretty much immobilized, and even if I were able to move enough to reach my pockets, I had to assume my cell had been taken. There was an outside chance my GPS was on and traceable, but it was unlikely, to say the least. It dawned on me that I must be going through something very similar to what Jack Connors went through during his last hours, but it was poor consolation.

  I spent the next while—it could have been half an hour or ten minutes, it was impossible to tell in that darkness—just listening. I heard nothing: no traffic, no voices, no birds, no foghorns. Nothing but my own breathing.

  The surface I was lying on felt like wood, and as I explored what little area I could with my fingers, I realized I must be lying on a table. The surface and the edges were not smooth, like a polished dining table, but slightly rough, so I began a slow and hopeless process of rubbing the ropes binding my wrists against the edge of the table in the hope of wearing through them. Though it seemed more likely the rope would wear through the wood.

  After a long while, I heard a noise. It might have been a bump, or a footfall. I froze. After a moment, there was the clack of a key turning in a lock and a thin strip of light broke the darkness. How near or how far it was was impossible to tell, nor did the light reveal anything of where I was, or what lay beyond it. It was just a strip of brilliance in the dark. Nothing happened for a moment. Then the brilliance expanded and at its center there was the black, spidery silhouette of a person standing with one hand outstretched, pushing open the door.

  I waited. The figure was hazy and seemed to shift, perhaps take a step closer. I squinted, but I couldn’t make out any detail. I spoke and my voice sounded strange and loud.

  “Who are you?”

  There was no indication they had heard, or even knew I was there. I spoke louder. “Come and untie me!”

  The figure remained motionless, its right hand raised, outstretched against the blackness of the door.

  “The whole of the NYPD will be searching for me. They know where I went. You can’t get away with this.” Still nothing, no reaction, no indication it had heard. “Let’s talk! Let’s negotiate! Tell me what you want.”

  Again nothing. I flopped back, rested my head against the tabletop and closed my eyes for a moment, trying to think. When I raised it again to look, the figure had come almost imperceptibly closer and was now filling more of the doorframe, with the brilliance behind it. Now I could sense that it was staring at me. Panic coiled like a snake in my belly. I said, “Is it Helena? Is that what you want?”

  Nothing shifted, nothing changed, except that I could sense the intensity of the figure’s concentration.

  “Why didn’t you kill her, instead? Why kill Jack? Which one of them was it who hurt you? Or was it both? You have a story. I’d like to hear it. I am not out to punish anyone. I am just out to understand.”

  I knew I was overreaching and stopped. The figure seemed to recede slightly. I spoke again, more quietly. “So it was Helena. She was at the heart of the whole thing, wasn’t she? That’s why it wasn’t enough to kill him. That’s why you had to send her the head.”

  The shadow receded a little more and the door started to close. I shouted: “Did she appreciate it?”

  The door stopped. I shouted again: “Did she appreciate what you did?”

  The blackness contracted around the jagged hook of light and shut it out. There was a clack, and the blackness was locked in.

  * * *

  Dehan had watched me leave and sat for a while thinking about dismembered bodies and decapitation. Finally, she had called Frank at the morgue. She had said:

  “We’re averaging three hundred murders a year just in the city, double that in the state.”

  “What’s your point, you’re being forced to do your job?”

  “Hey, save the attitude for Stone. I’m the pretty one. You’re supposed to be nice to me.”

  “So what do you want from me? I’m the guy who has to deal with those three hundred murders. I am actually trying to do my job. And, FYI, it’s below three hundred now.”

&nbs
p; “Quit griping, Frank. All I want you to do is think a little. This is the kind of body that is going to stand out from the rest. He hasn’t been mangled or chopped up with a machete. His head has been cleanly severed in one swipe, with something like a samurai…”

  “I am familiar with the decapitation, Carmen. It was I who described it to you, if you remember.”

  “If there had been anything similar in 2013, 2014 or 2015, surely it would have stuck in your memory; a body with the head missing, or some kind of dismemberment where the limbs had been removed with surgical precision…”

  “What crackpot idea is Stone playing with now? He thinks this is a serial killer?”

  “He thinks it’s worth exploring, and I kind of agree. It is a very odd way to kill somebody.”

  “Yes. Not as much as you might think, but yes. However, the startling feature is the mailing of the head, not the severing of it.” He sighed, then muttered, “There was something. But it wasn’t New York. You realize this city has processed around one thousand five hundred homicides since 2013…”

  “Yeah, well, that’s kind of why I’m calling you, Frank.”

  “I simply haven’t got the time to go looking for it, but I can point you in the right direction. It stood out because it was in Connecticut, where as you know, the locals don’t kill each other. I read about it in the Journal, it was in one of those coast towns that are so pretty, New Haven, Guilford…”

  “Madison?”

  “…yes. Yes, I believe it was Madison.”

  “What was it? What was the homicide?”

  “Please bear in mind that I only read about it in our professional journal. This was not my jurisdiction. As I recall, it was a male body, mid forties, well dressed, not in the system so back then he had not been identified, and he had been decapitated. I believe it was a single, clean cut. The article was actually about the state of decomposition when the body is exposed to the elements in extreme cold. The article was in the spring issue so, if memory serves, the body was found at some point during the winter, 2014 to 2015.”

  Dehan frowned and scratched her head. “Well, could it have been Jack Connors’ body?”

  “Of course not, Carmen. John Doe’s DNA is in the system. We searched for matches for Connors and none popped up.”

  “Sure…”

  “That really is all I can do for you, Carmen.”

  “Yeah, thanks, Frank. That was really helpful.”

  She hung up and immediately called me. It rang a few times and went to voicemail.

  “Stone, something has come up you really need to know about. Your hunch paid off and this could be a lot more complicated than you think. Call me as soon as you get this.”

  She found the case report and spent the next hour trawling through 2013 homicide reports where there was some kind of mutilation involved. She found nothing of any interest. Shortly before lunch, she called me again and got my voicemail again. That made her nervous because it was totally out of character for me not to answer her calls.

  At that point, Consuelo, one of the team who had been assigned to review the homicides from 2013 to 2015, approached her desk.

  “You got something?”

  “I think so. We found this report filed by the Fairfield County Sheriff’s Department.” She handed her the extract from the file. “White male, mid forties, found in Sherwood Milpond, Westport. That’s just past Norwalk, like thirty miles from New Rochdale?”

  “I know where it is. I drove past it just the other day.”

  “The body had been decapitated and dumped in the pond. The cut was described by the ME as having been made with surgical precision. It was found April, 2015. I called the Fairfield Sheriff’s Department and they said the body has not been identified or claimed, and the head was never found.”

  “That’s excellent work, Consuelo. Thanks, keep digging. But do something for me, will you? I want you, personally, to focus only on 2013 and 2014. Forget 2015.”

  “Forget 2015?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded. “OK, sure, I’ll do that.”

  After that, she made her way up the stairs to the chief’s office. On the way, she called my number again and again got my voicemail. She went upstairs and knocked on the deputy inspector’s door.

  “Come!”

  She stepped in and he smiled at her. “Carmen, what can I do for you?”

  She took a moment to organize her thoughts, then outlined the case.

  The deputy inspector listened and nodded. “I remember it. It caused quite a stir at the time.”

  “Yes, sir. It was always assumed, and we assumed, that the murder was about Jack Connors and Helena Magnusson.”

  He frowned. “Logically, it would be.”

  “But, as you know, Stone had this notion we should look for other similar bodies…”

  The deputy inspector made a face of long suffering and sighed. “Yes, how’s that going?”

  “Well, sir, as always, it’s beginning to look as though he was right. But it gets more complicated.” He gestured at a seat and she sat across the desk from him, still talking. “Jack Connors had a lover, Penelope Peach. We discovered that, contrary to what was originally thought, Penelope believed that Jack was going to leave his wife and marry her. Penelope had lied about this in the original investigation, and later to us.”

  “I see… Carmen, where is John?”

  “That’s the thing, sir. She didn’t only lie about that. She also claimed she hadn’t spoken to Jack on the day he died, but in actual fact, she telephoned him shortly before he left the office, and was never seen again. Stone went to confront her with these facts.”

  “Oh.”

  “But there is more, sir.”

  “More?”

  “While he was talking to Penelope, I was helping the team to look for prior cases of decapitation. We have found two. Now, here is where it gets a little complicated, and I don’t really know what it means.”

  “Spit it out, Carmen.”

  “We first met Penelope in Madison, Connecticut. She said she was visiting her fiancé’s senior partner. So to avoid awkward questions, we met her at the hotel. Now, as I said, we have discovered two bodies, both from 2015, both decapitated with surgical precision, one in Madison and the other in Westport, forty miles from Madison, roughly halfway between here and there, and on the same highway.”

  “Have you discussed this with John? What does he say? Where is he?”

  “He is not answering his phone, sir. I’ve called him three times so far and it just goes to voicemail. It’s been…” She glanced at her watch. “It’s been a little over two hours.”

  “Take a couple of cars and go to her apartment. Bring her in. Why didn’t he do that to start with? Why didn’t he bring her in straight away?”

  She sighed. “I don’t know, sir. When he’s on a roll, he doesn’t always share his thoughts.”

  “He should have brought her in and you should have insisted, Carmen. We’ll talk about this after. Right now, get to her apartment, bring her in for interrogation and find John. And as soon as you get back, I want you both in my office, before you interrogate her. I want to know what the hells is going on, I want to know what is in John’s mind and I want to know why we have three decapitated bodies. I mean, what the hell! Have we got a serial killer, or what?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why are you still here? Go!”

  THIRTEEN

  I opened my eyes and realized I had been asleep. I still felt groggy and the light was hurting my eyes. I tried to shield them with my hand, but couldn’t move it and remembered my hands were tied. Then the memories started to seep back. My belly burned and I felt sick. It had been dark. Now it was light. Somebody had switched the lights on.

  I opened my eyes by slow degrees and peered. A wave of intense nausea washed over me and for a moment I thought I was going to vomit, but it passed and I tried to take in what I was seeing. My vision was foggy and at first it didn’t make a
lot of sense. I had a strange sense of dissociation, as though I were watching myself, understanding myself and my relationship to the universe for the first time.

  On my left there was a bare brick wall. It felt cold on the back of my hand. I muttered to myself, “There is cold, but I am not cold.” I raised my head and looked down the length of a body that was mine, but not me. Thin nylon rope bit into my throat, but I could see my shoes, and beyond them a jumble of boxes, old chairs, a standard lamp—junk. No windows.

  I smiled, aware that what I was seeing was a symbol of my past, which was holding me prisoner.

  Then I turned to my right. More cartons full of junk, photographs in frames, an old computer, wires, keyboards. Some concrete steps; I counted them: six, leading to a door. The door that had opened and then closed, where the shadow had stood. I wondered if the shadow had been me, observing myself. There was no source of natural light in the room. No way of measuring time. Everything was now. I stared up at the ceiling, the dirty, white wire protruding from the bare concrete, the ancient green glass shade, the forty watt bulb.

  I craned my neck against the thin, nylon rope across my throat and tried to see the floor. It too was concrete, dusty, littered with bits of card, scraps of paper and amorphous trash that was impossible to identify.

  I flopped back and looked to my right again. That was when I slowly became aware of the bench that was just a foot or two from my head and just above the height of my shoulder. It looked like a workbench of the sort you might have in your garage, for sawing wood or doing odd DIY jobs. But it was slightly different, as though it had been modified in some way. It had a system of rollers and pulleys I could not quite make out, but as I narrowed my eyes and tried to focus I realized that, fed through the rollers and pulleys, there was a thin steel wire, like a piano wire.

  Or a cheese cutter.

  And it was threaded up and over my throat. What was holding my head down was not just a nylon rope, there was a thin steel wire too.