Her eyes flew open in sudden terror as his hand clamped tightly around her fragile windpipe. Unable to scream because of her attacker’s death grip, she flailed away with hands and feet. Darkness and the blindness of awakening disguised the identity of the intruder. Fingernails clawed at the gloved hand to no avail. Slowly, the fight began to leave her petite body. Finally, her arms fell softly to the bed.
The stranger released the vise-like hold from her ravaged throat. He gently leaned over, pressing his ear to her chest. He listened. Feeling her breath on his neck, warm and sensual, he smiled. She was still alive, though peacefully unconscious. Smoothing back her long, silken blond hair, he tenderly kissed her forehead.
Rising from the bed, he paused once again to gaze upon her extraordinary beauty. He walked over to the nightstand, removing his overcoat along the way. His shirt and pants were the next to go, laid neatly atop his coat. He walked back to the bed, clad only in his designer boxers. He stared at her unblemished face, his body tense with anticipation. Ritually, he lowered his briefs, exposing the limp, non-threatening appendage.
He walked back to the nightstand. Reaching into the deep left pocket, he felt the smooth, firm handle of the long cutting blade. He traced the cutting edge with his finger, smiling with satisfaction. He walked back to her. Feeling the familiar stirring in his loins that signaled his growing excitement, he eagerly bent to his task.
◆ ◆ ◆
Lieutenant Sydney Berry climbed the steps to the apartment like a man going to his own execution. Head of New York City’s 108th Precinct homicide division, he no longer approached a murder scene the way he had in his first few years as a detective. Then, he had almost run to the site, eager to gather the evidence, excited about solving another whodunit. He had been guilty of possessing that same morbid curiosity that all young detectives have concerning the grisly details involved in the murders that come their way.
He and his detective cronies would sit at Murray’s Tavern, swapping crime scene stories, always trying to out-disgust each other with the gory tales. One of them would drunkenly chuckle about “that crazy sonofabitch who killed couples and then rearranged their heads and sexual organs.” Another would then pipe in about “that marine sergeant who came home from Vietnam and found his wife in bed with his best friend.” Sydney’s buddy, Jimmy Russo, had handled that case. Said “he thought he puked up a lung” after witnessing what was left of that adulterous pair.
Of course, that was eighteen years and thousands of crime scenes ago. Sydney had seen too many children killed, too many innocent people slaughtered, too much blood and gore, too damn much pain and suffering, to ever chuckle at death again.
The call he had received minutes before concerned this victim, a white female in her early twenties. He was advised to expect a mess. Early speculation was that the “Butcher” had struck again.
Wearily reaching the top step, he gazed through the entrance of the apartment complex. Noticing immediately that the hallway was heavy with police and emergency personnel traffic, he groaned his displeasure through gritted teeth. The vein in his forehead made its first appearance. Grabbing a young EMS worker roughly by the arm, Sydney sarcastically inquired, “Did I miss something? Is the victim in need of emergency care?”
“Uh, no—God no,” he answered, wresting his arm loose from Sydney’s grasp. “She’s way past needing our help.”
“Then I suggest that you just pack up the whole damn EMS crew, stop trampling my crime scene, and get the hell outta here.” Without waiting for a reply, he made his way through the wave of cops and curiosity seekers, finally noticing a familiar face in front of apartment 3A. Making a concerted effort to control his temper, Sydney approached the uniformed officer. “Hodges,” he said menacingly.
The surprised patrolman came to attention at the sound of Sydney’s voice. “Lieutenant—how are you, sir?”
“Dammit, Hodges, is this your first crime scene—or have you just totally lost your mind?”
He appeared to be puzzled by both the question and Sydney’s anger. “Excuse me, sir? I don’t follow you.”
Sydney’s face turned beet red. “Why the hell haven’t you roped off the area? Why are there twenty cops in the building, instead of outside keeping the citizens of Queens from joining us in our investigation?”
“Sir, I have roped off the victim’s apartment. I—”
“Nevermind,” Sydney grunted. “Rope off the entire building and get everybody the hell outta here.”
“Yes sir, Lieutenant,” Hodges replied earnestly. Sydney brushed past him and peered into the apartment. Forensic people were busy dusting the doorknob for prints. He carefully stepped around them and into the living room, where he was immediately greeted with his first good news of the day. His two best men were already hard at work.
Three men were sitting in the living room, two on the couch and one on the matching loveseat. Sergeant Ellis Moore, Sydney’s next in command, a heavyset black detective whom Sydney held in the highest regard, was the one on the loveseat.
Sergeant Warren Burroughs, the six-foot-two, athletically built, conservative partner of Moore’s, was seated on the couch next to a witness, Sydney assumed. Dressed neatly in khaki pants, Rugby shirt and deck shoes, the twenty-something young man was talking to the two detectives through intermittent sobbing.
Noticing Sydney, Ellis nodded a greeting, then motioned for him to join them. “Lieutenant, this is Jeffrey Miller. He’s the deceased, Patricia Swilling’s, fiancée.”
Jeffrey Miller slowly stood, extending his trembling hand, which Sydney gripped tightly and shook firmly. “Mr. Miller, I’m Lieutenant Berry. I’m in charge of this investigation.”
The grieving man nodded, a tear rolling down his cheek. “Patty—Patricia and I—we’ve seen you on TV a couple of times. I knew you’d be coming. I knew the minute I walked into that room—I knew the Butch—” His voice trailed off into a sob, his shoulders shaking with emotion.
Ellis, by far the best consoler of the three detectives, gently persuaded Miller to take a moment to compose himself. After finally wiping away his tears, he faced Sydney again, nodding that he was ready to continue.
“I take it that you found her?” Sydney asked.
Jeffrey nodded sullenly. “Patricia and I arranged yesterday evening to go out tonight. Nothing special… dinner… maybe catch a movie. There was no set plan.”
“So you came to pick her up and that was when you found her?” Sydney asked. Glancing at Ellis, then to Warren, Sydney added, “Did you guys already cover this?”
“Not yet,” Warren answered. “Just got here a few minutes before you did.”
Sydney turned to Miller again. “So that’s when you found her—when you came to pick her up for the date?”
“No sir—I wasn’t supposed to pick her up until seven-thirty.”
“What brought you over here early?”
“I called her at work this afternoon—she works at Dryden Finance as a receptionist. The secretary told me that Patty hadn’t come in this morning and hadn’t even called to say why.” He looked earnestly at each detective. “And that’s just not like Patty—she’s very conscientious.” Sydney started to interject something, but Jeffrey continued, “I asked her if she had called to check on Patty. She said no. I told her that I would look into it and get back to her.”
“What happened next?” Ellis asked, continuously writing down any pertinent information.
“I called the apartment several times and got no answer.”
“What time was that?” Sydney asked.
“Three-thirty, three-forty, somewhere around there.”
“Why did you wait so long to come over here?” Ellis queried.
“Because I couldn’t leave my stupid job until five-thirty. We both have to work pretty much every Saturday. I came straight over here after work.” He looked at the detectives, noting Sydney’s nod, signaling for him to continue. “I noticed that her car was parked in its usual spot. I hoped that she had just returned from wherever she had been.” Again, he began to sob.
“Take it easy, Mr. Miller,” Sydney said soothingly. “Slow down. Take a deep breath.”
Jeffrey wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. After taking a deep, cleansing breath, he nodded at Sydney.
“Tell us what happened next,” Sydney said.
“I knocked on the door but got no answer,” he said. “I decided to check to see if it was unlocked—which it was. So I walked in, looked around this room. Then I went to the bedroom…” Jeffrey broke down, crying openly.
Sydney motioned for Ellis to join him a few feet away.
“Tell Warren to take him down to the station to get his statement,” he said quietly. “Get him to call his parents or friends. He’s going to need some help tonight. And Ellis, we’re going to eventually need blood and hair samples from him. Explain that it’s just procedure.”
“Syd, you haven’t seen the girl yet,” Ellis said, nodding toward the bedroom. “The Butcher did that, no damn doubt in my mind. You really want to put this poor guy through all that?”
“Look, I hear what you’re saying, but get the samples anyway. Serial killings can bring out the copycats, so let’s just play this one strictly by the book. That way our asses are covered.”
Ellis nodded, then glanced toward the bedroom again. “You gonna go check out that room?”
Sydney took a deep breath. “Have you and Warren checked out the scene thoroughly?”
“Yep, sure have. The lab boys are in there now.”
“Was she lying on her back with her legs splayed open?” Sydney asked flatly. “Was she cut from sternum to below her navel? Did the sick bastard pull out her intestines? Does that pretty much cover what’s in that room?”
The big sergeant, with the even bigger heart, nodded glumly. “That pretty much covers it. Looks like a carbon copy of the others.”
Sydney looked at the ground, shaking his head. “Then I don’t need to see it. I’ll be looking at photos of it every day until we catch the animal.”
Sydney walked back to Jeffrey Miller, who was still fighting back tears, his head in his hands. “Mr. Miller, did Ms. Swilling have any family in the area?”
Jeffrey looked up and nodded solemnly. “Her mother and father live a few blocks from here. Mr. Swilling owns Swilling Taxidermy.” He shook his head, talk of her parents causing more anguish. “God, I don’t wanna be the one to break this news to them.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Sydney said. “That’s our job.”
He looked at Ellis, who nodded. “Let me wrap things up here, Lieutenant, then I’ll head over to her parents’ house.”
Sydney walked off a few steps with Ellis. “Thanks, buddy—I know you’ll handle it well.”
Ellis shook his head, frowning. “There ain’t no way to handle that kinda thing well.”
While walking Ellis to the door, Sydney looked him squarely in the eye. “Tell me one thing about the girl, Ellis.”
“What’s that, Syd?”
“What did she look like?—I mean, before he got to her?”
“Syd, she was a blond-haired, blue-eyed princess, tiny little thing, about a hundred pounds soaking wet. She was probably a cheerleader in high school and the apple of her daddy’s eye.”
Sydney nodded grimly as he walked out the door, preparing to face the gathering throng of reporters. He noticed it had begun to rain. How fitting, his mind groused.
◆ ◆ ◆
“Lieutenant, could you tell us the name of the victim?” Shirley Richards of Eyewitness News asked.
Sydney had barely cleared the front door of the building, before a barrage of questions were hurled his way. As usual, Ms. Richards’ voice had risen above the rest. Always digging. Always pushing. “No ma’am, although I’m sure we’ll be releasing it soon. Her family hasn’t been notified yet. By the way, if they were to hear about it from one of you, instead of one of my detectives, I’d be inclined to be far less forthcoming with you in the future.”
“We’re not children, Lieutenant,” Shirley Richards said crisply. “We’re professionals—just like you.”
“No offense intended, Ms. Richards,” Sydney said, smiling wryly at the spunky woman. “Now, let’s get on with it. I’m getting all wet.”
A male reporter queried, “Is it safe to assume that this is the Butcher’s handiwork?”
“No sir, it is definitely not safe, nor prudent, to assume that. In fact, it would be irresponsible on both our parts to assume that at this point. We have a young woman who has been killed by a person—or persons—unknown.”
“Come now, Lieutenant, is that what you consider forthcoming?” Shirley asked incredulously.
“Excuse me, ma’am?” Sydney asked innocently.
“Don’t play coy, Lieutenant. We’ve all heard that there’s a woman in there whose been horribly mutilated, in much the same way as the previous three victims. Can’t you at least offer your professional opinion as to the probable perpetrator of this crime?” The mass of reporters nodded, murmuring their mutual agreement.
Sydney allowed the din to subside before responding, “Ms. Richards, like you, I am in the business of stating facts, not supposition. And, like you, I would be careless and irresponsible, were I to substitute my opinions for the facts. Surely you wouldn’t ask me to compromise my integrity?” The reporters anxiously looked in Shirley’s direction, mesmerized by the sparring session.
She shook her head, chuckling sarcastically. “Lieutenant, I knew I should’ve worn my boots today. I was already ankle deep in water, and now I’m knee deep in whatever you just shoveled out.”
Sydney glared at the pushy newswoman, then finally let a chuckle escape his lips. The reporters joined in, except, of course, for Shirley Richards. Frowning, she continued to press on. “So your official statement is that this young lady, name withheld, was killed by a person—or persons—unknown,” she said, sarcasm dripping from her words. “And that any similarities to the Butcher slayings may be purely coincidental.”
“Now, don’t misquote me, Ms. Richards,” Sydney replied chidingly. “I never said there were similarities. You did.”
“Are you denying similarities?”
Sydney was visibly tiring from her relentless onslaught. “I will release the victim’s name as soon as it is prudent. Our lab people may shed further light on the case, pending their investigation. At that time, I will give all of you good people any information which I feel will not jeopardize our investigation in any way. Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I have work to do.”
As he started to part the mob, the reporters continued to shout questions and to physically crowd into the police barrier. Sydney called out to a uniformed officer, “Jameson, if any of these fine folks cross the barrier tape, arrest them please.”
Jameson smiled. “My pleasure, sir.”
Sydney made his way to his blue Blazer, leaving an unsatisfied mob of reporters in his wake.
◆ ◆ ◆
Bernie Frank had already pulled a twelve-hour shift, when he was called to come in that late October evening. As the most highly regarded pathologist in the five boroughs, he had logged dozens of overtime hours, working closely with Sydney Berry on the grisly slayings.
Fifty-six years of age, balding, overweight and easygoing, Frank had served the citizens of New York City for thirty-three years. He had a way of cutting through the bullshit that endeared him to most detectives. His dedication and downright love for his unsavory work had earned him the affectionate nickname of “Bernie von Frankenstein.” Of course, he was always quick to respond that “the monster was between his legs.”
“Well, Bernie, what’s the verdict?” Sydney asked, intentionally avoiding the sight of Patricia Swilling’s violated body.
Bernie looked up from his work. “It’ll be tomorrow before we complete the lab work, but you can be fairly certain that we’re looking at victim number four here.”
“Based on what?” Sydney asked. “For all we know, the boyfriend could have done it in a jealous rage, then decided to stage the thing to look like it was our boy. We can’t jump to conclusions, Bernie.”
“Damn, Sydney, you sure are campaigning for this to be non-Butcher related.”
“You bet your ass I am.”
“Well, the knife used was the same—or at least similar to— the one used on the other girls,” Bernie stated.
“In your opinion, along the lines of a butcher knife.”
“That’s my humble opinion. There were also marks on her throat like the others—probably from his hands, choking her.”
“Cause of death?” Sydney asked.
“Death by strangulation, and, or, blood loss.”
“You can’t say for sure?”
“Nope.”
“Well, what’s your gut feeling?” Sydney inquired impatiently.
Bernie frowned before responding. “There’s usually much more damage to the trachea and larynx in a death by strangulation than what I’ve seen in these killings.”
“Meaning?”
Bernie ran his chubby hand down his oval face, debating what he was about to say. “Sydney, I think the bastard is choking them unconscious. I honestly think he wants them alive when he guts them.”
Sydney took a deep breath, shaking his head. “Damn, Bernie, I hope you’re off base on that theory.” He shook his head again, dazed. “God in Heaven, I hope you’re wrong.”
Bernie Frank nodded glumly. “There’s also seminal fluid in the abdominal cavity—once again—like the others. We also took samples from the sheet.”
Sydney clenched his fists, barely able to contain the bitter anger inside of him. “The sick scum shot his wad while he was ripping her apart.”
Nodding, Bernie added, “We’ll know more tomorrow whether we have a match.”
Sydney breathed deeply, trying to regain control of his emotions. “Anything else?”
“There were no ligature marks on her wrists. Victims one and two had rope marks. Three and four had no marks. The ropes were obviously used on the first two for the purpose of transportation. These last two were killed in their apartments, negating the need for binding their hands.”
Sydney agreed with the assessment. “He used the rope out of necessity, not as part of his sick ritual.” He glanced at Patricia Swilling for the briefest of seconds. “Bernie, I honestly don’t know how you can do this shit every day. How the hell do you face getting up in the morning?”
Bernie tilted his head slightly, staring earnestly at his queasy friend. “You’ve got to realize, Sydney,” he said, pointing at the table, “that beautiful body was just a rental property for the young girl’s soul. Once her soul moved on, you’re talking about perishable goods. I don’t know about you, but it helps me to believe that our souls move on to a better place.”
Sydney was not completely receptive. “Maybe so, Bernie, but I gotta believe that Patricia Swilling’s soul is somewhere looking down on all this. And I’ll bet you a million bucks she is very pissed off at what this low life did to her body.”
A faint smile appeared on Bernie’s chubby face. “And that’s where you come in.”
Sydney glaring straight ahead, though seeing nothing, replied in a monotone, “That’s where they pay me to come in.”
◆ ◆ ◆
At one thirty-three a.m., Sydney finally crawled into bed, hoping that he wouldn’t wake her. He was too damned tired to answer a bunch of questions. She stirred as he settled onto his back. After a few seconds, she put her head on his shoulder, nestling her nose against his rugged cheek.
His eyes darted sideways, catching a glimpse of her beautiful face, visible from the moonlight peeking in through the blinds. He was constantly amazed that this beauty was with him, a thirty-eight-year-old, boring, stubborn, run-of-the-mill, conservative, blue collar cop. It made no sense to him, but he savored every minute with her like it might be his last.
Sensing him looking at her, she opened her eyes, smiling at him. “Hey babe, you just getting home?”
“Yeah—sorry I woke you,” he whispered softly. “Go back to sleep.”
“Anything interesting to report?” she asked, still groggy.
“Always the reporter, Ms. Richards,” he said, tenderly kissing her forehead. “I’m sorry, but you’ll just have to find out tomorrow, along with the rest of your fellow bloodsuckers.”
She pinched his stomach playfully. “You don’t have a very high opinion of my profession, do you?”
“Hell, look at how you conducted yourself earlier this evening,” Sydney said, feigning hurt feelings. “Lady, you really busted my balls.”
Instead of responding with words, she reached below the sheet, finding the opening to Sydney’s conservative, white boxers. Bypassing his awakening penis, she gripped his scrotum firmly, causing him to flinch involuntarily. “They feel fine to me, Lieutenant. Just fine.”
She swung her leg over him gracefully, molding her body to his in all the right places. Sydney was glad that he woke her after all.