Mallory and Gunner slouched deep down into the worn out chairs in the Lieu’s office as Danvers flipped through the report on his desk, a massive collection of U-68s and other report forms. Finally he looked up, frowned, making eye contact with one, then the other.
“What bothers me is this: why did he bring the stolen vehicle back to the crime scene?”
The detectives exchanged looks; Mallory expressed their confusion. “Aren’t you going to nail us for not getting the guy?”
Gunner shared his partner’s mystification. “Or for winding up in the middle of all that chaos?”
“Or for the body count?”
Danvers met each detective’s gaze, holding one, then the other. “Way I see it, this guy showed up and created all of that on his own,” Danvers pushed the mound of paper work aside. “Considering his overt aggression, I’m proud you handled yourselves as well as you did.” He shook his head. “It’s the final car stunt that bothers me. Why would he take that risk?”
Gunner replied, “To fu—mess with us one more time.”
Danvers held up his hands, palms up. “If that’s true, if he was compelled to drive in as close as he could possibly get to an ongoing police investigation, within sight of dozens of police officers as well as the detectives who already visually identified him, we would be forced to assume this guy is reckless to the point of stupidity.”
“Our guy is not stupid,” Mallory said.
“Then why did he do it? Why didn’t he ditch it elsewhere and walk to the scene of the crime if he wanted to gawk? Actually, why risk returning at all?”
Moments passed without a sound. Mallory finally broke the silence. “He needed to retrieve something else in that area.”
“No way did he think he was getting those cards,” Gunner said.
Danvers nodded. “Right, the store was closed off to him. He had to be there for some other reason. Unless we want to believe he’s just psychotic.”
“He functions too well,” Mallory stood up, walked to a filthy window. “It’s too planned out. Even today’s chaos had logic to it. This guy is driven by some vision of how things should be, and can think on his feet, improvise.”
“Agreed,” Danvers said. “And maybe the last index card taunt was an improv, but I don’t buy it as the reason he went back.”
Through the grime, Mallory watched a cop he knew exit the precinct.
Behind him, Gunner spoke. “He’s pulled more elaborate stunts already, Lieu. No offense, but have you checked your pockets lately?”
“Point taken.”
Mallory watched the cop pass a bunch of other officers on his way to a car. “How does he know our moves?”
Gunner chuckled. “According to his writing, he’s a demon with contacts.”
The tone of Danvers’ voice grew sharper. “Detective, are you in fact trying to help here?”
“He watched us all day at the hotel,” Gunner spoke more seriously. “He could be following us, though that would make us sucky cops.”
“Why would you be looking for a tail?”
Mallory watched the cop get in his car, start it, pull away. The others took no notice of him. “He came back for his car.” He turned around. “If he has been following us, he had to have one.”
Danvers raised his eyebrows. “Possible, but it presents problems for the 4-5 guys who are staking out DeLillo’s. With this guy’s track record so far for staying at scenes and causing more harm, he could still be there, waiting to pick them off. Better call and let them know what this guy is capable of.” He turned to Gunner. “What else can we work on?”
“Local high schools. I’ll call them; see who had a rugby team in the 70s. If I get a hit, I start talking to veteran teachers about a former student nicknamed Dante.”
“Let’s keep this moving, gentlemen,” Danvers nodded, then sighed deeply at the thick file. “At least we have interesting reading for the PC.”
Gunner called all the detectives in the squad room together, made a show of proving they hadn’t been shot by Danvers, then Mallory divied up the remaining assignments. Tizzie and his partner would supervise the last of the hotel interviews. Jacobi and her partner would hand deliver, and press the lab guys to prioritize running the prints on the Farrington index cards and Maria Tallarico’s print on Mallory’s card. A couple of other detectives would round-up the morgue and Crime Scene reports. Once they were all gone, Mallory and Gunner worked the phones.
Mallory handled the stake out detail, contacting Sergeant Gabriel Conroy, the ornery C.O. of the 45th Precinct’s Detective Squad.
“Sergeant, this is Detective Frank Mallory of the—”
“I know who you are,” Sergeant Conroy cut him off. “You and your partner are the Manhattan screw ups who left all that bullshit for my guys to mop up. Hold on.”
Across the pushed-together desks, Gunner applied his best retired altar boy voice on Hanna, the principal’s secretary at St. Raymond’s High School. “Great to hear you’re so dedicated to helping the NYPD there Hanna. Too bad you’re unsure about the rugby. Now, what I need is to speak with anyone who was teaching English back in the mid-to-late 70s. … Brother Beckett would be our best bet? Great. … But he’s dead 12 years now? Okay. Anyone else you might be able to think of?”
After long minutes of waiting, the sergeant came back on the line. “You still there?”
Mallory remained pleasant. He could not afford to piss this guy off, or, more correctly, to piss him off any further. “I understand your frustration, Sarge, and I agree with you. But please understand that the perp attacked us.”
“Sucks to be you. Hold on.”
Gunner moved on to Cardinal Spellman, and Hanna’s counterpart there, Alice Beechers. “That’s right, Alice, an English teacher … no, he doesn’t have to coach rugby. He needs to have taught there in the ‘70s. … Yes, it is a tall order. … No, a more recent teacher won’t help us, but thanks for offering.”
After an even longer wait, Sergeant Conroy was back and less patient than ever. “Sorry, we’re busy over here. Overburdened, you might say. Huge mess earlier today jammed us up something awful. What else did you want?”
Mallory tried to spin the conversation to a more positive tone. “Actually, I’m just calling to update our suspect’s behavior patterns for those on the stakeout. Your squad is really helping us out with this; the least we can do is tell you that the perp has been known to linger in the area of his crimes, or double back seeking to do more damage.”
Mallory heard the sergeant release a snide chuckle before answering. “You hit us with a DOA, numerous injuries, and a traumatized businessman, plus a related ton of paper work, and you have the nerve to put my guys in danger?”
The click made it clear Mallory wasn’t on hold this time.
Gunner dialed Mount St. Michael High School, getting the principal himself, a Brother John Geller. Gruff and forceful, the holy man didn’t even let Gunner finish his initial pitch. “—Detective, put your request in writing and we’ll have our archivist, retired Brother Gilliam, look into it.”
Mallory had to swallow his pride and call back. Conroy wasted no time. “You’re a persistent little bastard aren’t ya?”
“Sarge, I know we left your men holding the bag up there. I’m just doing what I can to help, that’s all.”
“Wait.”
Mallory couldn’t believe it. At least this time he was just on hold.
Fordham Prep’s assistant principal, a Father Jonathan Carry, actually shocked Gunner. “You’ve got your man, detective. I taught religion and English throughout the 70s.”
“You’re shitting — kidding me, Father.”
The priest chuckled. “I’m not doing either. What can I help you with?”
“Uh, um, well, shot in the dark here, Father, but did your school have a rugby team back then?”
“Yes, and we still do.”
“Would you possibly remember a student from that era, probably a bit of a character, loved music and literature, could quote lots of it, the other students nicknamed him Dante?”
“That would be Bryan Josephs, one of my all-time favorite students.”
Mallory thought about hanging up this time. Just as he was getting ready to do so, he heard a telltale click. “Manhattan, you still there?”
“Yeah, like I was saying—” Mallory started, but pulled up short, swearing he heard a chuckle.
“Hold on.”
On his line, Father Carry broke another long silence, “Still there, detective?”
“Yeah, Father. Are you saying you actually remember him? That far back?”
Father Carry chuckled. “I spoke to him on the phone last week. We have maintained a relationship over the years.”
“Yeah? Why a relationship with him, Father?”
The priest’s voice grew softer. “That’s part of my job, detective. We saw Bryan was having, ah, difficulties in his sophomore year, and I was assigned to help him through them. But it became steadily worse, so I stayed involved. I can tell you he hasn’t worked in years. Still lives with his mother, whose health is failing.”
“Can you take us to him, Father? We need to ask him some questions about, well, frankly, about a series of murders. You’d ease the way for us considerably.”
“Not a problem.”
Sergeant Conroy coughed into the phone. It sounded suspiciously like he was trying to cover a nasty laugh. “Hold on,” he coughed again, then kept Mallory waiting for another two minutes before hearing him come back with yet another snide chuckle. “You still on the case there, Detective?”
Mallory dropped the patient act. “Why am I getting dicked around here, Sarge?”
“Hey. We’re just busy up here. Working. Doing your job for you.” Cough, cough, snicker, snicker.
“What’s so funny?”
“Took us about an hour on stakeout to spot him. A couple of our guys brought him in, easy as passing wind. He fits the description you gave perfectly. The right height, weight, complexion. Allman Brothers baseball cap. Aviator shades. Had index cards in his possession like the one found under the wiper blade of the stolen vehicle. Only problem is,” — cough, snicker, snicker, cough — “he’s still got his longish dirty blond hair. Didn’t you find that in the street?”
“Is he — did he — was there any—”
“What we don’t understand is why you and your partner got jammed up so badly with this guy. Your suspect was taken into custody without fight, without gunfire, manslaughter, or carnage of any kind. We got him.”