Authors: Daniel Hecht
Biedermann's eyes blazed, the most intense and genuine emotion Mo had seen in him. Against his will, Mo felt a pang of sympathy. Biedermann had had a long, lonely, thankless career cleaning up one of his country's nastiest messes. A man who lived in the social equivalent of the in-between land where Carolyn Rappaport had died—a scary, soiled world where a whole society's hideous secrets played out. A world that was all around, always near, but that nobody wanted to admit was there. You couldn't envy the guy.
If what he said was true.
Mo didn't completely trust him, but he couldn't deny that the story did put a lot of the pieces in order: the sudden changes in his appointments, the congressional hearings he spoke at, Zelek the spook sitting in on meetings.
"Zelek—he's part of your . . . cleanup unit?"
Biedermann nodded. "Technically, my boss. Although such distinctions get blurry. Come to think of it, I'd like to get the three of us together sometime, sort this out. Sometime soon."
"So, what, this copycat killer is a, a guinea pig, a cruise missile, who came back, and now his training or conditioning or whatever is catching up with him?"
"Basically, yes. More than half the original subjects were brought back home. They were reconditioned in extensive therapy, they were given every chance to live a normal life—"
"But some of them didn't 'take.' How many?"
"That's classified information."
"How many have you had to . . . 'clean up'?"
"Classified."
"And you knew somehow that Howdy Doody was going to start killing in the New York area. That's why you were transferred out here. How did you know?"
"You're about right, but that's classified, too. I'm bringing you on board, Detective, but you're not security cleared and you're not coming on board all the way. Don't take it personally—even my staff at the Bureau isn't on board all the way. Believe me, you don't want to be. But you can forget about grilling me." Biedermann stood up, flexed his big shoulders. A very fit man for his mid or late fifties, Mo decided, one of those rare specimens. But he looked tired, the dragged-out look around the eyes, a guy with too much on his mind. "And now I gotta go. Big day tomorrow and I'm beat to shit.
This is past my bedtime."
Mo stood with him, some nagging thoughts just below the surface, feeling wary again. "So what am I supposed to do? Now that you've told me this?"
Biedermann made a weary face. "You're supposed to help me out and not start fucking with my operation. You're supposed to let me make use of your talents but not ask for more information or more of a role than I can allow. I had only those three choices tonight, Detective. I couldn't let you start rocking the boat and maybe expose a bunch of stuff that can't,
can not,
be exposed. So I could kill you or try to fuck you over so you're too busy to hassle me—and believe me, I'd feel completely justified in doing either. Or I could ask for your cooperation. I took the last choice because I'm trying my damnedest not to compound the mistakes that've been made in the past. So help me out here, huh?"
Biedermann turned his back, and Mo followed him into the darkened kitchen. The streetlight glow in the front rooms bled through, giving everything a metallic blue shimmer.
"How the hell do you live like this?" Biedermann said over his shoulder.
"It's a temporary situation."
"I'd fuckin' hope so. A relationship thing, is it?" Biedermann headed out into the empty living room, looked around. "Could be a nice place, though, if you had any furniture." In the hallway, he said, "What's Rebecca say about you living in this mausoleum? You have her over here yet? Elegant, candlelight dinners, all that romantic stuff?"
"That's classified information."
"Funny guy." Biedermann opened the front door.
"You going to give me the Ruger back?"
Biedermann turned to him in the half-lit hallway, a big, dark silhouette with a buzz-cut halo against the doorway. "Ah," he said dismissively, "it's back in there. I just shoved it into the middle of your mattress where you couldn't get it in a hurry."
By the time Biedermann had gone, it was after one o'clock. Mo checked, and he did find the Ruger. His mind was buzzing. Biedermann's explanation had the ring of truth, but there was a big problem, and thinking back he decided the G-man had deliberately shut their discussion down, decided it was time to go, when they'd come too close to it. Okay, so maybe Pinocchio was a former guinea-pig cruise missile that Biedermann's unit knew about and was detailed to catch. But who the hell was Ronald Parker? How did he tie in? And why was the new killer using an identical MO?
Who was Ronald Parker? Rebecca was right, it was time to go take a look at him. Because, one thing for certain, Ronald Parker was no Vietnam vet. If Mo remembered right, the guy was only thirty-one years old. He'd been only five when the Vietnam War ended.
M
O SAT IN TY'S OFFICE in the Bronx precinct building, feeling frustrated, slowly soaking his clothes with sweat—the building was too old to have central air, and Ty's window conditioner was defunct. He was reviewing Ty's papers on Ronald Parker's Bronx victim, boning up and looking for ideas. It was all routine, files relevant to Parker's forthcoming prosecution, Mo got nothing new out of them. There were more bales of papers in a storage room in the basement, Ty told him, but those were just the usual detritus of any investigation, useless but held pending the trial under Rosario guidelines.
Ty was working at his desk, a dark, angry face bent between toppling stacks of papers. He must have deduced Mo's frustration from his body language. "Not to sound condescending, but maybe it would help if you knew what the hell you were looking for." It was the first time either of them had spoken in over an hour.
"Ahh. I'm fishing." Mo kicked a file drawer shut and sat looking at it resentfully as he tried to roll the kinks out of his shoulders. "Come on, Ty. Tell me you've got something for me. One juicy tidbit."
Ty just looked at him.
What the fuck are you talking about?
Mo clarified, "Something that bugs you about this case. An irrelevant detail that won't stop whispering in your ear. Something that doesn't fit."
"I already told you everything about that," Ty said. But then he seemed to think about it, and to Mo's surprise he nodded. "But, okay, yeah, got one more for you. Maybe. On the knots."
Mo perked up at that.
"Back when this first fell in our laps, I looked at the knots pretty closely. I thought they were familiar but unusual enough they might tell us something? One of my guys is good with that shit, had him look 'em up. Turns out they're military knots. Not anything super-unusual, but he found them both in an old army technical manual—should be in the files somewhere. The one's called a cat's-paw, that's the slipknot on the vic's limbs. The other's a running-end bight, lets you tighten up a line from the middle. Could mean nothing, but could maybe tell us something useful."
"Right," Mo said. It was true: Ligature knots were a whole forensic science in their own right, could reveal a lot about a killer—background, professional training, state of mind, even left-or right-handedness. He'd glanced at the battered manual in Ty's files,
Army Publication TM5-725,
published in 1968.
"So one time, I mention it to Biedermann, you know, maybe the military connection is suggestive. He tells me he's got it under control, thanks very much and fuck off. End of discussion."
"So what's the problem?"
"Only that I've never seen any detailed reference to the knots, names or origins, in any of the task force materials. Another thing Biedermann is keeping very to himself, you gotta ask why."
Mo nodded. Again, Ty was right, details of the knots' provenance should have been more prominent in the investigation, Mo hadn't seen written reference to them even in the file he'd snatched from Special Agent Morris that day. He wished he could tell Ty what he knew: The military link made sense in the light of last night's revelations, the army behavioral-mod programs, human cruise missiles. And it made sense that Biedermann would sit hard on the facts here, keep discussion of the knots to a minimum.
The best he could do was nod again, give a shrug,
What's a guy
gonna do?
Ty shrugged, too,
The world's full of assholes,
and bent back to his work. Mo pulled open the next file drawer.
But after three more hours, he decided he'd had it. He hadn't gotten to the Rosario materials in the basement, but those would have to wait for another day. It was quitting time anyway.
He said good-bye to Ty and walked out blinking into the late-afternoon sunshine and bustle of the Bronx. He had cut across the street and was walking toward his car when a shiny black Chrysler product with federal plates and heavily tinted windows pulled across his path. In the rear side window, emerging out of the dim interior like a fortune in one of those Magic 8 Ball toys, a pale, triangular face right out of Roswell swam into view.
Anson Zelek.
The window slid down, and the alien's tiny mouth smiled. "Good evening, Detective Ford," he said. "How fortunate to run into you. Do you have a few minutes?"
Somehow Mo wasn't surprised. He didn't bother to ask how they'd known where he was, just took the door as it opened, got in. Zelek offered his hand and Mo shook it reluctantly. A narrow, soft hand without much grip. The car was just slightly stretched, enough to allow a small fold-down desk and a thick Lexan bulkhead between passenger compartment and the driver's seat. Mo glanced at the driver, a big, expressionless guy who didn't turn his head. Zelek didn't say anything to the driver, who must have already gotten his instructions. The electric door locks snicked closed as they pulled out.
"I won't take much of your time," Zelek said. His voice was smooth, a doctor's bedside voice. "Erik Biedermann tells me that you and he had a chat last night. I thought I should follow up."
"Yeah. A'chat.'"
"He says that you and Dr. Ingalls have shown a lot of curiosity and insight about the puppet murders. That he has given you an overview of the real scope of the problem and explained why your cooperation is so very important."
"That's about it, yeah."
Zelek nodded, and the big, almond eyes blinked slowly in acknowledgment. Up close, he looked a little more human, his eyes not really black but dark blue, his skin etched with fine wrinkles, white hair thinning so the gray scalp showed through. Early sixties, Mo guessed. The hands folded calmly on his thigh were wrinkled, too, but clean and deft and perfectly manicured, a surgeon's hands. "What I'd like to do this evening is get to know you a bit myself, and also to deepen your context on the situation—"
"You know," Mo broke in, "it's interesting to meet a guy who doesn't exist. Who doesn't have a past. It's my first time."
Zelek heard the implication, that Mo had looked for his name, and the eyes narrowed slightly. He opened the briefcase on the seat between them and took out a couple of folders, then leaned back against the door and scanned several pages quickly.
"Speaking of pasts," Zelek said, "you have an interesting one. Liberal arts education, interest in history, philosophy, the humanities. A seemingly paradoxical decision to join the State Police. But then, look at this: citations for merit while in uniform, awards for marksmanship-fabulous shooting, I'm very impressed—and as an investigator, several commendations for what looks like great work.
But,
but: disciplinary problems, difficulty with supervisors, mm, a charge of misfeasance, a couple of suspects killed in the course of investigation resulting in internal reviews and charges currently pending against you. On the personal side, let's see: unmarried, a series of relationships that—"
"I got the point. You did your homework. My life's an open book. What about it?"
Zelek put away the files and paused to look out the window at the tinted landscape of the Bronx. The car had turned north on Third Avenue, traffic moving well for a rush hour, and Mo wondered where they were going. Wherever, it was clearly prearranged.
Zelek turned back, held up a placating hand. "My point is not to criticize you. Erik, now—yes, frankly, Erik looks at this record and sees an unpredictable investigator, a man with a chip on his shoulder and a dubious respect for authority. Perhaps an exposure risk for our mission. But I see something else—I see an intelligent, talented man with too much integrity to put up with niggling bureaucratic impediments, or the . . . ethical compromises. . . the job sometimes requires. One of those rare individuals truly committed to justice and fairness. In other words, the kind of person who can see our current problem in the right light. Who can be counted on to do the right thing."
Mo had to smile at the obviousness of the sales pitch. He leaned back against the comfortable leather seats and crossed his arms behind his head. "I'm finessed as all hell. I take it you're going to tell me what the right thing is?"
The big, serenely remote eyes lingered on Mo's face. "Let me see if I can summarize what you and Dr. Ingalls are feeling. What to do? You've stumbled into something big and complicated and unsavory, you're honest citizens, and your every instinct cries out for some action on your part. But what? No layperson is ever prepared for the levels of intrigue associated with national security issues. You feel at risk yourselves, not knowing whom to trust—as your more-than-casual interest in Erik demonstrates—or whom to tell. How to proceed with your investigation. What channels or mechanisms a citizen can use to do something about a problem like this. Go to the press? Mm, no—not yet, anyway. Go to the authorities? Maybe, but which ones? Civilian, military? Anyway, who'll believe you? And will talking about it put you at risk? If so, of what—just ridicule and lost credibility? Or outright, mm, physical danger?"
"Obviously, you've got all that right. From that, I'd figure, A, you have a background in psychology. Or, B, you've had this conversation before. Or both, right?"
Again Zelek ignored him. "And maybe, just maybe, you've thought, 'Maybe it really is best just to be quiet about this. Maybe my roiling the waters will imperil an important government mission that, ultimately, I agree must proceed.' I sincerely hope that has at least occurred to you."
Mo nodded. It had. Yet another factor contributing to his indecision.
Third met Boston Road, and they continued north through a dense, colorful, funky shopping district. Mo had expected the car to turn back, to circle while they talked.
"Mind if I ask where we're going?" he asked. "I have some plans for later."
Zelek's mouth made a little perfect cherub smile at the bottom of the triangular face. "I appreciate that. I'm pressed for time myself, which is why I thought we could chat as I run one of my weekly errands. Detective Ford, the thing I want to stress is that
this is the last one.
We've kept a strict . . . accounting . . . I assure you. It has been a long,
long
haul. But now it's coming to an end—if and when we catch one, final, demented killer. Wouldn't it be nice to close out this rather dark chapter of American history? Mistakes were made, but lessons were learned, and now
it's finally
coming to an end.
What would be the point of making a public issue out of it?"
"So you want me to stay shut up about it. And what else?"
The car continued onto Southern Boulevard, and Mo realized they were passing the lower end of the Bronx Zoo and botanical garden. To Mo's surprise, they turned into a service-access entrance to the zoo complex. The driver rolled down his window and said something to a guard, who opened a gate to let them through. Then they were inside, following a curving lane through the big trees and brick buildings of the zoo. It was after hours, and the grounds were empty except for the occasional zoo staff, walking or driving little green, three-wheeled trucks. The car wound between two buildings, and at the back pulled over among several other cars, huge green Dumpsters, metal utility sheds, and watering troughs and other junk associated with large-animal maintenance.
The driver got out, put on sunglasses, went around to the trunk, opened it. Seeing him now, Mo knew he was not just a chauffeur. Zelek got out his side and bent to insert his face back into the doorway. "This is my Monday-evening ritual. My time is very limited, but I very much wanted to talk with you, and I thought we could converse as we did this. Sort of kill two birds with one stone."
Mo got out. The zoo was an island of comparative stillness encompassed by the vast sound of the metropolis on all sides, a silence broken only by the occasional shriek of some jungle bird. The driver came around the car carrying a big cardboard box, and Zelek led them between a cluster of sheds toward the rear entrance of one of the main buildings. Mo hadn't been to the zoo in a long time, and he'd never been around back, but it clicked for him as they got closer and he caught the smell: the Reptile House. Never his favorite. He'd tended to prefer things with fur and some body heat.
Zelek rang a bell at the side of the door and waited, the smile resting at the bottom of his face. The driver stood with the big box held against his chest. Something rustled inside, fur against cardboard, then the scrape of a claw.
When the door opened, Zelek shook hands with a zoo staffer, a pretty young woman wearing a stained apron over a light blue uniform. They talked briefly, nodding, smiling. The driver gazed at Mo with his sunglasses and hooked his chin at Zelek. "Mr. Belmont is an avid member of the New York Lepidosaurian Society."
"Mr. Belmont," Mo said.
"That's snakes and lizards," the driver explained. A small grin.
But the zoo staffer had moved back inside, and now they all filed into the building. The smell was more powerful back here, a mix of moist concrete, cedar-chip bedding, feces, and the sharp musk of scaly bodies. As the smell hit, whatever was inside the box began scrabbling in earnest.
"Let's have Annette do the honors today, shall we?" Zelek-Belmont called back to the driver. "Detective Ford and I have more to discuss, and I'd like him to have the good view."
They were in a dimly lit hallway that ran the length of the building, with many doorways leading off to either side. Mo realized they were backstage, in the service area behind the cages of the Reptile House. The left-side doors must give access to the cages. On the right were other rooms: storage closets, veterinary surgeries, additional containment rooms with wire cages. The reptile Smell was overpowering, and Mo wanted to say to Annette,
What's a nice girl
doing in a place like this?
But she just gossiped happily with Zelek. A fellow reptile enthusiast.