The Killer in My Eyes (24 page)

When she had seen the image of that murdered young man on television, and had discovered who he was and what had happened to him, it had taken her several minutes to recover her composure. Then she had picked up the telephone and called Professor Roscoe at Holy Faith Hospital.

‘Hello, Maureen. Is something wrong? Are you feeling all right?’

‘No, I’m fine. No physical problems, if that’s what you mean. I just wanted to ask you something.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Do you know the identity of the donor? Do you know whose corneas you gave me?’

There was a pause at the other end. Maureen wasn’t sure how to interpret it. Maybe Roscoe would say he didn’t know, or maybe that he knew but couldn’t tell her.

‘No. We’re informed that organs are available, and we’re told the genetic type of the donor, but not his or her identity. The organs are removed elsewhere and for reasons I’m sure you can understand, the whole thing is completely confidential.’ He paused. ‘Maureen, I know how you’re feeling. It’s quite understandable, especially when you’ve been through such a terrible ordeal. But you have to think about yourself now and nobody else.’

Maureen had again been tempted to tell him about the things she had been seeing, but she suspected that if she did, she would just be going from one cage to another, gawped at by people who thought her deluded.

No, this was something she would have to deal with by herself for the moment.

‘I suppose you’re right.’

‘I
know
I am. Not because I’m conceited, but because I’ve had a lot of experience of these things. Just go with the flow, take what life has to offer. And if you don’t like what life has to offer, I’m sure you’ll find the strength within yourself to change it.’

She had said goodbye to Professor William Roscoe, the man who, in saving her from one nightmare, had unwittingly landed her in another. She had put the phone down and looked around the room, wondering whose eyes she was seeing it with. And then she had found herself in the same state of mind as the day before, when she was still waiting to know if she would regain her sight or not.

With one difference.

This time she had actually been able to see night turn to dawn after all those sleepless hours spent trying to find a way out of the impenetrable forest of her thoughts.

In the end, she had clung to the only rational thing she still had left. She was a police officer and she might be able to help solve a murder. How, she didn’t yet know.

She was still afraid of the reactions she would get from her family and colleagues, but that was a risk she had to take. And that was why she now found herself sitting on a green-painted bench in the park beside Gracie Mansion. She was aware that Mayor Marsalis knew her mother well, and she hoped that this, as well as evidence of her impressive service record in Italy, would somehow mitigate the enormity of what she was planning to tell him.

But now that she was about to do it, her courage failed her for a moment. She wondered if a guilty person felt the same way before turning themselves in. Picking up her dark glasses and putting them on to give herself at least the semblance of shelter, she stood up, took a deep breath and walked towards the gate.

‘How is it possible you don’t have a single fucking lead?’

Christopher Marsalis stood up from the chair behind his desk. He had rolled up his shirtsleeves and loosened his tie, and his dark jacket was thrown over the back of the chair.

He then ran his hand through his white hair, looked at the two men sitting in silence facing him, and sat down again.

‘I’m sorry. I’m just a bit nervous.’

Jordan had never before heard his brother apologize for anything.

‘Mr Mayor,’ Detective James Burroni said, ‘I assure you we’re following every avenue. We have men interviewing all the teaching staff who were at Vassar College at the time Chandelle Stuart was there. We’re talking to United Features Syndicate, who publish
Peanuts
. We’ve even contacted the heirs of Charles Schulz to see if there’s anything that might prove useful in the notes and papers in their possession.’

Christopher moved his chair away from the desk, trying to find a more comfortable position. There were dark circles under his eyes. Looking at him, Jordan guessed that he hadn’t slept much since this whole thing had started.

‘Detective, I’m sure you’re doing all you can. What I can’t stand is knowing that we’re in here twiddling our thumbs while a serial killer is out there planning another homicide.’

Jordan got up out of his chair. ‘I’m not convinced about that. A serial killer usually loves publicity. He wants his actions to be known to the media – that’s how he gets his kicks. In this case, he hasn’t made the slightest attempt to break the blackout we’ve managed to maintain so far regarding his MO.’

‘That may be true, but I can’t think of a better name for someone who goes around killing people using a comic strip as inspiration.’

‘That comic strip has to be the key to everything. But I can’t yet see how.’

Jordan started walking around the room, once again thinking aloud in a way that Burroni had by now learned to recognize and respect. He listened in silence to his cold analysis of the facts, as impersonal as if one of the victims wasn’t his nephew and he wasn’t in the presence of the victim’s father.

‘Let’s think. We have a person who carries out murders inspired by comic strips. The first victim is an important figure, not only a famous painter, but also the son of the Mayor of New York. The second victim – a woman this time – also belongs to a very high-profile New York family. And this new homicide also points in the same direction: a world-famous comic strip called
Peanuts
.’

Jordan paused, as if an idea had flashed into his mind for a moment and immediately vanished again.

‘On both occasions, we find a clue to the next victim, but a different kind of clue each time. The body of the first victim is arranged to look like Linus, with his security blanket stuck to his ear and his thumb in his mouth. A man in a tracksuit with a slight limp in his right leg is seen near the scene of the crime. The second victim is arranged to look like Linus’s sister, Lucy, who has a crush on Schroeder, the musical prodigy. The same man with the limp is seen here, too. We discover that both victims studied in the same place and probably both knew their killer. What we don’t know is if the third and future victim, who we already know is going to be made to look like Snoopy, was also a student at Vassar, or if he or she knows a man with a slight limp in his right leg. And let’s not forget one important thing. We have a DNA sample.’

Jordan looked at Burroni and Christopher, as if only just realizing that they were in the room.

‘And let’s also not forget that we now have a further very small advantage over the killer.’

‘What advantage?’ Christopher asked.

‘We have a name. Pig Pen. Another character from
Peanuts
. And the person we’re looking for doesn’t know we have it.’

Silence fell for a few moments, while Christopher and Burroni absorbed what Jordan had been saying.

Burroni was the first to react. ‘Mr Mayor,’ he said, standing up, ‘in the light of what we’ve been saying, I’d like to go back to Headquarters to check my men’s reports from Vassar and see if there’s anything new.’

Christopher held out his hand. ‘Thank you, Detective. I know you’re doing a good job and I won’t forget you when the time comes.’

As Burroni shook the Mayor’s hand, Jordan turned his head to the window to hide his expression. He, of all people, knew how short lived his brother’s memory could be.

Burroni left the room and gently closed the door behind him. Jordan and Christopher were alone. However, they did not have time to say a word before the door opened again and Ruben Dawson, the Mayor’s right-hand man, appeared.

‘What is it, Ruben?’

Jordan was surprised to detect a touch of indecisiveness in Dawson’s demeanour.

‘The guard at the gate has just called me,’ he said. ‘He says there’s a woman asking to speak with you. She claims to be an officer in the Italian police.’

‘What does she want?’

‘She says she may have some information about the murder of your son.’

Maureen was waiting by the gate.

Through the bars, she could see a few dark sedan cars parked in the small forecourt, and next to the cars a bright red motorcycle propped on its kickstand. An Italian bike, she thought.

Thing had happened the way she had imagined. When she had approached the gate, the guard on duty, a square-jawed man with a gait that seemed appropriate to some hot Southern climate, had left the sentry box and come towards her.

‘Hello, miss. How can I help you?’

‘Hello, Officer. My name’s Maureen Martini and I’m a Chief Inspector in the Italian police. I’m also an American citizen. I need to speak to the Mayor urgently.’

She had handed the guard her passport and badge. Out of politeness, he had taken the documents but had not even looked at them.

‘I’m afraid this isn’t the best time to talk with the Mayor.’

Maureen had expected this reaction. She had taken off her sunglasses and looked the man straight in the eyes. ‘Why don’t we let him decide that? Just tell him I have information about his son’s murder.’

The guard’s glacial expression changed. ‘Wait here a moment.’

He went back to the sentry box, and through the glass Maureen saw him simultaneously pick up the telephone and check the passport and badge, then nod as he listened to the answer.

Soon afterwards, he came back and handed over the documents. ‘You can go in, Inspector Martini. Someone will come out to meet you.’

Maureen went through the gate and crossed the little forecourt. As she climbed the steps to the main entrance, the door opened and a very Anglo-Saxon butler appeared.

‘Follow me, madam, the Mayor is expecting you.’

Maureen was so tense, she paid scarcely any attention to her surroundings, thus she almost missed a man in a suede jacket and a round black hat throwing her a curious glance as he walked past her. At the end of a corridor, the butler stopped outside a door. He knocked lightly and, without waiting for a signal from inside, opened the door and stood aside.

‘Please go in, madam.’

Maureen took a couple of steps into the room, which looked like a small study. The door closed noiselessly behind her.

There were two people in the room.

Standing between her and the window was a tall man with salt and pepper hair. He had the most incredible blue eyes she had ever seen and the kind of face and attitude that instantly made you think he was a man you’d like to have beside you in a crisis. The other man, who was quite a bit older, was sitting at the desk. He had the confident body language that power carries with it, as well as the visible signs of the stress that power also brings. His were the same blue eyes as the other man – but they were weary eyes, and his heavy body told a tale of too many official dinners and too little exercise.

He stood up as she came in, and held out a thin hand. ‘Hello. I’m Christopher Marsalis. And this is my brother Jordan.’

The tall man did not move or say anything, simply nodded.

‘Hello, Mr Mayor. I’m sorry to burst in on you like this. I’m a Chief Inspector with the Italian police.’

‘You speak English very well – and your face looks familiar. Have we ever met before?’

Maureen smiled politely. ‘You may know my mother. She’s a criminal lawyer, here in New York. Her name is Mary Ann Levallier. Everyone says we look very much alike. My name is Maureen Martini.’

When she said her name, the man who had been introduced to her as Jordan Marsalis took a step towards her.

‘I’m sorry if this is an unpleasant question,’ he said. ‘Are you the late Connor Slave’s girlfriend?’

Maureen was grateful to him for using the present tense. ‘Yes, I am.’

The Mayor clearly also knew her story, because he now said, ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

Silence fell for a moment. The two men were both looking at her. She realized that the moment had come.

‘I’ll get straight to the point. I see you both know what happened to Connor and myself. As a result of that experience, I suffered lesions to my eyes that necessitated a cornea transplant. Because of a problem of genetic incompatibility, there were very few donors available. Despite that, one was found.’ Maureen looked into Christopher Marsalis’s blue eyes. ‘I have reason to believe that donor was your son Gerald Marsalis.’

‘It’s possible,’ Christopher told her. ‘I myself authorized his organs to be used when I found out he had a donor card. If that’s the case, I’m pleased it helped you regain your sight. But what does any of that have to do with the investigation into his death?’

Maureen took off her sunglasses. The light from the window was like a blade in her eyes.

‘I know what I’m about to tell you will seem impossible to you. In fact, I feel the same way. It’s crazy, but . . . I keep having recurring visions of your son’s life.’

The moment she had finished speaking, Maureen felt the silence of pity fall over the room. The mayor looked at his brother, then back at her, and when he spoke, it was in a deliberately calm voice, as he tried his best to look her in the eyes without flinching.