Authors: Alex Mueck
CHAPTER SEVEN
“W
HILE THE FORENSICS TEAM does their thing, let’s review the information we gathered,” Danko declared as he stood before a dozen of his brethren, most of who were part of his inner squad. “I want everyone to hold their opinions for now. Let’s examine everything before we draw any conclusions. In this case, more than any other I’ve seen, I think we need to reserve sentiments and judgment.”
Presto was impressed. This was a new and improved version. Perhaps humility and time matured the man.
Danko looked tough but casual in his tan slacks, white shirt, and loose, dark blue blazer. Presto noticed that most of his team was dressed identically. Presto felt like an outcast in his corded trousers, argyle sweater, and tweed blazer with suede elbow patches. When he left the apartment, his mother commented that he looked stately. “With my proportions, estate-ly is more like it
,
” had been his self-deprecating retort.
Danko had taken a moment to review notes he had on a table. “We do have a suspect, but he’s a dead homeless man. I’ll get to him later, and while we are not ruling anything in or out, there is ample evidence that he is not the triggerman.”
Yes, this was a different Danko,
thought Presto. The old Danko might have taken the easy route and fingered the dead guy. Danko might still be angry with him, but Danko had learned a valuable lesson.
The room was silent. Danko had their attention.
“I’ll start with the crime scene and then work backward,” he said crisply. “The victim, Father Venezia, was shot in the head at close range, possibly with a silencer. Nobody heard a gunshot, and Chad, our forensic pathologist, suspected such after a preliminary review. And there’s one other thing; I’ll get to in a moment.”
Danko stopped. His lips tightened; his eyes held a steely gaze. “The killer then took the time to draw a cross around the entry wound. Remember to hold off theories on what the killer’s motives were,” Danko advised. “You’ll see what I mean in a minute.” Danko picked up a piece of paper from the table and surveyed it.
“What we have here is an overabundance of clues. All the crosses in the room were turned upside down. The sacristy Bible was destroyed. However, in perfect condition was an open Qur’an.” Danko paused to grit his teeth and pick up a folder. “In the Qur’an was a highlighted passage.”
He looked at his notes and read: “Kill them wherever you encounter them and drive them out from where they drove you out, for persecution is more serious than killing. Do not fight them at the sacred mosque unless they fight you there. If they do fight you, kill them; this is what such disbelievers deserve; but if they stop, then God is most forgiving and merciful.”
When he dropped the folder, a loud thump was heard in the tensely silent room. “Once again, I ask you not to pass judgment. There’s more.”
Presto had questions and almost sat on his hands to prevent raising one like a nervous, gawky high school teen. He’d have to wait until class was over.
“Left in the priest’s lap was a young boy’s soiled underwear,” Danko said with disdain. “There was also a grainy picture of a young lad.” Raising the volume, Danko found better footing. “This seems to tie in with the dead bum we found in the pews. Next to him were some paper bags. One contained a needle and what appears to be heroin. The other contained a gun, a .22 Ruger pistol, equipped with a silencer. There’s a serial number, but for some reason, I’m not optimistic it’s registered in the killer’s name. The gun’s been sent to ballistics. Also in the bag was an identical picture of the same boy we found on the priest.”
Danko stopped and muttered something Presto could not decipher. While Danko collected his thoughts, the rest of the room used the impasse to shift and stretch. Presto found the metal folding chair uncomfortable on his posterior, despite his extra personal cushioning.
Danko cleared his throat and the room quieted. “Besides the dead hobo, we have another suspect. It’s still sketchy, and we’re still getting statements, but here’s another interesting storyline.
“A priest approached two guards. He introduced himself as Martin Balor; claimed he was visiting from a church in Ireland and his destination was the cathedral rectory. They both claimed he sounded right off the boat Irish. Anyway, the guards called security to check the name against a list. It was a match. It’s not uncommon for St. Patrick’s to receive other priests; it’s the largest Catholic church in the United States.
“So, one of the guards escorted this man to the room where the murder occurred. Both the guards and security estimate this was around ten o’clock in the morning. A Father Grich entered the sacristy at 10:20 am, where he found the deceased. He immediately returned to the rectory and called security, who called the police.
“Another priest, Father Lopez, saw a priest matching the guard’s description enter the tunnel rectory door. This was about ten fifteen. At about the same time, Father Buchnell said a priest whom he did not know stopped him and asked for the Madison Avenue exit. The priest said the guy seemed friendly enough, and he showed him the way. He did say that the man had an unusual accent, but he was certain it was not Irish. After reflection, he thought it sounded Middle Eastern.”
One of Danko’s men provided a bottle of water. Danko twisted the cap and took a healthy slug. Like a gavel, he pounded the bottle down on the table.
“We already contacted Ireland. Their authorities visited the real Martin Balor. He is, in fact, a priest from the church on security’s list. However, he claims he never contacted St. Patrick’s about a visit.”
The deputy chief inspector threw his hand to the air. “So what do we have? Right now there are more angles than a protractor.” Danko stopped to laugh, and his merry band of followers made it a quorum chorus. Presto was deep in thought and was the lone dissenter.
Danko brought his hands down. “There’s the bum. There’s this mystery Balor character. There’s a possibility of something else entirely. Either way, the killer left us some clues to think about. Hopefully, he left a few others unintentionally,” Danko quipped.
“I need to organize and assign duties. Let’s break; lunch will be served in the rectory.”
The case had whetted Presto’s appetite. He wondered what the church spread was.
Danko addressed the room. “You’re dismissed. I’ll meet you guys in the rectory.” He paused, and his eyes narrowed like a poacher. “Presto, stay here. We need to talk. Anyway, you could skip a meal.” He smirked.
He stopped to let those in the room laugh derisively. “Just kidding.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Y
OU’RE THE BRAIN, DOM. Any thoughts?”
Presto stared, not angry but expressionless.
Danko’s thick eyebrows lifted, and his head jolted forward. “You mad?”
Presto was upset, but he not did provide the perverse pleasure Danko was apparently after. His face remained blank. “Not really. I just hope the boys leave some scraps. Must admit, I’m hungry as a forest fire. Ready to consume,” he said with relish.
Danko did not appear ready for that response. His face withdrew, the flesh hugging the skull beneath the skin. Then his nostrils slowly flailed, and the old Danko was back.
“You may be a touch flabby, but don’t go soft on me, Presto,” he admonished playfully. “Bringing you into that room, after all that happened—well, forgive my childish need to save a little face.”
“No problem, Frank. Let’s catch us a killer,” Presto reminded. He didn’t approve of Danko’s jibes, but he wanted to stay involved. Cases like this did not pop on the radar often, even in the cage of New York City.
“I’m curious,” Danko probed. “What do your instincts tell you?”
“A few things,” Presto replied casually.
“Such as?” Danko encouraged.
“I’d recommend an autopsy.”
“What … why …” Danko stammered.
“The victim may have been poisoned, drugged, whatever. I’d check that out to be safe.”
“We know how he died—a bullet to and through the brain. Did you doze off during the meeting?”
“No, Frank. I was tuned in to your every word. The priest was shot in the head, dead center. Right?”
“Yes,” a puzzled, but furiously thinking Danko answered.
“The aim is too perfect. The killer intended it for the ashen cross.”
Danko cut in. “He could have pulled the gun and forced the situation.”
“He could have,” Presto agreed. “But that is not what my instincts tell me. No one heard the priest call out. There was no major struggle. No sign of desperation on either side.”
Danko waived his hand. “I did not make any comments about the state of the room one way or another.”
“True, but you would have mentioned a disturbance if there was one. The omission assuredly was because there was nothing to report.” Presto kept his voice even. He did not want to turn the conversation into a debate.
Danko shrugged. “You’re right, of course. There was no obvious sign of a struggle. However, he did have time to leave us some presents. He could have tidied up.”
“Once again, true, but that doesn’t seem logical to me. Why? I could see if it was a husband doing his wife in or something of that sort, but this is different. This was planned. He left us all these clues for a reason. He’s not sloppy. He’s prepared.”
“I still doubt he was drugged, but I suppose we can never be too thorough,” Danko conceded.
“You may be right. He probably wasn’t, but it can’t hurt checking.”
Danko appeared ready to move on. Presto hoped so. He feared there would be little to no food left. All this standing fatigued him.
“You conjure any other ideas, Presto? What do you think we’re dealing with?”
Presto resisted answering. Danko had requested holding back any theories. Now he sought his opinion. He did not want to lie or overtly conceal. Danko would think he was out for himself—withholding information to steal the glory just like last time.
“I have a few thoughts rattling around,” Presto divulged.
“Stop being cagey,” Danko demanded. “The cardinal called the mayor from his goddamned hospital bed. Let’s not futz around here. We need to work together,” he appealed with a smile. “There’s no
me
in the word
team
.”
“I” Presto corrected.
“Eye?” Danko said confused.
“Never mind.” Presto consented. He had thought maybe Danko was playing cute. “I actually have a question for you.”
“Shoot,” Danko fired back.
“A Muslim cleric was murdered about a month ago … on a holiday. Do you know any of the details?”
“No,” Danko said and smiled. “I happened to be away with my wife at that time. First vacation we took alone in fifteen years. It was great—rekindled the love flame.” Grinning, he made a circle with his left hand and crudely jabbed his index finger through. “Know what I mean, big Dom?”
Presto did not really know. He ignored the childish visual. “We need to get that case file. It might be relevant.”
His visage grew serious again. “Think there’s a connection?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll look into it. If there is, this could get dicey.”
Presto nodded in agreement. “We may have a serial killer on our hands.”
“We don’t know that yet,” Danko rendered. “Even if there is some connection, it could be a religious hit or some jihad revenge. Who knows, but let’s keep all options open, Dom.”
Presto grew frustrated. A moment ago he was being asked for opinions. Now he was chided for offering one. He kept silent and looked agreeable. He thought about food again.
“One more thing,” Danko added. “I want to see your report before you send it to the Feds. Do a good job on it. Make sure we look competent. I want their help to be …” his eyes a sudden wanderlust, “distant. We can handle this on our own. You may be their liaison, but you work for the NYPD. Don’t forget that.”
CHAPTER NINE
“N
OW I GOT THEIR attention,” the killer said aloud as he gazed at a computer photographic slide show. He knew killing a Christian would, especially in St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
His latex-covered finger pressed a key, and the slide show started a second time. He did not need his notes to recognize the faces. He’d made a scrapbook of the city’s top detectives.
He had mingled amongst the crowd outside St Patrick’s Cathedral, who gawked like braking drivers passing an accident. Cell phones were out, and pictures were snapping. Beneath the veneer, we all love when evil touches lives other than our own. Nestled among the camera crowd, he was hardly out of place.
It was easy. After leaving the rectory, he walked one block north to a phone booth. He knew it would be unoccupied. With cells phones, the days of waiting for an available phone were relegated to when you really needed them, like a city crisis. Then the lines were paralyzed, and you had about the same chance of a connection as chatting directly with God.
None
. But just to be sure, he’d cut the phone cord the prior evening.
Only his back was visible within the booth. Opening his bag, he retrieved a water bottle and a washcloth. He wet the rag and then rubbed his face. When the cloth darkened, he turned it over and scrubbed some more. From his pocket he pulled out a compact mirror and flipped it open.
Satisfied, he’d hunched over, removed his fedora, and tugged at the wig on his head. He exchanged them in the bag for a New York Yankees cap and pair of dark, but unremarkable sunglasses.
He leaned back a few degrees and spun his head in both directions. He neither saw nor heard any signs of commotion. Next, he removed his Roman collar and slipped it in the bag; his hand reappeared with a navy blue sweater. Trendy, the style was popular with the city’s preppy white male population.
The real risk, and thrill, came in the interlude before the priest’s body was discovered when he reentered the cathedral. He had retraced his steps to the now-deceased vagabond and slipped the gun into the man’s hands. Then he put the gun in the brown bag he’d previously placed beside the vagrant.
As the photos cascaded the flat-panel monitor, he knew that although this kill had been easy, things would change. He had their attention now.
“Frank Danko,” he snidely remarked. “The mayor’s butt boy.” Danko was pictured standing with a frown. An agitated finger gestured to someone offscreen.
The other pictures were assorted shots of rank-and-file police drones and Danko’s gang of gumshoes. Lightweights.
Then came the heavyweight. Check out this load. This guy’s got more pounds than a London bank. Despite the joke, the killer was unsettled by the sight of Presto.
He laughed and gestured to a man slumped in a wheelchair. “Funny one, huh?”
Dressed in checkered flannel pj’s and a matching robe, the middle-aged man did not reply. Blankly, he stared into space. Unkempt, peppered hair grew down his neck into a forklike pattern. Course hairs briskly poked out of his nose like mini paintbrush tips. There was also a splotchy beard flanked by wispy sideburns. Minimum maintenance was the mission.
The killer looked away from the stone still Medusa victim, but by then, the picture had changed back to the pointing Detective Danko. Amateur.
He thought while he waited for the slide show to commence.
Dominick Presto
. That was unexpected. His contact said he was on a mini-sabbatical. But there the fat man was.
The stakes had been raised. Now the excitement would begin. There would be much press, and he pondered the headlines of the creative New York dailies.
In time, they would try and assign him a nickname. Infamous serial killers are routinely anointed with monikers. Local legend David Berkowitz was the Son of Sam. Richard Ramirez was the Night Stalker. John Wayne Gacy was the Killer Clown. He’d let the police or press come up with something and then correct the record. He always wanted to select his own name and despised his parents for the one they chose for him. Not this time. When the time was right, the world would come to know.
Myth Man.