Chapter 20
By midafternoon, Daniel Ott decided it was time to take steps toward making life more interesting. For everyone.
He wasn’t an hourly employee, so he was free to slip out of the office early. Besides, as usual, no one noticed him leave. He headed back into Manhattan. He’d been working hard on his plan. He needed to use a computer that couldn’t be traced back to him. Which was why he ended up at the main branch of the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue.
He even took a few extra minutes to explore the iconic building before getting down to business. The woodwork on the walls and high ceilings gave it such a solemn and scholarly feel that the idea of coming here to use a public computer seemed tacky. At the same time, however, he resented the amount of money spent on a building like this. Not just the marble walls and wood carved in dramatic shapes on the ceilings and shelving and tables but also the cost of maintaining it. The money could feed half the Midwest, he assumed. He hated the obvious opulence serving pretentious New Yorkers’ egos.
He pushed those thoughts out of his mind for the moment. It was time to ratchet up the stress on the cops investigating his killings. This was a wrinkle he had been considering for a long while.
He’d begun leaving messages behind, starting with the third woman he had ever killed. He liked numbers and wanted the police to know he was counting his kills. Since then, almost ten years ago, he’d found he couldn’t stop. In fact, he often fought the urge to make the markers he left more and more obvious.
Ott didn’t know if anyone had ever figured out any of his taunts—mixing the blood of past and present victims, stabbing them in the eye. He liked the control of puncturing the eye, the splash of the aqueous and vitreous fluids as they released from the anterior and posterior chambers. He liked the definitive proof of that final stab wound—the proof that his was the last face they’d ever see. He still hadn’t noticed any mention in the media. Which was why he needed to take this extra step. Get his message heard.
He’d already prepared everything he needed. Technically, patrons were supposed to use library cards to access the computers, but Ott had noticed that if he came there in the afternoon, he could get on to a library computer without anyone caring.
He stepped into the dark paneled room and glanced around quickly. There was one librarian presiding over a computer table with five open machines. He slipped into the seat farthest away from the librarian and immediately created a new Gmail account in the name of Bobby Fisher. He’d used the name Boris Spassky once before and liked the symmetry of his choices.
It took him only a moment to find the email address he needed and another thirty seconds to upload the document from a thumb drive. If the police were too dim to notice his messages, he’d alert the media. Soon everyone would be paying attention to him, the most dangerous killer ever to hit New York. And the only one with a lesson plan.
While he was online, he couldn’t help but look up a few articles and video clips featuring pundits speculating about who was behind the recent murders in New York. Ott smiled, knowing that as soon as his message was received, there was going to be a lot more of them.
He loved seeing the so-called experts talk about what the killer might do next. It was like everything else in life: no one knew anything, but they still had to talk. And people were willing to listen. The story was always the same.
Ott clicked on one article from the New York Post. It named a Michael Bennett as one of the detectives looking into the crimes. According to the Post, Bennett was “New York’s top cop,” and having him on the case was great news for the city. Ott smiled again. Top cop or not, this Michael Bennett was no threat to him.
More people started to file into the computer room, and Ott decided it was a good time to leave. He closed out the links he had opened on the computer, cleared his search history, and, out of habit, ran an antistatic cloth he kept in his work pouch over the keyboard. In the unlikely circumstance that someone figured out he’d used this terminal to send his message, the wipe down would be enough to eliminate his fingerprints.
As he slipped past a bookshelf, Ott found his way blocked by a pretty young woman carrying a stack of journals in her arms. She had very dark skin and long, straight black hair. She looked exotic and very un-midwestern to him.
He nodded to her just to be polite.
She smiled, revealing perfect dimples, and said, “Next time it would be better if you signed in to use the computer. It doesn’t only reserve the computer; it also helps show the city how many people are using the library.”
Ott was dazzled by her smile, but his anger rose quickly. How dare she confront him over a minor break in the rules.
He nodded as he slipped past her.
Then he froze.
He realized in an instant that not only had this young woman disrespected him; she also had specifically noticed him. She could remember his face. She was a loose end he would not tolerate.
Ott had a small set of tools in his pouch. Mostly screwdrivers and small wrenches. But he also had the sharp Gerber knife, the same one he’d used on Elaine, the one that came in handy for stripping wires and opening boxes.
Ott was gripped by the impulse to stick the knife into this girl’s heart. He glanced around the computer room. There were a dozen people in it, but everyone was focused on their own books or screens. He wondered if they’d have enough privacy if he backed her up into the row of journals she was organizing. It would take only ten seconds. The wild card would be keeping her quiet.
He thought about slashing her throat, like he’d done to the midwestern receptionist. But if he did that, she would definitely make some noise. And there would be a lot of blood in a much-too-public space.
Ott managed to get hold of himself. This was not the time or the place. But there would be a time.
Soon.
Chapter 21
Hollis drove me home that evening in a city-issued Crown Victoria. I was grateful for the ride. Driving when you’re as tired as I was is as bad as driving drunk. People are killed by dozing drivers every day.
As Hollis drove, I prepped him for our morning assignment: a visit to Elaine Anastas’s parents. Police procedure dictated an in-person interview with a victim’s next of kin. It was going to be a rough one.
I went through the door to my apartment and gave Chrissy her daily swing in the air. Said hello to the kids who were at home. Seeing their smiling faces revived me…for about three minutes. Then I sat down to watch the news, and the next thing I knew, Mary Catherine was sitting next to me.
I started, looked at my fiancée, and said, “What are you, a ninja?”
She laughed. “A sumo wrestler could have waddled up next to you and you wouldn’t have noticed.”
“How long was I out?”
“About forty minutes. Dinner is in another ten. I can see by the look on your face that it’s best I don’t even ask you about your day.”
“Thanks. Nothing worth discussing. How about you? How was your day?”
Mary Catherine frowned. The downcast expression didn’t suit her. Maybe it’s because I was used to her normally cheerful demeanor, which was arguably as classically and stereotypically Irish as her face.
I said, “Cut through the chitchat and tell me what’s wrong.” I wasn’t sure I had the stamina to sit through a long story anyway.