Interrogation Observation Room
Sixth Floor
Sixteenth Precinct
17 July
At the observation window, six jaws dropped.
"Did he just say what I think he said?" Casey asked.
"Sounds like it to me," Brewster replied.
Greg nodded his agreement while Jason nudged Judith with his elbow.
"See? Even when hung in its closet, the Perv Jacket works miracles."
Her snort of disbelief was followed by a wager.
"Twenty says Lewayne spins Munch a story."
While the detectives haggled over the bet, Casey looked at Cragen. He was ignoring the chit-chat, his attention focused on the man cuffed to the table.
"Don, what do you think?"
Without shifting his gaze, he replied, "I think Lewayne's story will give us nightmares. That's the reason behind the betting; it's our version of whistling past the graveyard."
Sixth Floor Interrogation Room
Sixteenth Precinct
17 July
Inside the room, John struggled to keep his expression composed in the face of Lewayne's unexpected offer.
You're kidding... that's all it took? Damn—you're easy....
He whispered back, "You found a way to get even? Man, I gotta hear this."
Lewayne glanced again at the door.
"How long will she be gone?"
John waved away his concerns.
"Detective 'Rotten' refuses to drink our squad's coffee. She's off to JavaJones for a Coconut Mocha Latte. We have plenty of time."
I can almost hear Otten laughing... she likes the squadroom coffee....
Ronnie Lewayne shifted in his chair, getting himself comfortable. The motion tugged the cuff on his right wrist.
"Any chance you could...?"
He the sentence dangle while he pointed at the handcuff. John shook his head.
"Right now, we're just two guys talking. If I uncuff you, and she comes back early...."
He also let his sentence trail off.
Lewayne will fill the blank with the threats his ex-wife threw at him....
"Good thinking."
The pause that followed Lewayne's comment lasted long enough to worry John.
Don't go cold on me—not now....
John tipped his head and raised his eyebrows. The unspoken question served to prime Lewayne's pump and the man began to tell his story.
"Growing up wasn't much fun for me. My Dad was a long-haul trucker who, one day, he didn't come home. Gloria never told me why, and I already knew better than to ask her questions."
"Gloria?" John asked.
"My mother. She didn't like being called 'Mom.' She said it made her feel domesticated. She was a writer, mostly for magazines. She needed silence to concentrate so I had to be quiet around the house—not TV, no friends over, no loud games. I couldn't play an instrument in the band because she wouldn't let me practice. I spent a lot of time reading in my bedroom—no radio, because the walls were thin."
"Sounds like Gloria really cramped your style."
"I didn't mind being a book worm. If you keep your nose in a book, you don't have to hassle with other people. I spent a lot of time in my room, reading or daydreaming about my dad—where he was and what he was doing."
He leaned closer to John.
"I used to tell people my dad worked for the CIA. I'd tell them he was a master of disguises, and he traveled all over the world spying on people. I told them I got secret messages from him through the TV—you know that colored square that sometimes shows up before a commercial starts? That's how he got his messages to me."
John stifled an urge to laugh.
Daydreaming and isolation are two of the three most common childhood characteristics of a serial killer, the third being compulsive masturbation... you can skip describing that one for me....
"Anyway, when I was ten, we moved closer to my mother's brother Jim and his wife. My cousins didn't like me—I wasn't good at sports, and I got better grades than they did. Aunt Peggy worked the late shift and wasn't home much, so I spent a lot of time with Uncle Jim—helping him grade papers and such. I'm a teacher because of him. He was so good to me, I decided to follow in his footsteps."
John nodded.
Your mother was a nut case and you were bad at sports—same as me, but I'm not a serial killer... let's move this along a little....
"So you went to college and got your teaching degree. Did you meet your ex-wife while you were there?"
"Joyce? Yeah, we kept running into each other. Finally, I asked her out. Everything was great. She was smart, good-looking, popular—she knew what she wanted, and it really blew me away when she said she wanted me."
A wistful smile brightened Lewayne's face.
"When we graduated, she got a job as a business analyst at Fordyce, McClelland, and Brown, the big consulting firm. She wanted to start a family right away; she said it was best to have babies early so she could move up with the company as they grew. We had Courtney in 1989 and Chelsea a year later. It was tough, but we handled it, and everything was going really well—I liked teaching, and Joyce liked her job and the girls—well, they were the greatest thing that ever happened to me. You have any kids?"
John faked a sappy grin.
"Two of them—Elliot and Olivia, a boy and a girl."
"So you know what it's like to hold your daughter and see her smile back at you. Courtney and Chelsea—they were the only bright spots in our marriage. Turned out, the further Joyce went up the corporate ladder, the worse things got between us. She was always traveling out of town or spending her evenings wining and dining prospective clients—so what if I wanted to spend time with her?"
Lewayne slumped back in his chair. John followed suit.
A show of solidarity on this one—not the rest of your shit, but I do know the pain of a failing marriage....
"When she wasn't traveling, she was spending money: designer clothes and shoes, expensive purses and jewelry, day spas, furniture, paintings, cooking classes, feng shui, yoga classes—you name it and she bought it. I tried to go with the flow, but Armani suits aren't made for poster paints and recess, and her friends and colleagues hated me—I wasn't on their level."
A feral anger lit his eyes as he remembered those times.
"Nothing I had was good enough for her—not my job, not my clothes, not my parenting, not the sex—especially not the sex. It got to the point, when she'd come home from a trip, I'd head into the spare room, and stay there until she left again."
John nodded to show approval of his tactic.
Sexual frustration.. more isolation... a social outcast from your wife's culture... you just keep piling up the indicators....
"The only reason I kept going was Courtney and Chelsea. Joyce would leave town and it was just me and my girls. I'd drop them off at daycare before I went to work, and I'd pick them up again on my way home. We'd make dinner together, then we'd watch TV until bath time. I'd give them a bath together, and we'd blow bubbles, and I'd make funny shapes with the shampoo in their hair. Then, after they got into their pajamas, I sit on the couch, one of them on either side of me, and I'd read them a story before bedtime."
Lewayne's lips curved into a happy smile.
"Those were good times."
"Sounds wonderful," John prompted him. "Then what happened?"
Lewayne pursed his lips as though thinking of his girls had sucked the spit from his mouth.
"They figured out that their designer clothes and fancy toys came from Mommy, not Daddy. After they learned that, they didn't want my hugs. I'd try to blow on their tummies and make swirls with their hairs, and they'd push me away and tell me not to muss their outfits."
John shook his head at their selfishness.
Sounds like your daughters were growing up... and you're a control freak who wanted them to stay babies forever... bad combination....
Lewayne grabbed "Not All Kids Look Alike" and held it up for John to see.
"This was their favorite story book. They loved the pictures and kids playing games like they did. I read it over and over and over to them; they couldn't get enough of it. When they left me, they took the designer clothes and the fancy toys, but they left their favorite book behind. I brought it with me when I went to see them at their new school on Parent's Day. My girls were so busy with their friends, they didn't want me to read it to them."
John shook his head again. His sympathetic murmur was cut off when Lewayne slammed the book against the table.
"I got the message: 'Go to hell, Daddy. We don't love you anymore.' Goddamn bitches—just like their mother."
Lewayne glared at the book and the hairs on John's neck rose.
That makes his daughters' rejection Huang's 'pre-crime stresser,' the reason he turned violent... he couldn't attack them, so he took his rage out on the symbol of his love for them—their favorite book... and the kids in it....
"I don't know," Lewayne continued, "when she transferred to my school, but I remember the exact day when I first saw her. It was January 5th, 1994 at 11:45 a.m. Jacqui Simmons was walking her class to the cafeteria and she was sixth in line. I took one look at her and thought, "Hey—that's Cordelia, the English girl in the picture book. I know her."
Lewayne opened the book to her picture.
"Did you bring the photos I took of these kids?" he asked.
The off-hand question caught John by surprise. He pulled the banker's box to him and reached inside it.
It can't hurt to give him the photos... at least, I hope not....
Lewayne nodded his thanks before shuffling the photos until 'Cordelia' was on top.
"Every time I saw her in the halls, Cordelia was smiling just like she does in the book. She reminded me of my girls and how happy we used to be. I wanted to slap that smile from her face, and I wanted to hug her the way I used to hug my daughters. I'd go home and stare at this picture of her, and remember how my girls would snuggle up to me and listen to me read to them. I started thinking about reading the book to Cordelia, thinking about her snuggled up to me just like she was my daughter.
"One Sunday, I was out running errands and I saw Cordelia through a store window. She was by herself, just standing there by the entrance. It was my chance. I went up to her and said hello. She recognized me from school and called me by name—'Hi, Mr. Lewayne. Are you clothes-shopping, too?' We talked for a bit then I told her I had a book at home with her picture in it, and I asked if she wanted to see it."
"Did she?" John asked.
"It took a little convincing, but she finally came with me. We took the subway back to my place, and I showed her the book. Cordelia thought it was really neat; she even let me take a picture of her holding it, but she didn't want me to read it to her. She said it was a baby book. I told her it wasn't, and she said, 'Yes, it is, Mr. Lewayne. I'm reading 'Frog and Toad are Friends' by myself, and I only had to ask my mom about one word.'"
His eyes narrowed and John heard his teeth grind together as his anger grew.
Judy May... half his height, a third his weight... she didn't stand a chance....
"I picked her up and tried to shake some sense into her. She started yelling so I threw her down, and stomped on her neck to shut her up."
Lewayne's focus shifted downward as he followed the remembered path of the little girl from his arms to the floor. His right foot tapped the linoleum, and his eyes went wide.
"It worked. She stopped yelling."
"Wow," John said, hoping he got the right mix of awe and interest. "You really fixed her."
Don't react... don't make a fist... don't slam it into his face....
Lewayne chuckled.
"I thought I'd fixed me, too. Getting caught with a dead student in my apartment—yeah, she deserved it, but it's still not a good thing."
John swallowed against the bile in his throat. "What did you do?"
"I got a gym bag from my closet and a towel. She'd peed all over herself so I had to mop up the puddle before it stained the floor. I put her in the gym bag then, as soon as it was dark and I knew everyone was busy making dinner or watching TV, I carried the bag down the stairs. It was heavy, so I had to put it down to rest a couple times. On the way down, I thought about how to get rid of her. I figured, if I could get her to the park without anyone seeing me, I could dump her body there and no one would know what happened. Turned out, no one saw me so I was home free."
"What about the gym bag?" John asked. "The police didn't find one at the crime scene."
"I put that with the towel and her coat in a trash bag then I set it out at the curb. I kept an eye on the news and the papers, thinking maybe someone spotted me carrying her down the street, but no—I got away with it."
"You certainly did."
"Yes, I did. Funny thing was, after I got Cordelia's photo developed, I'd couldn't stop looking at it. It reminded me of how it felt to shut her up, to stop her from smiling all the time. My wife and girls did what they damn well pleased, but I had control over Cordelia."
He leaned so close to John that John could count his eyelashes.
"That control felt damn good. I figured, if it felt that good to get rid of Cordelia, then getting rid of Ryan should feel good, too. Doesn't that seem reasonable to you?"
"Sounds reasonable to me."
Like hell it does, but what do I know? I'm sane....
Lewayne drew back. He then pointed to the drawing opposite Cordelia in the open book before taking his photo of 'Ryan' from the stack.
"I hadn't seen him at my school, so I kept an eye out for him on my commute and while running errands. I also started traveling around Manhattan to check out other schools, playgrounds, toy stores—places kids might be. It took a couple months, but I finally spotted him in the yard at PS 191. I figured that he wouldn't be interested in picture books, so I had to come up with another plan."
He paused and raised an eyebrow at John.
This is a test... he wants to know if I'm really paying attention, if I really care... damn right I care, but not about him....
John folded his arms on the table top and leaned forward, feigning interest.
"What was your plan?" he asked.
A smug smile parted Lewayne's lips.
"Parents are always trying to get their children into better schools," he replied, "so I told Ryan his parents were transferring him to my school, and I was there to show him my classroom and answer any questions he had. I was surprised when he fell for it. He didn't smile as much as Cordelia, but he still seemed like a happy kid. I showed him around my school, ducking the few people who hadn't gone home yet. Finally, when everyone was gone, I took him into the boys' room. Since he wasn't screaming, I took it slower and strangled him."
Lewayne's pleasure at the memory increased as he told the story. By the time he got to the strangling, he was showing all his teeth in a huge grin.
"You want to know why I took him to the boys' room?" he asked.
John faked an admiring smile.
"Pee," he replied. "You knew no one would think twice about a puddle of urine in a restroom."
"You got it. That shows I know how to adjust my plans as needed. Since the gym bag worked the first time, I used another one to carry Ryan to my car. I decided to dump him a long way from the school to throw off the police. I drove around until I found a block with no one on it, and I dumped Ryan behind a wrought iron fence."
Michael Doyle... found at St. Alban's Church... don't you realize that these children have real names? Real families? Real lives—at least, they did until you killed them....
"What about school security, video cameras, random people running into you and these kids?" John asked. "Didn't you worry about being caught?"
Tell me how you got away with it... maybe we can stop the next fucker who tries this....
"Damn right I was worried, but I was worried about nothing. I know what the security is at my school so it's no problem getting around it. When I was in public, I was very careful about waiting until no one was around."
He shrugged. "Not that it mattered. I never got caught."
"But you're here," John reminded him.
The handcuffs, the badges and guns, the bars on the windows—in case you haven't noticed, you're in a police station....
Lewayne shrugged away John's concern.
"We're just talking. You said so yourself."
John faked a reassuring grin.
"That's right; I did. Just two guys talking...."
... except I'm police and I'm allowed to lie to you....
Lewayne turned the page of the picture book before placing 'Ryan' on top of the first photo.
"Anyway, getting rid of Ryan went so well that I started looking for Melina. Since she was Greek, I concentrated on places near Greek restaurants and grocery stores. The same story worked to get her into my car, and I kept to the same plan, except I killed her in the girls' room."
Marika Bourantas, age six... missing from the stoop in front of her apartment building....
"I drove Melina up to the marina in Inwood. I didn't think it would take so long for her to be found. I almost missed it in the papers—after all, I'd gotten rid of two more children by then."
Tindra Berge and Adnan Baghdadi... I want to rub your nose in their autopsy photos... make you really see what you did to them....
John listened as Lewayne told the stories of his victims, pairing each one to the correct illustration and photo.
"Yumiko—she was the only one I took in the morning. I called in sick that day because I knew she walked past an alleyway that was perfect for me to wait in...."
Tomoe Kimura... you dumped her in Bennett Park, right across the street from my Uncle Morrie's apartment, the one I live in now....
"This is Demir, the kite-flier. I left him between two parked cars—just opened the passenger door and pushed hard. That was so easy, I used the same method with Reka and Tevinho."
Bener Çelik, Aroha Jackson, Fernando Lazaroni, victims ten, eleven, and thirteen... this wasn't easy—not for their families....
Lewayne pointed at the photo of the Bolivian girl. It showed her standing by his desk in his classroom, cringing from the camera, her eyes wide with fright.
"Carolina didn't speak much English, so I picked her up and took her to my car with my hand over her mouth. I never saw her smile."
Natividad Illamarca, his twelve victim.... the only thing worse than notifying a parent is doing it through an interpreter....
"Each child I got rid of meant one less smiling face, one less child who had made my girls happy. Each time, it got easier, which made it more fun. I even varied how I did it—sometimes stomping on them like Cordelia, sometimes strangling them like Ryan."
Find his victim... bring the child to the classroom... kill the child... dump the body... do it often enough and murder turns from a horror into a habit....
John shifted his hands from the table to his lap. As soon as they were out of sight, he flexed and wiggled his fingers.
The strain of not grabbing Lewayne's throat is giving them cramps....
"I've got to give you credit," John said, his voice carefully controlled. "You had this down to a science."
Lewayne bowed his head to accept the compliment before turning to his next victim.
"Togar now—he was a surprise. I was at the Natural History Museum for a meeting about summer classes when I spotted him on a field trip with his class. By this time, I was feeling cocky. I kept an eye on him and noticed how his teacher was spending more time on her cell phone than she was watching her kids. I decided to take my chances right then and there. I followed Togar back to the parking lot, where I diverted his attention and made him miss his bus. He got all upset so I promised him I'd drive him to his school. Instead, I bought him some pizza then I took him to my classroom and I got rid of him.
Innocent Ngwane... you left him in a hedge on Chrystie Street... his teacher quit after he was found—she blamed herself for her student's murder....
"Boitumelo was next," Lewayne continued. "I think he was my favorite because of he was wearing a Cub Scout uniform. I wanted to be a Scout, but Gloria's work meant she couldn't take me to the meetings. When I was done with him, I dumped him in the bed of a pick-up truck. You don't see many of those in Manhattan."
Daniel Munka, the victim Atwood wouldn't give up... stop thinking about getting my fingers around his throat... there's only two murders left to go....
"By now," Lewayne noted, "it was taking me longer to find each child. You'd think, what with the U.N. and all the thousands and thousands of immigrants in the city, finding Asian and African kids would be a snap—no pun intended...."
His smile had all the subtlety of an 'Applause' sign.
"Clever, Ronnie," John assured him. "You're quite the wit."
Do that again and I'll remove your vocal chords through your ass, you sick son of a bitch....
"But, the further into the book I went, the harder it got. It was a year and a half between Togar and Boitumelo, and another year and a half before I found Kyle."
Kyle was Joshua Parkinson, the Down Syndrome kid... must have felt really good to mislead a trusting child like Joshua....
"It's a good thing I took pictures of them. They gave me something to do while I searched for the next one."
The favorite hobby of a serial killer... fondling their souvenirs while reliving their kills....
Lewayne picked up the last photo, which showed a pale-skinned boy standing by his desk, his eyes glowing brilliant red in the camera flash.
Christopher Homer, the albino child... he was older than the other victims—taller and heavier....
"I almost blew it with Robbie," Lewayne said. "His mother caught me watching him, and she chewed me out right there on the street. I had to walk away and approach him later. Not that it mattered in the end. I still got rid of him."
John took a hard look at the photo in Lewayne's hands.
This boy had the best chance to get away from you... if only you'd grabbed him first, before you had perfected your method... shit, if only one detective had seen your pattern sooner... if only... the two most useless words in the world....
Lewayne set the photo of 'Robbie' on top of the others.
"Amanda will be the last one. Once I've gotten rid of her, I'm finished."
You're so matter-of-fact about it... good thing it's me in here and not Otten—and that there are people watching me....
"So, Ronnie," John asked, a hint of a jest in his voice, "what will you do next? Start over?"
Lewayne answered immediately, proving he had carefully considered his end game.
"I'm going to burn this book and the photos then send the ashes to my girls. I want them to see what they did to my happiness."
This time, John let his jaw drop, no longer caring if his honest reaction showed.
"Why?"
"I'm cremating their hate for me," Lewayne replied, savoring the phrase like a fine wine on his tongue. "I'm sending its ashes to them so they can see what they made me do."
He settled back in his chair with a smug smile, and waited for John's approval. John kept his features neutral as he gulped back more bile.
"That's some story, Ronnie. I'm glad you shared it with me."
"You wanted to know how I'm getting even. Did you learn anything from it?"
Yeah—first thing tomorrow, I'm going to our database people and begging them to fix things so the next Ronnie Lewayne doesn't go unnoticed....
John nodded.
"I sure did. Now, could I get a favor from you?"
"Of course."
John reached into the banker's box and pulled out a legal pad, then he reached into his jacket for a pen.
"Would you write all this down for me? It's a long, very intricate story, and I don't want to get any of the details wrong."
Lewayne considered the paper and the pen in John's hand.
"I've got something in return," John offered. "Photos of Amanda—photos that aren't on her web page. They'll help you locate her."
Lewayne's eyes brightened.
"In that case, sure—I'd be happy to."
He took the pen from John and began to write. So intent was he on earning the photos, Lewayne did not notice John grab his glasses and the banker's box then dash for the door.