Sunday, December 19, 2004
12:34 a.m.
Her porcelain skin shimmered in the late afternoon sun, illuminating her eyes and hair and shining her entire body into a bright angel of faith. He had found it now, found his faith, and she was right in front of him.
They stood on a ferry in New York Harbor, moving fast enough for her loose strands of hair to flap around so perfectly she looked both childish and beautiful and squinted at the golden torch of Lady Liberty as they circled her.
He was thinking about how perfect this was and moved his hand out to touch her, longing to caress her the way he'd been dying to for so long. To touch her and not care who saw, to show the world who he loved. But his fingers never reached and she started drifting further from him as they continued to bob up and down with the waves.
Tears fell down her face and he called her name but she wouldn't respond. She kept saying, "Maybe it didn't hurt for you, maybe it didn't..."
God, Samantha, what? What didn't hurt?
Suddenly, she gasped and a dark spot of red opened on her chest. She started to fall back, but he reached out to catch her, praying he would be able to, and sighing in relief when he could.
Her eyes glassed over and both hands touched the blood, one moving up to his cheek and rubbing it in fascination.
"You're here..."
He smiled, tears forming in his eyes.
"Where did you go?" she asked.
"I've always been here, Sam. I've always been watching you, even when you couldn't see me, " he said, his voice breaking around his emotions.
She gasped for breath, started coughing up blood, and he pulled her closer to him, blood soaking his white shirt.
"That -- that's never going to come off, " she smeared her hand against his chest.
"What?"
"That -- that stain, Jack, that stain in you..."
She gasped again and her lips started turning blue.
"God...oh, God, Sam, no, please...please, don't --"
She touched her bloody fingers to his lips, traced them, then moved her pointer finger to her own lips.
"Shhh, " she said, tears forming in her translucent eyes, "shh. I've always known..."
His chest wavered with panic.
Near death now, she gathered up the strength to ask, "Who would you choose?"
"W-what?"
"Who -- who would you choose, Jack? If you could bleach this shirt and it was -- it was Maria or me...who -- who would you c-choose?"
A silence passed between them and all that could be heard was the wheezing of her failing lungs, his quiet sobs, and the gentle crashing of waves in the harbor as the Statue of Liberty sang to him in the twilight. He watched the sun begin to dip behind the clouds and when he looked back down at Samantha, she was dead, her head falling against his chest.
He weeped openly now, rocking her back and forth on the ferry with no passengers or drivers, the city with no people, and the world with no love. The last of it had left with her.
"You, " he barely managed, "I -- I'd choose you."
Jack Malone, bathed in sweat, sat straight up on the couch. No scream or gasp or cry of emotion, he just left the dream as quickly as he could and fell back against the couch, feeling the brunt of the emotional turmoil he'd just experienced.
Though barely above thirty degrees outside, he threw the blanket away from his wet skin and clothes, sat for a moment in the darkness, his boxers providing little defense against the bursts of cold air striking the room every few minutes. Even with the heat on, he shivered. He tugged at his white shirt, fanning out his skin, and continued to sit there.
"Samantha, " he whispered so softly almost he couldn't hear it.
Oh, God, he thought, take...take my job, my car, my fuckin' suits and cellphone and beepers, but God almighty, just don't take her. Please don't.
And in that moment, he realized what she was to him in a way he never had before. A stupid dream, he knew -- it was a stupid dream, but...but it could've happened, could still happen in some way or time or place and he didn't want to be that man on that lonely ferry in the world that had left him...clinging to the one last thing he had...Samantha...and watching her leave as well. He didn't want to be that man. Couldn't be that man.
He found he could be the one that hurt Maria far better than he could be the one who sought answers to a dying woman who had never stopped loving him.
Standing on shaky legs, he moved his hands through his hair, fixing it and messing it up and fixing it again. Then...he thought of his mother.
Oh, Valentino, we need to get that hair cut...
Oh, shit, why now? Why...why now, of all times to think of her?
Why, Ma?
Your hair's growin' in your eyes, babe, and we wanna see those eyes. Those beautiful eyes. Come here, I'll tell you a secret...
What, Ma? his tiny five-year old body whispered.
You got my eyes, babe, my eyes. So we're alike, you and me, we'll always be together, now won't we, Jackie? You've got 'em, Jack, you've got 'em...
My eyes...
He rubbed at his eyes with the memory, softly at first, then brushed angrily at the skin now, thinking of her.
He missed her, he did, but...but...he didn't want to be her. And...maybe that's where he was heading if he stayed in this cold house with little heat on a street of ancient memories with a woman that forgot his name sometimes.
Jack shuffled to the front door, turned the knob gently, and opened. The wind was strong, blew his shirt around in the wind, and a freezing rain fell, ready to become snow in little time. Still, he stood, the wind blowing his already messy hair around.
Then he thought of the two women he loved; one, who'd been lost forever, and the other, who he stood to lose so quickly as she tangled by a thread from his fingers.
"Why?" he asked of the freezing rain and his mother.
"Just...just tell me why, Ma, just tell me..."
If his wife came down or neighbors saw, maybe they'd avoid him for a while in confused wariness, but he spoke to air that had once been there anyway.
"I needed you, I needed you so much and you just...you just left. Didn't you -- didn't you care? Oh, God Ma, why? What the hell am I supposed to do now?"
Nothing spoke but the trees as their leaves brushed against one another in the fierce coming storm.
Then, he sank slowly to his knees and watched the world move around him, the world he was slowly losing each day he stayed in this marriage, this marriage without love.
"Samantha..."
"S-samantha, " he continued to whisper.
And still, there was no reply, save for the tongue of angels singing a broken chorus; pleading for him to wait, to hold on just a little longer to his faith, because he would have it, have it always now. The angels were telling him not to give up on her, that they would find each other again.
Just the tongue of angels and freezing rain and Jack Malone wondering who would still love him enough to keep the loneliness at bay.
*
Jeffrey Pesna had become a cop for the reasons most guys do. Some, perhaps, joined for fame and glory, but most...most joined because they wanted to make a difference, big or small. They came from fractured childhoods mostly, and wanted to fix what they saw wrong.
Jeffrey couldn't say he came from one of those glistening flawless families that lived in the suburbs, the one whose children lived disaparately different lives from him, sheltered from harsh truths about the way society really worked until they were too old to cope and ended up in washed out marriages with miserly existences at the tender age of forty wondering where they'd gone wrong.
He couldn't say he came from that place; couldn't say his mom wore an apron, dusted everyday, cooked big dinners on Sunday, listened to him when he talked or had warm cookies and cold milk waiting for him when his little legs carried him up the cracked concrete stoop in Brooklyn; couldn't say his dad didn't remember the war he'd been in and fought for and tried to make sense of; couldn't say his dad didn't remember, either, the feel of his friend's callused trigger finger as he held it tightly, watching him plead for his life as imminent death approached on the cold, wet ground in Northern France; couldn't say he didn't remember some German and still muttered it in his sleep, snuck out to the back porch and rocked the creaky swing until the sun came up and the guns in his head stopped going off.
Sometimes, the morning sky was red and he'd find his father in sheltered fear waiting for that godamn war to end, he'd say. He just wanted it to end.
Jeffrey couldn't say his father didn't drink sometimes to forget, but it was okay, really. Because when he didn't drink...he was just a ghost with these dead bodies in his head begging him not to let them die.
Maybe if Jeffrey had been one of those happy, naive suburban kids he used to pick on in school, he would have been making his fortunes in stocks and bonds; then maybe he would've been happy, or maybe not. Maybe he would've died in the World Trade Center. He could've been a journalist, what with his aggressive nature and knack for world affairs; he could've, but then, maybe he would've been shot by some foreign man he never knew, who never knew him, on soil he'd never touched and sky he'd never seen and wondered what they might be saying about him as the gun went off.
If he had to die, he wanted it to mean something, which of course, in his line of work, was a given...for the most part anyway. He wanted to fix the things he'd seen and if he'd done that, maybe it was worth it.
He'd had a good run in his work, lost a few bad guys, but caught most of them. Had some damn good partners, real damn good, that is, until Vincent Marro. He'd worked with the guy six months and they still hadn't found their niche. Jeffrey attributed it to the sole fact that Vincent...well, Vincent didn't give a fuck. He really didn't. Neither did his brother.
But when Lieutenant Joseph Marro had called him up a few hours ago and asked if he might weasel his way into the investigation on his brother's disappearance, he didn't protest. He wanted to know, really. Something didn't sit right there. Something....
And when Jeffrey heard of the latest victim of the serial murderer, he'd called Matthew Spade and Alexis Collins -- both of whom he'd had brief, but steady contact with over the course of his career -- and asked if they wouldn't mind an extra pair of eyes for this one.
Serial murders, he knew, were special. And even though you ran the show, you sure as hell didn't protest all the help you could get.
So he threw his thick coat over his shoulders, adjusted the flaps around his neck, and took a bite of his sandwich before shoving off. A little past midnight and he was wide awake. Something....just something didn't sit right at all....
*
The rain that started to fall didn't help the crime scene one bit. Detectives moved around in a flurry, trying quickly to preserve what evidence they could before it washed away with the water down the sewer.
Alexis rubbed her cold hands together, blew what little hot air she could on them, and stood back up again as forensics dusted for prints around the body. The carefully carved 'o' in the chest was fresh, fresher, at least, than the previous ones.
"Getting anything?" Jeffrey asked as he shuffled up beside her. His good looks were evident even in the deep darkness and she smiled.
"Yes, actually. Our guys are picking up a few prints, so we might finally be able to get this guy. She was sexually assaulted as well, so there should be traces of semen."
"They always get sloppy."
"This one -- maybe too late."
He shook his head.
"Never too late, Collins, never. Guys like this -- kill a hundred women plus, if given the chance. You catch him before that, you win."
He knelt down.
"Never too late, " he said again, pulling on a glove and running a finger over the woman's chest. The blood was dry, her skin wet. The crime scene was fresh, so there was a big chance the forensics team hadn't found clothing or hair yet. Prints and semen and blood, especially in the rain, were the most important pieces of evidence to collect.
He scrutinized the body, traveled his eyes down slowly, hoping to find anything that the killer could have left behind. Finally, he saw a flash of color. Bending forward, he picked up the piece of metal. It was fairly small, but he would recognize it anywhere.
And his blood ran cold.
*
7:32 a.m.
Evidently, the tentative snowball fight had been postponed, though Martin was mentally preparing his packing technique for efficient casualties. Unless they closed the case by this afternoon, it was starting to look like there would be no time off for a while at least...for any of them.
In a week, it would be Christmas.
This, he reflected, was possibly the longest case they had ever worked. It was dragging on with little to no leads and no real motivation for finding this guy. He lived alone, wasn't exactly citizen of the year, didn't have a history of being particularly friendly, and very well could have just left and gotten the hell out of this city.
No one, Martin thought, would miss him.
"Martin, I need you to hammer the cops for information on who busted Kenneth Mercel. It's looking like he might be the serial killer. He could have had a vendetta against these victims relating back to that. We need to know."
"Danny, Viv, I want you tailing Joseph Marro, clock anything suspicious, he's got to know something, he's just not telling us."
They nodded.
"Sam, we're going to pay your brother a visit."
"Why?" she curled her eyebrows up in slight confusion.
"Something's pulling these two cases together."
*
"Well, I've told you most of what we know, plus it's splashed all over the news, " Matt waved his hand in a downward motion of defeat.
"Any suspects?"
"Our impartial print gave us a general idea. Lab's backed up now, plus we've got new blood and semen so I don't know what that'll give us, but I'd have to say we're focusing on Kenneth Mercel. The only problem is...I just can't find a motive there."
Jack nodded, watched Samantha look around the station, half paying attention to the details she already knew.
"We had two full fingerprints and they matched Kenneth Mercel as well. It's possible that he was present and took part in the torture, but didn't actually committ the murders. My gut's telling me he's not the one doing it."
"Why?"
"Our murderer is good. Too good. Kind of guy who'd know what details to plan for, what to clean up and what we'd be looking for. Just...smart."
"Could it be a cop or someone working in forensics who would know that sort of thing?"
"Could be. We'll know more later today when we get our labs back on the last victim."
Matt moved behind his desk, grabbed his notepad.
"Anything you can tell us about the latest victim?"
"Got an I.D. on her -- name's Stacy Klama, age 25, living in Queens. Interesting."
"What?"
"Lives two blocks down from the apartment building shared by Vincent Marro and Kenneth Mercel."
Jack shot Samantha, who had finally turned back to the conversation, a glance, and she gave him a look that seemed to say, You were right.
"You heading out?" Jack asked.
"Queens -- see what this guy's hiding."
"Mind if we join you?"
"Be my guest. I'll be ready in a second."
At that moment, Jack's cellphone rang. He turned away from Matt and Samantha, walked a little further back when he realized it was Maria.
Samantha turned as casually as she could to watch him from her vantage point. He seemed to grow more agitated by the minute, then the conversation ended abruptly. When he returned, she couldn't read his emotions as frustration or fear.
"I've got to get home, sorry."
"Jack, what's wrong?"
He paused, took a breath.
"Maria got a letter in the mail -- telling her she would die today. It -- it might be from our serial killer."
"Shit, " Matt swore under his breath.
Samantha made a move to say something but couldn't feel around for the right words before Jack spoke to her.
"Samantha, go with Matt, if Kenneth's our guy, we can bring him in and end this right now."
Do this, his eyes said, for my wife and me.
What she didn't know was he didn't mean it in the way she thought. He meant...he needed Maria to be safe because she was a mother and...he'd once loved her. And that meant something once and still did.
She nodded, brushed a quick hand on his shoulder, and left.
*
The drive to Queens remained mostly silent and she watched her brother's face for any signs of...of defeat.
He was fairly open, for a cop anyway, but he still remained as enigmatic as the day he'd been born. Sometimes you thought you knew what he might be thinking, other times, you were just plain wrong.
"Where's Lex?" she asked.
"Hanging out at the lab, poking 'em with a cattle prod, you know, if they're not moving fast enough."
Something came to her then and she didn't know why now of all times. Or why at all, really, but it was there and she had to ask.
"You killed people in Vietnam, Matt."
His knuckles tightened around the steering wheel. Why the hell is she bringing this up now?
"Yeah."
"Have you -- have you ever since?"
He paused, took a breath, grateful she hadn't wanted him to elaborate on that.
"No."
"Ever even...fired your gun?"
He squinted one eye shut in concentration, pulled his left elbow up to rest by the window, leaned his head against his hand.
"Came close a few times, but no. I've been lucky."
Just pure, dumb luck. If he had to fire, he wasn't quite sure the effect it would have on him. He'd practiced in firing ranges, sure, but those places were nothing compared to the sound of metal hitting flesh and the span of time that passed between the impact where you wondered who had been hit and who would never walk or talk or breathe again.
She just nodded as he pulled up to Kenneth Mercel's apartment building.
As fate or...luck -- since they were talking about it -- would have it, the man was exiting the building, taking the steps briskly, pulling his hood over his head as he felt the steady rain fall against his body. He happened to look up and upon seeing the two agents, made a break for it.
Both took off after him and Samantha, smaller and ahead of her brother, managed to tackle the man to the ground and hold him until Matt came up behind her, hauled Kenneth up, and slammed him against the brick wall.
"Brutality, " Kenneth's hoarse voice croaked out as he looked around frantically for neighbors or anyone to help him.
Matt leaned in.
"Brutality? I'm just getting started. Besides, you got someone around here who can be a witness to that?" he winked in his face.
Samantha leaned forward, business coming to the forefront of her mind.
"Why are you running, Kenneth? Got something to hide?"
He shook his head quickly, which meant, of course, that he was lying.
One hand still on the man's chest, Matt reached into his trenchcoat and dug out the picture they'd gathered of the latest victim -- Stacy Klama -- and shoved it into Kenneth's face, waving it around for good measure.
"You know this girl?"
For a second, he looked like he might deny it.
"Yeah, " he hesitated.
"Well, she's dead, Kenneth. And your fingerprints are all over her."
"Dead?" he stammered.
"Yeah, dead. And I'm fixing to put you away for her murder and the murder of five other women. Where were you last night?"
"H-here, " he stuttered, eyes growing wide.
"Anyone vouch for that?"
He shook his head no slowly and Matt slapped the cuffs on him, reading him his rights as he did so.
*
Martin was growing weary now. Not only was he not getting anywhere, but they weren't being exactly helpful about any of it either. He was thinking about how this day could've been different. Sunday, normally, was a day he slept in just a little past nine, stretched the stress of the past week out of his muscles, and took a walk -- sometimes a jog -- through Central Park.
After that, he usually had lunch and sometimes he'd treat himself to a restaurant. Then, he'd take in a movie and by six o'clock, his day was nearly over. A few calls to friends here and back home would be made and he'd settle into his small, old, comfy couch and search for something to watch until he turned in early.
That would be his usual Sunday, one he counted on like clockwork to help ease the frustration of the previous week and rejuvenate him for the upcoming one. He wouldn't have his usual Sunday and man, did he feel it everywhere. The fatigue leaked into his bones and his eyes, if he could've seen them, would've been red and bloodshot and looking as though they should've never opened today.
"You're persistent, I'll give you that, " the officer spoke as he came in front of Martin, tugged at his belt, and took a seat behind his desk. He pushed a few papers in Martin's direction and crossed his hands.
"Still couldn't find the file, the paper one on record anyway, but seein' as you're gettin' on my nerves, I dug around for ya and found the file on computer, printed it out. How do ya like that? It's your lucky day, kid."
Martin raised a slight eyebrow at the word 'kid'; guy wasn't more than five years older than Martin himself. He didn't want to peruse over it here in the station so he stood, shook the officer's hand.
"Thanks, " he said, and left.
Once he was in his car, he basked in the luxury of his comfortable car seat, pushed down into its softness, and flipped through the file.
The arresting officer was in fact Vincent Marro and his partner. And his partner was....
*
4:53 p.m.
Jack hadn't come home right away. He'd needed to get everything in order at work and talk to Maria over the phone, ask her exactly what was written in the note and what it looked like and he'd tried to draw a conclusion solely from that.
He wanted her to be okay, but...he just didn't want to go home right away. Now, here he was, parked in front of their building.
Hours ago, he had stood at the front of his house with an open door, watching the rest of the world go by and wondering how he might jump back on and start finding life again. With Samantha, he had this esoteric relationship; one of privacy from outsiders and understanding of each other alone. With Maria, he had this...this farce.
He shut the door of his car, walked up to his house, and stood in the open doorway, taking a deep breath.
"Maria?" he called.
She came around the corner, looking flustered and anxious, threw her arms around him. He hugged her back and leaned against the wall, moving his hands up and down her back.
"Jack, " she sniffled against his shirt.
"It's okay, it's okay, " he repeated over and over.
Finally, they broke apart slowly, her fingers still clinging to his hand. He squeezed hers back in reassurance and smiled. The hand, he noticed, no longer held her ring.
"It was in the mail. It's -- it's weird, Jack, " she said, handing him the letter. It was in a ziploc bag already and he smiled at her initiative. Some things from his job, it seemed, had rubbed off on her.
He dropped her hand slowly, telling her with his eyes once more that it was okay, and leaned against the table as he read the small note:
Such a beautiful name. Beautiful. Maria. I usually like names that start with 'S', but...you're the exception. Your husband is quite tenacious, isn't he? Do you think he'll save you, Maria? Do you really think so? I hope he does. I like adventure. I want you, Maria, and what I want, I get. I'll be coming for you tonight. Lock your doors. You might have seen my previous work on the news. Those girls, they were just for fun. You're my special one, Maria. Oh and, might want to get the kiddies out of the house tonight. Wouldn't want those precious little girls to find you after I'm done with you. Sleep tight.
Jack's hand shook as he held it. He rubbed Maria's cheek in comfort and spoke.
"I've got to make a few calls. I'll be right here the whole time."
Now, he thought he knew where Vincent Marro was.