Spectrum (The Karen Vail Series) (36 page)

55

The hatch swung open, the three copper hinges creaking and the bright sky forcing her to close her eyes.
Brilliant—the killer may be ready to smash me in the face and I can’t even see him. Wasn’t the pepper spray bad enough?

Vail willed her eyes open. A whipping wind struck her in the face and took her breath away, as did the view of the New York and New Jersey skylines. She felt like she was in the middle of the bay, thirty stories up.

Only because I am.

Look later. Find Harris.

But there was no sign of him. Had the unlocked, open door to the arm been a ruse?

That’d just about make my day, climbing forty feet in a tight metal tube while the killer slipped away through some other hidden tunnel Kraut didn’t know about.

The visible portion of the platform, a nine-foot circular structure with a thin railing and a low, airy decorative wall, was clear.

With the Glock tight against her chest and both hands wrapped around the handgun, she stepped out—and struck the top of her head, as she had been warned.

Vail rose from her crouch and swung around quickly, sweeping the torch’s platform—and immediately felt the thing sway toward her, her weight no doubt bending the flexible copper skin as if it were a noodle. An overwhelming sense of queasiness grabbed her.

Don’t throw up, Karen. Please, not now.

She took her left hand off the Glock and steadied herself on the thin railing. But it didn’t help, as the arm continued swaying back and forth, whipsawing one way, then the other. She knew the steel ladder would prevent the appendage from breaking away from the body, but it was still unnerving.

Vail sidestepped the floor-mounted spotlights that were aimed at the 24 karat gold flame directly above her and moved laterally, peripherally, around the platform—while watching the other side in case he lunged at her from the opposite end of the torch.

One more step and she saw a workboot sticking out from behind the flame’s base.

Vail thrust the Glock out in front of her, two fists gripping the weapon, and said, “Show me your hands. Now!”

Dmitri Harris did not move. But Vail did, stepping slowly around to the front of the torch, angling to the side to get a view of her suspect’s face.

And then her BlackBerry started buzzing.

Her thoughts flashed back to an operational drill she was required to participate in at Quantico’s Hogan’s Alley following a bank shooting. That time it was training, and she answered the phone. This, however, was not an exercise.

As she inched closer, the handset continued vibrating.
I’m kinda busy. Leave a message.

When Dmitri Harris came into full view, he was sitting on the copper floor of the platform, fingers interwoven with his hair, palms covering his eyes.

“Get up,” Vail said. “Slowly.” She was too close to him, but there was nothing she could do. There was no room to move back without tipping over the edge of the thin railing.

“It’s not my fault.”

“We’ve seen your books, we’ve seen your photo album, the Xs on the wall in your room. You killed your sister and ten people are—”

“Not my fault!” He grabbed his hair with both hands. “Not my fault. Not my fault!”

“Whose fault is it, Dmitri? You killed your own sister!”

He leaped toward her—Vail fired and missed—and he delivered a body slam, driving her right arm up and pinning her lower back to the railing.

Shit, he’s trying to push me over.

Vail grabbed his hair with her left fist and tried to pull his head back. But he was enraged and clearly not feeling the pain.

She tightened her abdomen, trying to keep herself from bending backward over the thin metal bar, trying to lower her Glock, trying to gain some kind of advantage.

Vail hooked her left foot around his right boot and headbutted him. In that instant of shock when Dmitri’s arms went limp, she pushed him off her and he tripped backward over her leg.

He landed on his back and struck his head on the spotlight mounted on the platform—and lost consciousness.

Vail handcuffed him to the torch wall, then checked his pulse. He would probably regain consciousness any minute.

Now what? How the hell do I get him down from here?

As she removed her BlackBerry, it started ringing again.

“Vail.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are, going into a restricted area without authorization?”

She held the phone away from her face and looked at the display:

Superintendent

Nat’l Park Service

She disconnected the call, then dialed Russo.

“Karen,” he said. “Thank god. You okay?”

“I’ve got the suspect in custody. Can you come get him?”

“Jesus—of course. Be right there. Where are you?”

“You’re not gonna believe me.”

“Try me.”

“About three hundred feet above the water, standing on top of Miss Liberty’s torch.”

There was a long silence. “What?”

Even Vail had to laugh. “Like I said.”

56

Shortly after Dmitri regained consciousness, Vail had placed him under arrest—in case the Park Police wanted to take possession of the prisoner. Because the island was under federal jurisdiction, the NYPD had no ability to take any action. And she knew Russo wanted the bust very badly.

Vail had removed the handcuffs and followed Dmitri down the arm, keeping a significant distance above him and the Glock firmly seated in her hand. When they reached the bottom of the ladder, three SWAT officers were waiting to assist.

Using the Park Police’s so-called moose boat, a SWAT sergeant and a couple of his men helped Vail and Russo escort Dmitri to Battery Park, where—under Vail’s orders—a waiting BuCar from the FBI’s New York field office transported them to the Manhattan South homicide squad for questioning.

As they watched Dmitri through the two-way glass, Joe Slater to Vail’s left, Horace Jenkins stepped in and closed the door quietly.

“Is Ben coming,” Vail asked, or is he still indisposed?”

Russo kept his eyes on Dmitri. “He won’t be coming.”

“I wish Thorne and Fonzarella could be here,” Vail said with a sigh of resignation.

Slater snorted. “Amen to that.”

The door to the room opened and Commissioner Brendan Carrig, homicide squad chief Mendoza, and Manhattan borough commander Yarles walked in. And then Mayor de Blasio followed.

Slater turned to Russo and gestured at the glass. “So this is the asshole who’s run us ragged for twenty years?”

Vail glanced at Russo. “That’s what we’re going to find out.”

“It’s him,” Russo said.

“Good,” Carrig said. “Good work, all of you.”

De Blasio moved closer to the glass and shook his head. “What kind of monster kills ten innocent people?”

“Nine innocent people,” Vail said. “Dominic Crinelli was a lot of things, but innocent wasn’t one of them.”

De Blasio looked around the room and his gaze settled on Carrig. He kinked his neck toward Vail. “Who’s this?”

“This,”
Vail said, folding her arms, “is Karen Vail. FBI. I’m the one who made the arrest on the torch of the Statue of Liberty.”

Carrig frowned, as if that was a fact he did not want to acknowledge—or publicize. “She’s a former NYPD detective, Mr. Mayor.”

De Blasio nodded, then said, “Again. Thank-you, all.” He turned and left the room.

Vail and Russo shared a look.

“Well, time to get this thing started.”

Carrig consulted his watch. “The mayor and I have a press conference on the arrest in forty-five minutes. Excuse me.”

When the door clicked shut, Russo said, “Joe, with me. Karen—”

“No problem, Russo. I only made the arrest because that’s the way it had to go down to get him in this room. This is your baby.”

He nodded a silent thanks. Vail faced the glass and watched as the two men entered the interrogation room.

The door swung open again and Proschetta walked in. He gave Vail a bear hug and whispered, “Congratulations” in her ear.

“Your info was crucial,” Vail said, “and impeccably timed. Thanks.”

He leaned back and looked her over. “What happened to your face?”

“Asshole got us with pepper spray.” She leaned both hands on the ledge in front of the glass. “Wait till you see Russo’s face. I didn’t get it so bad.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, well, it’s okay. We caught him. All’s good.”

“I called Livana on the way over here,” Proschetta said. “I wanted to tell her before she heard it on the news. She’s a good woman. After losing her daughter, I knew this would kill her. No pun intended.”

“And what did she say?”

“After losing it, she composed herself and admitted that she had concerns. They found a squirrel on the island a couple of years before they moved. It was dissected.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. She also found him masturbating once while watching his sister shower.”

“I’m going to text Slater, tell him about this.” Vail pulled her phone and tapped out the message. Seconds later, Slater read the display and shared it with Russo, who nodded.

Russo smiled—the confidence of a cop knowing he had a suspect by the balls. He started off by reminding Dmitri of his rights, but their suspect declined representation, saying he had nothing to hide.

“See,” Russo said, “it’s interesting that you put it that way, being that we found those books in your lair. In the secret compartment hidden beneath the floor of your bedroom.”

Dmitri looked at the wall, then the ceiling—but did not reply.

“Mr. Harris, are you familiar with someone named Dominic Crinelli?”

“He killed my father.”

“I take it you didn’t like him.”

“He killed my father.”

“Right, and it’s understandable that you didn’t like him. I mean, if a guy like that had killed my dad, I’d have to even the score.”

“What score?”

Russo cleared his throat. “You killed Crinelli to get back at him for killing your dad. I understand that. No one here would have a problem with that. Just tell me how you did it.”

“How I evened the score.”

“Yeah, like how you got him to let you into his house. That must’ve been tough. He was a real careful guy. A dangerous guy.”

“I don’t know where his house is.”

“Right,” Russo said. “But when you walked up to his front door, what was it like? Were you excited? Angry? Or did you not feel anything?”

“I don’t know.”

Russo squirmed slightly in his seat. “When he came to the door, what did you say to him? What did you say to make him let you in?”

Dmitri grabbed his left arm. “Not my fault. Not my fault. Not my fault.”

Russo nudged Slater, then gestured at something with his chin. Slater lifted a briefcase onto the table, then unsnapped the locks. Russo removed the photo album then slid the attaché to Slater’s left.

He flipped some pages and found the one showing the photo the killer had taken of Cassandra.

Vail turned up the volume on the speaker. On a nearby monitor, she had a good view of Dmitri and a wide shot of Russo and Slater.

“Your sister,” Russo said. “Recognize her?”

Dmitri started rubbing his arm.

“This is yours, Dmitri. I know it is.”

“What’s with the arm rubbing?” Proschetta asked Vail.

She shrugged. “He’s nervous.”
But that doesn’t fit with a psychopath.

“It’s not mine,” Dmitri said. The rubbing quickened.

“See, it was in your bedroom. Hidden in your bedroom. I told you that a couple of minutes ago, dumbshit. And when the lab does its thing, I bet we’re gonna find your fingerprints all over it.”

“It’s not mine.”

“And how about these?” Slater bent down and removed the hardcovers, paperbacks, and
Playboy
magazines. He set them on the table.

“I’m allowed to have books.”

“Not just books,” Russo said. “Books on killing and murder. Not just murder, serial killers.”

“They weren’t called serial killers. That term wasn’t invented until Robert Ressler—”

“Don’t be a smartass, Dmitri. You know what I’m asking. Why did you have books on killing? To teach you how to do it? Because you got off on reading about how other killers murdered people?”

“I’m allowed to have books.”

“And what about the magazines? These are from 1970, 1971. Did your mother approve of you having them? Did she know?”

“Yes.”

“Really? I think you’re lying. Should I call her right now, ask—”

“No!” He stood quickly, the chains tightening on his shackles and pulling him back into his seat.

Russo, however, instinctively drew back and nearly tipped his chair over. He slammed his hands on the table and leaned forward. “You asshole. You murdered ten people! Admit it.”

Dmitri started moving his right hand up and down, left and right. Crossing himself.

“Jesus can’t help you, Dmitri. But maybe he’ll forgive you if you tell us the truth about all the people you’ve killed. Are you willing to tell the truth?”

“Okay. Yes.”

“Are these books yours?”

“Yes.”

Russo sat back. Vail could hear his sigh of relief through the speaker. He waited a minute, then said, “Tell me about the squirrel your mother found on Ellis Island, the one you dissected.”

“I didn’t dissect a squirrel.”

“How’d it make you feel?”

“I didn’t dissect a squirrel.”

“Son of a bitch!” Russo slapped the table again. “You said you were gonna tell the truth.”

Dmitri recoiled and began rubbing his arm harder.

This was not tracking the way Vail thought it should. In certain respects Dmitri was not behaving like a typical psychopath. But she was also seeing signs of something else—and it had nothing to do with serial killers. “Something’s not right.”

“It’s the dance,” Proschetta said. “Be patient. This could take hours, you know that.”

She pulled out her phone and started dialing.

“Who you calling?” Proschetta asked.

“Wayne Rudnick, a friend of mine at the Behavioral Science Unit.”

Two rings later, Rudnick picked up. “Karen! To what do I owe this wonderful gift that I call your
presence
?”

“Wayne, if I didn’t need your help desperately, I’d find that funny.”

“What do you need? You know I can’t say no to you. I’ve had a crush on you since the first day I laid eyes on you. Wait, did I say that out loud?”

“You did. And that’s sweet. But I’m in New York and the NYPD’s interrogating a suspect who could be the Hades slasher.”

“But you have doubts.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Simple deduction, my dear Agent Vail. You’re on the phone with me and you need my help.”

“Good point. I need to run this by you. It isn’t adding up for me, and I know something’s wrong, but I think I’m too close.”

“What’s the problem?”

Vail watched the interrogation a few seconds before answering. “On paper, our suspect looks dead to rights, guilty of killing ten people. Revenge killings. He has some definite psychopathic behaviors, but … I don’t know. Others—”

“Some conditions, on the surface, mimic psychopathy. But you know this.”

“I’ve been after this guy for nineteen years. I’m too close, I’m not being objective. I’m not seeing what I should be seeing.”

“Fair enough. Let me ask you some questions, see if I can walk you through this. “What’s the suspect like?”

Vail gave Rudnick a quick rundown of Dimitri’s history and presumed motive.

“Okay, that all fits. So what’s bothering you?”

“He seems to be nervous. He’s denying killing and dissecting that squirrel. And when I accused him of murdering his sister, he got very agitated and attacked me.”

“So tell me. What’s his speech like?”

“You mean vocabulary?”

“Well, let’s start with that.”

Vail thought a moment, listened a few seconds to Dmitri’s ongoing exchange with Russo, and said, “Generally simple sentences. But sometimes he can have more lengthy exchanges.”

“What’s he discussing when he uses more complex syntax?”

“The Statue of Liberty.”

“His work as a ranger. Memorized facts. Okay, and how about the way he talks. Is it mechanical or—”

“Oh my god. Asperger’s.”

“Correct, my dear Agent Vail. But—point of information, if I may. We don’t use the term Asperger’s anymore. It’s ASD: autism spectrum disorder.”

“Spectrum?”

“Because there’s a range, a degree to which people are affected. They can fall anywhere along that scale. At the far left end is full-blown autism, and at the far right extreme is very high functioning Asperger’s; I think you know what autism would present as—”

“Yeah, I got that. I need the far right, the very high functioning Asperger’s. Real-world applications.”

“Asperger’s, at first blush, is frequently confused with psychopathy because these individuals lack empathy and don’t have the ability to bond with others. But—and this is a huge but—the predatory behavior central to a serial killer’s psychopathy is lacking in Asperger’s. Also, the inability to seemingly bond with others that we see in Asperger’s is not of the same depth or quality as psychopathy, where people are purposeful objects to be used and manipulated by the psychopath.”

This is starting to make sense.

“You with me?” Rudnick asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. That’s all really helpful.”

Rudnick proceeded to give her more details on the latest research and the typical presentation of a higher functioning ASD individual. Finally Vail said, “I think we’ve got a problem.”

“How so?”

“I think our suspect’s ASD, a very high functioning individual, the far right on the spectrum.”

“And that means it’s pretty unlikely that he’s a serial killer.”

“This sucks so bad you don’t want to know.”

“Hades has been at large twenty years. I get it.”

“It’s been longer than that. His first kill was thirty-four years ago.”

“Shiitake, Hades is a seriously bad dude. But I’m fairly certain your ASD guy there is not your killer.”

Vail felt a physical—and emotional—deflation.

“I have to be sure, Wayne. I need to question him. Will you help me through it?

“Can you hook me up to their surveillance camera so I can watch his facial reactions? See what you’re seeing?”

Vail relayed the request to Proschetta and Slater.

“Yeah, I think it can be done,” Proschetta said. “Did it once for a detective who was in the hospital and he knew the suspect, and the case, real well. He was able to tell us if he thought the guy was lying. Don’t see why we can’t do it for your guy in DC.” Proschetta nodded at Jenkins, who pulled his phone and made a call.

“We’re working on getting video, Wayne. Can you talk me through this?”

“Keep the line open and use an earbud. Put it under your hair, so he can’t see it.”

Vail turned to Proschetta. “Earbud that’ll plug into my phone?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Vail watched Russo lean back in his seat. Dmitri had started waving his hand across his face and torso again, the chains clanking with each movement.

Crossing himself. Compulsively.

Russo shook his head and then turned to the glass and looked at them. At
her
, even though he did not know where she was standing. Vail took it as a signal that he had hit an impasse.