CHAPTER 5

Sometime during their discussion, their burgers had arrived. Frank remembered finishing his burger and the dull satisfaction of satiating his hunger. But for the life of him, he could not remember what the burger tasted like. He could have been chewing grilled cardboard and not known the difference. So absorbed was he in hearing the details of the first murder, details that he and Robert had not been informed of. No wonder they were getting nowhere in the case, when they could not even see the bigger picture. He threw a sideways glance at Robert. From the look of things, his partner was thinking the same way.

Once the two detectives had finished their story, they continued eating for a while, chewing in contemplative silence, before Adler asked them to spill on their case. Robert made no sign of replying, hungrily devouring his long-awaited lunch. Frank rolled his eyes at him, and recounted their previous night.

He had gotten a call from Robert, who was on duty, at 11pm last night. Frank was just about to go to bed and read a book, having gotten off the phone with his mom a few minutes before. She was doing much better lately, having been diagnosed with breast cancer a year ago. She was lucky to have detected it in its early stages, and has been living a cancer-free life for the past one and a half months. He had called to check up on her, even though Laura Hardy was one of the few women he knew who hated being fussed over. She and Nancy were pretty much alike in the sense that they were both strong, independent women in their own right. It was one of the things he loved and admired about both women.

Robert had not been informed that the murder was part of the series of murders that had been terrorising Manhattan, so naturally, neither was Frank. He had went in, thinking nothing much of it. A rape and murder in their precinct was rare, but not unheard of. The scene that greeted him, however, left even him, jaded and desensitised as he was, sick to the stomach. He remembered Robert looking green and grim. A young beat cop had excused himself and ran outside for fresh air. Frank had to turn his eyes away from the body and compose himself, before he could start taking in the scene.

Their victim was the youngest of the six, barely twenty-two. She was petite, about five foot three, with short, straight black hair. Her hands were clasped together on her chest, and her small breasts and narrow hips, and short stature, made her look like a young teenager. With her eyes and mouth closed, her pale, bloodless face looked almost peaceful. Frank felt sickened by the whole thing.

She lived with her boyfriend on a third-floor apartment, and they were both students at the NYU. He was 24, and pursuing his Masters in Art History. She had just graduated, and was waiting for her application for a Master's programme in the same field to be approved. In the meantime, she was waitressing at a cafe two blocks away. Her boyfriend had been out since 6pm for his fortnightly dinner and drinks with his college friends, and came home to this. Frank assumed him to be the young man passed out in the hallway, being attended to by paramedics.

The murders had been gaining steady media attention, and by now, almost everyone in law enforcement were familiar with the basic M.O to know that what they were dealing with here was the work of the same, elusive bastard. Robert made a quick call to the 20th precinct that confirmed the existence of a letter sent three weeks ago. Somehow, that information failed to reach the guys in the 19th precinct. "Some great communication going on here, huh," Robert had grunted in disgust.

After four hours of combing through the tiny apartment, the crime scene investigators had found hardly anything, as expected. The killer had, as he always did, vacuumed the carpets, wiped the surfaces of fingerprints, used gloves and a condom. There was not a trace of skin samples under the victim's nails, or fluid DNA on any part of her body. The coroner put time of death at around 7pm, shortly after the boyfriend left for his guys' night out. The young man broke into inconsolable hysteria when he found out. Frank turned away from the display of raw guilt and grief. It was getting harder lately to keep himself cool and detached from the emotions involved in a case as difficult as this. He wondered what it was that was making his carefully hardened shell crack just that little bit.

"So let me get this straight. In all cases, the victims died shortly after they were left alone. The only way that the killer could know that is if he was stalking them." McNeil chanced to voice out his opinion, bringing Frank's narrative to an abrupt end.

That much had already been established by everybody working on the case. The killer had in all certainty stalked his chosen victims, from the detailed descriptions of their physical characteristics in his letter, to his knowledge of intimate details as to their profession, whereabouts and schedules. He must have already chosen his next victim long before the first one was dead, to be able to write the next letter so soon. They were not dealing with an ordinary, impulsive newbie. Their boy was meticulous, calculative, with attention to detail that any detective would kill to possess. He was intelligent enough to have a good knowledge of forensics, and to avoid capture by the police for this long. Yet, he seemed to be choosing his victims at random. For someone so particular, he seemed to be picking his victims randomly out of a bag. They were everywhere on the charts, in terms of age, race, profession, class and physical characteristics. Frank had no idea what tied these women together, and hence, how they met their killer or vice versa. All they had in common now was that they were all dead and gutted by the same madman.

The detectives finally left the diner after exhausting every possible angle they could think of. They exchanged name cards and promised to keep in touch regarding new developments. Frank threw down some bills for his food, and left the diner with Robert. The sky was darkening now, the pale sunshine of the morning being swallowed up by fresh, dark clouds. "A perfect day for you eh, Hardy," Robert quipped, half in jest.

They had both barely reached the subway station before the first drops fell onto the city. Frank felt his phone vibrate, and read through the text message. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Robert do the same. His partner's lips raised into a smile. "Damn right we should take the day off. I haven't kissed my wife in 24 hours!" Frank felt that familiar stab of envy, dulled over the years. How he wished he had someone to spend his off days with, too. He bid Robert goodbye and told him to send his regards to Elena, as he walked towards his subway line.

He was lost in his own thoughts as he walked, wondering how he ended up in such a situation. His eighteen-year-old self would be utterly disappointed in him, had he known then how he would end up now. He had given up the possibility of a great romance then, because he thought it was the right thing to do. Frank Hardy was nothing if not responsible. Besides, being with Callie was all he had known for the whole of his high school years, and his young self thought that she was The One. They would get married, have three kids, a dog, two cars, a house with a lawn. She would bake cookies and look radiant as ever, while the kids would run up to greet him as he came home from yet another terrorist-foiling adventure in the Cayman Islands with Joe and Nancy by his side. He seemed then to have conveniently forgotten his own childhood, and how it was like to have a father who was absent on life-threatening assignments all the time. Of coming down to the kitchen in the middle of the night, hoping to sneak a chocolate cookie, and seeing his mother awake, pale and with dark-circles under her eyes, waiting for his father who was late, yet again. Of wondering, at four years old two days after Christmas, who that strange man was who wanted to give him a hug, because his father had been away for six months on a job. He had forgotten the unpleasant realities; the heady rush of hurtling head-on into danger, and surviving it, intoxicated him and coloured his world lenses a rosy hue. But Callie, after years of waiting, of worrying, and of competing with his lifestyle, his admiration for Nancy, his inability to see the world for what it is, had had enough. He came home one day, on the verge of graduating from the police academy, to find his apartment empty of her belongings, an envelope with his name on their bed. I'm not waiting for you anymore. Goodbye.

Three years later, he heard from Joe that she had tied the knot with a former college acquaintance. They were now somewhere in Connecticut, where he worked as a high school Math teacher, and she, at an insurance company. He could hardly remember what it was she studied in college, or where it was that she met her husband, despite both of them living together at that time.

He remembered the days after that night. He had coped with the heartache the best way he could - by throwing himself head-first into his work. His last few days in the academy were sterling, and he was one of the top cadets from his batch. He remembered the bittersweet of his graduation, of Joe and his mother and Aunt Getrude proudly watching from their seats, Joe teasing his beaming mother as she took photo after photo of the event. He had spent a blissful week back in Bayport before his posting to the NYPD, keeping his mother company, making sure the house did not feel to empty with the already-commonplace absence of his father.

It was some time after a particular rape/murder case that he started closing himself in, started with the chain-smoking and having a constant supply of beer in his fridge. It had been a year after he graduated from the academy, shortly before he became a detective. Dispatch had radioed in a possible 419, and he and his then-partner were the closest to the scene, a dark alleyway in the grittier part of the Bronx. He went in, gun drawn, only to be confronted by a beautiful face with unseeing blue eyes framed by a head of reddish-blonde hair, lying on the stone cold floor. For a split second, it was Nancy Drew lying down there, dead and half-naked on the grimy alley. He was unsure what happened next, but his partner must have cleared the scene and radioed in for the coroner, CSIs and homicide detectives, for the next thing he remembered, he was being tended to by paramedics, surrounded by bustling activity from other law enforcement officers. He had a blackout, they had told him. Was right catatonic for a few minutes, could only whisper No, Nancy, no, the entire time. No biggie, every rookie cop would get one sometime on the job. Sometimes, it just hits you without rhyme or reason. He pushed himself up and ran to where the girl still laid, the coroner about to move her to the morgue. He had to see her, had to make sure. He stared at the unfamiliar eyes of the beautiful, dead stranger staring up into the night sky. He was as oblivious to the pitying glances of his colleagues as she was.

His train whizzed to a stop at the platform, and he got in, still lost in his thoughts. He looked up and stared blankly out the windowpanes, until a flash of red from across the tracks caught his eye. He felt his heart jump. He shook his head and laughed bitterly. His imagination was on overdrive, his mind grasping at images associated with the memories he was recalling. He could only see the side profile of the woman on the other platform, her face hidden by her long red-blonde hair. It had been seventeen years since he had seen Nancy, a time as old as the both of them when they first met. Who knows what she looked like by now. He was not going to pathetically wish and imagine every red-headed woman to be Nancy, not again. He was past that. That time in his life was over, their time was over. He sighed and turned away from the window, observing the other passengers with a disinterested eye instead.