Well Red

By Dale Giancaspro

New York homocide detective Sean O'Rourke hunts for a serial killer, known as the Zapper, who kidnapps and murders literary agents for the big publishing houses. The Zapper's method of murder is unlike anything the world of law enforcement has ever seen. Following a trail of bodies, O'Rouke is on the verge of solving the case when he finds himself as the Zapper's next victim.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dale Giancaspro
• Release date: Jun 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9780985431914

Dale Giancaspro

A student of criminology and forensics, Dale Giancaspro (1961-) has served twenty plus years in the operating room as an interventional radiographer. Besides being a freelance writer, Dale is an ardent sailor with a passion for wildlife, reading, and watching great movies. Married to his soul mate, he has two daughters. His first novel, Trade Winds, is a nautical adventure set in the 16th century. Dale resides in Texas, where the winters are mostly agreeable and the sailing endless.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I’ve seen far more than my share of murder victims over the past 27 years. Being a New York homicide investigator did that for me. Lucky me.

Popping a square of Nicorette in my mouth, I looked down at New York’s latest statistic.

No wonder I do not sleep at night.

Auburn hair and green eyes, the vic was a young female. Slender, perhaps 26. She lay on her back on the wet sand with arms and legs spread out. Other than the grotesque burn mark residing on her abdomen like some bizarre crop circle, she was striking. Glossy red nail polish and traces of makeup told me she had not been in the water very long. I panned my flashlight over each of her limbs, noticed abrasions on her wrists and ankles. My instincts told me to place a tarp over her nakedness. She deserved that much I figured, but the CSU geeks—spread thin as usual—had not yet arrived.

I looked over at my partner, Dennis Green, who it seemed was having a hard time tearing his eyes from the victim’s neatly shaven genitalia. I cleared my throat.

What do you think, D-man?

Don’t know, Sean. Then he followed up with, A hooker, perhaps?

He rose from his haunches, clicked off his flashlight and shook his head. Like me, he too had seen too much. He stood a head taller than me, rawboned, with wavy brown hair and a thick, bushy mustache, which twitched when he was stressed. It twitched now.

No clothes, no I.D. . . . nothing, he went on to say. He stopped, looked at me. "And

what’s with her stomach? Looks like she was burned with a freaking frying pan. Jesus—that had to hurt."

I doubt that that would’ve killed her, I said.

Dennis countered with, Perhaps she had a bad heart.

I contemplated what he said as I ran my flashlight over the vic’s body again, noticing now, from a different angle, that her abdomen appeared sunken in. Like her insides had been scooped out. Strange.

Dennis issued a muted whistle.

She sure was a looker, eh, Sean?

I didn’t respond to his observation or his query, though I had to admit, he was spot on. She was a looker. Or had been.

Onlookers were beginning to gather here at the ocean’s edge, here being Manhattan Beach, just east of Coney Island. I wondered if one of them was the killer. Returning to the scene

of the crime and all. I’ve seen it before.

The tide was low, and the wet, hard-packed sand along the Atlantic reflected a large swath from a gibbous moon. I looked across the strip of water, toward the lights of Rockaway Point, and spotted a lone sailboat heeling in the breeze. Romantic, if not for the dead body and the sand I had managed to get inside my Cole Hanns. Where the hell was CSU?

I walked over to the officer who’d taken the call, Bob Nowiki. Bob, who was three months from retirement, has had the same deadpanned expression since I’d first met him 25 years ago. His face reminded me of one of those stone Moai statues on Easter Island. You know the ones.

Who found her, Bob? I asked.

Officer Nowiki indicated two Hispanic kids carrying fishing poles and five-gallon buckets.

Bob adjusted his Sam Browne duty belt over his paunch that seemed to grow with each passing year.

They came to fish. Found her just like that, Detective. He pulled back his sleeve to confer with his Timex, then added, About an hour ago.

Get their statements, of course, but first cordon off the area, I said. And keep the looky-loos back.

Officer Nowiki nodded and waddled off toward his cruiser.

Headlight beams pierced the darkness and swept over the sand. I turned to see a white Ford Explorer with NYPD-CSU UNIT painted on the sides pulling into the parking lot. A coroner’s van pulled in behind them.

I looked over at Dennis, who was interviewing some of the onlookers. He jotted info onto

his notepad like he was taking an order at IHOP. Good man. Maybe we’d get lucky. Maybe somebody recognized the victim, or had witnessed something suspicious.

The CSU duo made their way onto the beach. I recognized Stacey Hemmings: I’d worked

cases with her before. She wore tight black slacks and a pink, low cut blouse, and a white lab coat. Nice cleavage, nice body, nice everything. Recognizing me, her lips parted in a smile as she sashayed with her bulky crime-scene case. Her voice was husky.

Long time no see, Sean O’Rourke. You’re looking good, by the way. How’ve you been?

Surviving would sum it up pretty succinctly, I replied.

She stepped closer, and I caught a hint of perfume. Rapture, by Victoria’s Secret—always a favorite of mine, and also that of my wife. God help me, but I felt something catch in my chest.

And how have you been?

Well, business has never been better, depending on which side of the fence you’re standing on.

I tried not to laugh. Anybody who has worked in law enforcement, especially here, developed a sick sense of humor. It was the only way to cope.

Setting the orange crime-scene case on the sand, Stacey straightened and put her hands on her hips. The breeze played with her platinum-blond hair while the moonlight pronounced her high cheekbones. No need for much makeup. She could’ve easily been a runway model. Now here was a looker, I thought. She had a great mouth, always a playful smile on it, and slight laugh-lines by her eyes.

I took up her gaze, and we watched Officer Nowiki making a 100 foot square around the vic’s body with yellow crime-scene tape and wire stakes that he sank into the sand.

Stacey Hemmings went from cordial to all business.

So, what do we have, Detective?

I told her what I knew, which wasn’t much. It would be her job to fill in the blanks. Give her a chance to use that fancy degree from John Jay College of Criminal Justice.

We stepped over the crime-scene tape and headed for the body, our shoes crunching over the sand. Stacey sighed as we both trained our flashlights onto the victim’s face.

Stacey looked at me with pursed lips.

It never gets any easier, does it?

I looked into her blue-gray eyes.

If it does, I’ll hand in my badge and gun.

The night lit up with brilliant blue-white flashes, Stacey’s partner snapping picture after picture of the vic and the surrounding area. He then went on to take pictures of the onlookers, which I thought was a good idea. I felt the beginnings of a headache coming on, then realized I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I forget what I’d had.

Stacey donned a pair of latex gloves. As she did so, I took note of the wedding finger devoid of matrimonial affirmation. She caught me starring, and quickly shoved her hand into the glove.

Been some changes since last we met, Detective, she said with a grim smile. She laughed, halfheartedly, and added, Believe me, though, it was for the best.

I’m sorry to hear about it, Stacey.

I wanted to ask what circumstances had led to her to divorcing her significant other, but thought better of it. She retrieved from her case, which reminded me of a fancy tackle box, four plastic bags and a roll of tape. She proceeded to bag the vic’s hands and feet, taping them in place. The vic’s fingernails, I took note, were long and manicured; there could be DNA or other such evidence beneath any one of them.

After looking into the vic’s mouth, and declaring good dental work, Stacey raised the woman’s right arm and tried to bend it at the elbow. The lack of mobility told me that more than four hours had passed since she had taken her last breath. We needed more info, though, to be certain. Stacey then moved the head side to side, palpated the cervical vertebrae, then went on to check each limb.

No obvious fractures, she said.

She then turned her attention to the solid red circle on the vic’s stomach.

I watched her study it with rapt curiosity. Any idea what could’ve made such a mark?

I’ve never seen anything like it, I replied.

Stacey stood and brushed sand from her pant legs. She shook her head, her eyebrows arched pensively.

It’s a burn mark, obviously, though I detect no sign of blistering or charring.

Her abdomen. Does it appear sunken in to you? I asked. "Like her insides are

missing?"

Now that you mention it . . .

Stacey went back to her haunches, and began palpating below the vic’s ribcage. She stopped, then looked back up at me.

Can’t wait to see the autopsy report on this one—should be interesting.

Interesting indeed, I thought. I chewed on my gum and looked out across the water again, spotted the masthead light on the same sailboat, which had by now moved further east toward Dead Horse Bay. I breathed in the warm, briny air.

Dennis approached, shining his tiny Maglite on his notepad as he trudged across the sandy terrain.

Nobody saw anything, Sean; most were out for an evening stroll. And Jorge and Pablo, the two kids with the fishing poles, said they didn’t see anyone near the body when they found her. We got nothing.

He closed his notepad, jammed his pen into his shirt pocket.

Okay, thanks, D-man.

I rubbed my temples.

Just then, my BlackBerry vibrated. I retrieved it from my blazer and looked at the screen.

Shit. A text from my wife. I had forgotten our dinner date for 7:30. It was now twenty after eight.

Chapter 2

With his Top-Siders screeching to a halt, Kevin Patterson swept his ID card over the time-clock. Heard the familiar beep. He was nearly late for his shift at The Brooklyn Hospital Center. He’d stayed too long at the marina—which was always the case—and traffic on Washington Avenue had been an absolute bear. Perpetual street work.

He briskly made his way down the corridor toward Radiology, where for the past 16 years he’d worked as an X-ray technologist. The money was good—better on second shift—and he absolutely loved irradiating human flesh. Living, of course.

Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries played in his head like a concert hall as he strode past the receptionist behind the counter.

A fair evening to ye, m’lady.

She lowered the phone.

They want you in the OR, Kevin—you’re to relieve Hector. Dr. Todd’s doing a femoral rodding . . . room nine.

Aye, just as soon as I don the proper attire, me bonny lass, Kevin called back.

The receptionist sighed and went back to the phone.

What a fruitcake, she said into the receiver. "This second shift tech thinks he’s a pirate or something. Even wears a freaking eye patch."

At the locker room door, Kevin punched the code into the lock. The hospital was full of codes and passwords. And secrets.

Once inside, he grabbed a set of dark-blue scrubs from the shelf. Extra large, to fit his six-foot-two frame. Reginald, from first shift, was changing into street clothes, pulling on a fleece sweatshirt.

He gave Kevin a lopsided grin. A gold incisor flashed under the fluorescents

Wuzzup, homeslice? Ready for another one, bro mofo?

They rapped knuckles.

Kevin opened his locker, began to strip. He looked back at Reginald.

Scoundrels have their way with you today, matelot?

Reginald shook his head.

Man! You be crazy, Kev. Been sailing that crazy boat of yours today, bro?

"Aye, I went out, lad . . . didn’t sail, though. Worked on the new novel, Caribbean Adventure."

Reginald looked at Kevin as though he’d just passed gas.

"Man, no one wants to read that pirateass shit—write some hard core. You know, some action, bro. White folks eat that shit up!"

Kevin traded his Top-Siders for a pair of New Balance at the bottom of his locker.

I write nautical, mate, he said. Then he added, ‘Tis where me heart lies.

Reginald crammed a tattered Yankees cap over his Afro.

Whatever, bro.

Watching him leave, Kevin clipped his dosimeter and ID badge to the V of his scrub top; he hit the door running while Water Music by Handel played in his head.

He headed east down the main corridor, past the flowery gift shop, past the cafeteria, which he affectionately called the crapeteria, and down the long, windowed passageway

connecting to the Maynard Building. There was a forested park on one side, tennis courts and a

soccer field on the other. It would be dark, he reflected, upon his return.

Dark as ye soul, mate.

The voice in his head again. He tried hard to shut it out. Not now!

Once in surgery, he put on a stretchy bouffant cap, then wrestled a pair of one-size-fits-all shoe covers over his size 13s.

Stepping over the band of red tape on the floor, he entered what he called Sterile Country. OR suites were located on either side of the long hallway, separated by scrub areas where surgeons scrubbed their hands under steamy taps.

It was like a war zone. Cases ran 24/7. Every day of the year. Kevin compared it to feeding a great beast with an insatiable hunger for human bodies. That made him smile. He loved it here. He loved feeding the beast.

He selected a colorful lead apron—sea foam—from the rack that was between rooms eight and nine by the scrub sinks. The lead would protect him from the x-rays. Kevin had a healthy respect for ionizing radiation. He was quite aware of the dangers.

Putting on a surgical mask, he entered OR nine. He nodded at the Filipino circulating nurse, Meldy, who gave him a high-five.

What’s shaking, Cap’n? Meldy asked.

Same story, lass. He added, Make any eggrolls lately? Kevin loved her eggrolls.

Maybe this weekend. I’ll bring some in Monday. Sound good?

Aye. Can’t wait, m’lady.

Johnny Cash’s Sunday Morning Coming Down came from flush-mounted speakers in the walls. The room was freezing cold, and Kevin wished he’d worn a T-shirt under his scrub top.

He spotted the Neanderthal back of Hector Vargas standing behind an eggshell-colored

mobile fluoroscopy unit. Or more aptly, a C-arm.

The C-arm produced X-rays in real time, displaying the patient’s bones and surrounding tissue on a twin-screen monitor tower.

In stealth mode, Kevin sneaked up behind Hector. He always thought of Hector as a large, furry bear. An angry bear. He tapped the bear’s shoulder.

Ready to jump ship, mate?

Hector, as usual, was wound up tight. Startled, he spun around.

Damn straight, he said. Fuckers left me up here all day—out of sight, out of mind. One case after the other . . . no lunch, no break, nothing. They don’t give a shit.

"Tell me how you really feel, lad."

Hector tore off his lead apron, threw it on the floor, and slammed the door as he left.

Meldy looked at Kevin, and said, Guess those anger management classes aren’t working so well for him.

Kevin turned toward the patient, a stick-figure old lady lying supine on a fracture table, the C-portion of the C-arm, like a set of ginormous calipers, between her splayed, stork-like legs. Leather booties secured her feet to two adjustable leg-holders with mechanical cranks. Kevin likened the contraption to a medieval torture rack.

An inflatable warming blanket covered the patient’s torso. Her eyes were taped shut. From her mouth protruded a flexible tube, which led to the anesthesia machine. The nurse anesthetist, Kevin saw, had her face buried in a Better Homes and Gardens magazine.

On the other side of the sterile, semitransparent drape, Dr. Todd was working on the old lady’s femur with a long, flexible drill bit. After the femoral canal was reamed out, he would

insert a titanium rod. Then, presto change-o, the old lady’s hip would be fixed!

Kevin, looking around the sterile drape, threw the orthopedic surgeon a casual salute.

Greetings, good Doctor.

Dr. Todd looked up. He had kind brown eyes above the surgical mask, and wore pewter, wire-framed glasses.

Howdy, Kevin. You doin’ all right? he asked.

Kevin got a kick out of Dr. Todd’s Texas drawl, his easy mannerism.

Aye, right as rain, sir, he said. I’m taking over for Hector.

A scrub tech standing next to Dr. Todd adjusted the overhead light, concentrating the beam on the patient’s leg.

Dr. Todd said, How ‘bout a picture, Kevin . . . see where this thing’s goin’.

Aye, sir. My pleasure.

Depressing the yellow button on top of the C-arm’s control panel, Kevin thought, Why, I’d love to irradiate your patient, good doctor.

Chapter 3

The van’s headlights punch twin holes in the foggy Manhattan night. Windshield wipers set on intermittent.

Killer behind the wheel.

A bumper sticker on the back of the van says I’d Rather Be Sailing!

Excited chatter erupts from the Zapper’s hand-held police scanner: Trouble on East Houston. Shots fired. Officer down with a GSW to the head. Request backup.

That’s nice, the self-proclaimed Zapper says. A bullet to the head.

Saint-Saën’s Carnival of the Animals plays softly from the Ford’s stereo.

Traffic lights on West Broadway come out of nowhere, hovering in the inky mist. The Zapper drives with caution. Has made this route many times before, in preparation. Practicing for the abduction.

The Zapper welcomes the fog. Embraces it. It drapes the buildings, stirs in eddies about the wet streetlamps. Few people roam the streets, where the neon lights run like watercolors.

The Zapper detects the aroma from one of the neighborhood pizzerias. Heady garlic and pepperoni. The Zapper can practically taste oregano, tangy tomato sauce. Stomach grumbling, the Zapper fights the urge to pull over for a quick slice. Duty calls.

Activating the turn signal, the Zapper studies the misty side mirror. Eases into the far right lane. Observes all the laws.

Well, the Zapper says, chuckling softly, "maybe not all the laws."

Both hands grip the wheel—ten and two o’clock. The reflection in the review mirror shows intense cobalt-blue eyes, florid cheeks, medium-length sandy-blond hair.

West Broadway changes over to LaGuardia Place. Traffic is light.

Next light, Bleecker Street. The Zapper turns right. Lots of history here. They used to hang people here, the Zapper reflects, on old man Bleecker’s farm. The Zapper loves history.

The Zapper drives slowly. The apartments of NYU’s Washington Square are enshrouded in the fog. Trees glisten under the street lights. A few cars are parked in front of the Morton Williams supermarket. The fog grows thicker, which pleases the Zapper.

This should be the easiest one yet, the Zapper says, winking at the reflection in the mirror. The reflection grins back, lips pulled back tight. Giddy adrenaline flows. The Zapper shifts in the driver’s seat.

Just past Broadway, the Zapper lowers the scanner’s volume. Could care less about a car-jacking on Perry and West 14th. Peers from the deep-tinted windows. Up ahead, on the left, the 13-story Bayard-Condit Building appears. Elegant terra-cotta façade. Home to one of New York’s most prestigious literary agencies—a portal into the publishing world.

A sore subject with the Zapper.

The Zapper checks the green glow of the dashboard clock. 9:13 P.M. The target exited the front doors the same time every night, five nights a week. Sometimes worked on Saturdays, but left an early hour. Stopped at the nearby Bleecker Street Bar for a quick drink. White wine.

Very convenient to know someone’s schedule, their preferences.

The Zapper slows down, selects one of the parking places beyond the main entrance. Snuffs out the headlights, leaves the engine running. Unlatches the seatbelt, lets it slide back to

its receiver.

From between the front seats the Zapper retrieves a 10-inch winch handle, a tool used on sailboats to hoist sails. Old school, made of bronze, coated with a layer of green patina. Heavy. Reveling in the familiar weight, the Zapper moves to the back of the van. No seats back here. Cavernous, if not for the tool boxes, bags of sails and spinnakers, power tools, boxes of paintbrushes and sandpaper. Some crumpled fast-food bags.

And an empty manuscript box. White cardboard.

Hunched down, the Zapper glances at the dashboard clock. 9:15 P.M. Looks through the large side window, toward the main entrance. Sees the target exiting the glass doors, arms filled precariously with manuscripts and folders. Right on time, with the usual workload. Pulls a face as she takes in the gloomy weather.

The Zapper opens the van’s rear doors. Puts on a friendly smile, steps out on to the sidewalk. It’s Showtime!

Alice! Alice Crosby, correct?

The Zapper steps between the woman and the garage down the street where she parks her Volvo.

Laurie Rice from Putnam said I should give you my manuscript—said it was right up your alley . . . historical fiction.

Alice puts on a fake smile. Recognizes Laurie’s name. Petite, Alice looks like a blond pixie. Dresses beyond her means. She seems put-off by the sudden and unexpected distraction. Before running into the Zapper, she had been dreaming of a relaxing bubble bath and a glass of wine. Candles, too. Perhaps two glasses of wine, and her favorite sex toy.

I’m kind of busy here . . .

She shifts the load in her arms, steps around the Zapper.

Please, Ms. Crosby, the Zapper says. Let me help you with all that.

I really had better not, Alice says over her shoulder. Bye-bye now.

Her stilettos click against the wet sidewalk as she walks away.

Wrong response.

The winch handle comes down hard. The awful crack muted in the fog.

Alice’s load spills from her hands. Papers scatter on the sidewalk as she slumps forward, clutching her head.

The Zapper catches her beneath her arms, scans the terrain, then, with little effort, drags her to the van. One of Alice’s shoes falls off; the heel of the other snaps in two.

Inside the van, the Zapper drops Alice on the cluttered floorboard, shuts the rear doors.

Alice moans, face screwed up in unbelievable pain.

From a tool box the Zapper retrieves several plastic zip ties and a roll of silver duct tape. Tightens the zip ties around Alice’s wrists until they dig into flesh. Does the same with her ankles.

Tearing off a length of duct tape, the Zapper, with a wry smile, looks into Alice’s petrified eyes.

"I want you to know, Alice Crosby, that this abduction, and subsequent soul cleansing, is purely subjective. Another killer may deem you worthy of living, but I just don’t feel the same. I’m afraid I’m going to have to reject you . . . so sorry."

The Zapper stretches the tape across Alice’s mouth, smoothes it across her cheeks, gives her a little pat.

Alice’s eyes roll white in their sockets. The slack and quivering lids close shut.

The Zapper heads for the driver’s seat, buckles up. Heart rate within normal limits,

despite the brazen event. The clock reads 9:18 P.M. A sense of immediacy wells within. Sliding the gearshift to D, the Zapper looks into the side mirror, eases the big Ford onto Bleecker Street. No headlights in the rearview. No one on the sidewalks. With a smug grin, the Zapper accelerates to the legal speed limit, makes the green light at Bleecker and Lafayette. At The Bowery, the Zapper hooks a right. The van’s traction control system engages, tires at the point of slipping on the damp surface.

Easy does it, old Zap, the Zapper says. Nice and easy.

The Zapper breathes deeply through the nose, eases off the gas. Exhales. Heads for Brooklyn, toward the warehouse.

No sound comes from the back of the van. On a pile of sails, Alice sleeps the sleep of the dead.

Chapter 4

I awoke on the couch in my living room. Gray light filtered in through the curtains.

Placing my bare feet on the cold hardwood floor, I sat up and massaged the back of my neck, which was stiff as hell, by the way. Silently I cursed the culprit, the ruthless Pottery Barn pillow, heavily sequined, propped against the arm of the couch at a 90 degree angle.

I turned and looked down the hallway toward my bedroom at the end. The door was closed. Probably locked, too, if I know my wife, Jessica.

Last night was the tenth time, she had told me, that I had forgotten a dinner date in the last year. Honestly, I didn’t even know she had been keeping count, though I should have expected it. Thankfully there was no tally of the times I’d forgotten to pick up a gallon of milk or a prescription from the pharmacy.

It seems I needed a case of Post-its, if I was to keep this marriage—my fourth, in case you’re wondering—alive.

But what I needed now, more than Post-its, was coffee.

Let me be the first to say that I don’t ever wake up bright eyed and bushy tailed. Not until my third cup of coffee does that transformation take place. Coffee first, ridding the world of scum second. That’s my credo.

Clad in T-shirt and briefs, I headed for the kitchen, still massaging my neck.

The coffee maker had been readied the night before with filtered water and ground Stockholm brew, my favorite. I knew Jess had prepared