‘Jesus Christ,’ Harper exclaimed. ‘We got two kids back here.’

North Manhattan Homicide

March 11, 5.34 p.m.

Denise Levene and Tom Harper sat across from Captain Lafayette, who was scowling. ‘I’m going to have to bawl you out about that Erin Nash article, but this takes precedence,’ he said. ‘What you got on the victim?’

‘Nothing. Not even a name. We’ve tried dental records, prints… She wasn’t carrying a phone or a purse. Maybe they were taken. No ID.’

‘What about the kids?’

‘They won’t talk. They’re not talking to anyone. Not a single soul. Shut up tight. The psychiatrist says it’s trauma, so I’m guessing that they saw the whole thing. Makes you want to hurt someone, doesn’t it?’ said Harper.

‘They won’t say a thing?’

‘Not a word. Doctor says it’s not voluntary,’ said Denise. ‘I spoke to him in person. He says they’ve frozen. I’m going to see them, see if I can get through, but I’m not promising anything.’

Captain Lafayette walked across to the large blue board that Harper had started to use to pin up images of the unidentified Jane Doe. Either side were the four other boards in chronological order. Haeber, Goldenberg, Capske, Cohen and Jane Doe.

Photographs of the crime scene and body were all they had and they made for a grim spectacle. ‘What do you make of it, Harper? This is his work, right?’

‘Yes. It’s his. Iron was found in the bullet. He wrote 88 on her chest.’

‘But she’s half-naked.’

‘Yeah, but we just got back from speaking to the Medical Examiner. We wanted to see right away if there’s any DNA or semen. There’s nothing. No evidence of actual rape.’

‘He’s losing control,’ said Denise.

‘How so?’

‘I think all his kills have been sexual, but he’s been repressing it, made it about hate. I think he’s finding that hard. He wanted to rape her. He staged it so it looked like he did, but he couldn’t do it, or hates himself for it, if that makes any sense.’

‘No, it doesn’t.’

Denise stood and pointed at the photograph. ‘He’s left her in an explicit pose to humiliate her, but he’s covered her face. He’s never done that before.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s ashamed. Not of killing her, not of raping her. He’s ashamed of letting his desire control him. He didn’t plan to rape her, that would be my guess, which would mean that he might have left semen or pubic hair on the scene.’

‘Before you ask, we’re checking it, Captain,’ said Harper.

‘Do you have a story? Why the kids?’

‘We’re walking the streets, talking. She looks like she was at work or going to an interview.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Crime Scene found spit on the ground. Her spit. Quite a lot of it.’

‘Strange.’

‘She appears to be on her knees, leaning on one hand and she’s either dribbling or spitting. They reckon it’s spit.’

‘How?’

‘There’s a spray pattern.’

‘This some fetish we ain’t heard about?’

‘We’ve got to re-enact it, get some people to look at the possibilities.’

‘If only the children could talk.’

‘It’d save a lot of time, I know that, but for their sake, I hope they didn’t see anything.’

‘Unfortunately, the psychs think they saw the shooting,’ said Denise.

‘How did they get to be separated, unless they heard something and went to hide behind the dumpster?’

‘He couldn’t have known that they saw him, is my guess, or else he might have killed them too. At the moment we don’t even know if they are connected to her. We’ve got to keep their existence tight.’

‘No way we can do that, Harper, not long-term.’

‘Then our only alternative is to catch this guy soon.’

Lafayette remained silent. ‘Tell me what you’ve been itching to tell me,’ said Harper.

‘I had a call about the kids. I didn’t want to say. It might not mean anything.’

‘Is it bad?’

‘Both the kids are wearing Magen Davids around their necks.’

‘Wearing what?’

‘Jewish Stars of David,’ said Denise.

Harper stared back. ‘So this is definitely our fifth Jewish victim?’

‘And they gave the kids paper and pens. All the boy has been doing is writing 88 all over the paper. It’s compelling, as you say. See if you can find anything more. As soon as you get an ID on this body, I want to know. The press is going to make some connections of its own, you know? If I could prove that you spoke to the press as I imagine you did, I’d discipline you so fast you wouldn’t know what hit you, Harper. It’s caused me all kinds of shit upstairs.’

‘It’s good to know you’re helping, Captain.’

‘With the Capske and Cohen murders going national on every channel, another murder of a Jewish woman is going to give the media plenty to report. So we need some results now. People are getting spooked out there and we need an answer for them.’

Levene’s Apartment, Lower Manhattan

March 11, 7.18 p.m.

Denise appeared outside her apartment block and Harper felt a surge of admiration. She was dressed for work, wearing a black suit with a white shirt, and looked every bit the young, ambitious, go-getting star she had been a few months earlier.

She got in the car beside Harper.

‘You ready for this? We need something from the children.’

‘Sure, I’m ready. At least we managed to get an interview with the psych team. I had my doubts.’

‘Lafayette got the Chief of Detectives behind us.’

‘The brass are beginning to believe us then?’ said Denise.

Harper nodded. ‘Reluctantly. The boy scrawled 88 all over his coloring book. He saw something. They can’t ignore that.’

‘Or heard something,’ said Denise.

‘Right. We only have one shot, though.’

‘I understand.’

‘You think you can argue your way in?’

‘What do you think, Tom?’

Harper smiled and started the drive across town to the children’s hospital. The kids were in a secure ward with police protection.

Despite several attempts to get to talk to the children, the psych team had refused on the grounds that the welfare of the children was paramount. The police needed someone who could convince the psych team to give them access to the children. Levene was a specialist, not a cop, but even so, it had taken some persuasion to set up the initial meeting, and there was no guarantee that the psychologist would allow them to actually meet the children.

As they went up to the seventh floor Denise straightened her jacket.

‘You look good,’ said Harper. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘You notice how I look?’ said Denise.

‘I notice. You’ve chosen pink nail varnish,’ he said. ‘I guess you’ve chosen a gentle color for the children. You usually wear a stronger color — crimson. The pink’s a little soft for you.’

Denise looked across at a now smirking Harper. They waited for half an hour before they were summoned into the room to see the children’s social workers. Denise pushed Harper out of the way. ‘Okay, now it’s my world, Tom. Let me do this alone.’

He took a seat, as directed by Denise, outside the room.

The psychologists sat in front of a big empty polished table, all with notebooks and case-files open and ready. Denise introduced herself, shook each hand and opened her own notebook.

‘This case is our number one priority at the moment,’ said the consultant child psychologist. ‘There are indications of extreme psychological trauma, which has unfortunately increased over time. Your friends at the NYPD don’t do subtle. Our staff have been given a hard time.’

‘No, they don’t do subtle,’ said Denise. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

‘Listen, I’ll cut to the chase,’ said the consultant. ‘Our recommendation is that we do not allow any questioning until we can see how these children are coping. They have suffered and will suffer even more trauma if we allow further access to them. They need time to recover.’