ties. And now the plastic monkey had made an appearance.
The motel case, Abbie thought, was a case of beginner’s luck.
Decatur had arrived unarmed at the crime scene and the assailant got the jump on him. As simple as that. The motel’s surveillance camera had been broken that day, as Abbie had learned after going back to the office and questioning the clerk one more time. If it had been working, she’d be staring at a video image of the killer right now.
But Jimmy Ryan was different. The killer had abducted a fit man who could handle himself, got him into St. Teresa’s without anyone seeing, tied him up expertly and worked him over for hours. He’d left nothing behind he didn’t want cops to find. He’d done intricate things with the knife, mutilated Ryan in very specific ways.
He hadn’t been lucky with Ryan. He’d been proficient. And he’d carved the number “1” into his forehead.
Most killers who leave tokens at crime scenes have committed to their craft
, Abbie thought.
There will be more toy monkeys
, she thought.
And more victims
.
CHAPTER TEN
A BBIE DROVE DOWN E LM S TREET IN DOWNTOWN B UFFALO . S HE NEEDED TO fill out the story of Gerald Decatur, know what shape of puzzle piece he really was, before she could fit him into the overall picture. From the file, she knew Decatur had no living relatives in Buffalo. Either the streets, a family history of diabetes (mentioned in his jacket, from his hospital intake at the downstate prison), or a job in another city had taken them away. That left her only one choice.
She had to go see Reverend Zebediah.
Ever since coming back to Buffalo, Abbie had known she was going to have to make this visit sooner or later, even before the Jimmy Ryan case. The Reverend was too deep a part of her history here; out of respect, Abbie needed to see him. But she was afraid that it would all go wrong and that her warm memory of the Reverend would be replaced by a picture of a broken, cynical man. Buffalo tended to grind you down. Abbie was running out of good memories of the city, and she wanted to keep the Reverend safe.
She’d first met him during her junior year in high school. He’d been the resident minister at the City Mission, the homeless shelter downtown where her mother had ended her days, addicted to heroin and abandoned by Abbie’s father, who had given his daughter her dark hair but didn’t even leave her his name. Abbie had met theReverend on one of her periodic quests to find her roots. He was the unofficial mayor of Buffalo’s poor and mostly black East Side, and was in and out of the City Mission on a weekly basis. If someone needed a job, the Reverend knew a construction project that was looking for some minority workers to make its federal quota. If you needed a place to stay, he had a crumbling four-story former hotel on Hertel Avenue that he’d refurbished, if you could call mopping the floors, putting in some beds, and horse-trading for sheets and towels a refurbishment. If you needed spiritual guidance, he had the perfect line of Scripture to show you the way. If you needed a lawyer, he knew several who worked cheap and wouldn’t take the D A’S first plea bargain to lighten their workload. His clientele was multiracial and usually desperate.
The Reverend didn’t drive around in a Cadillac, taking people’s contributions and living high. He drove an old Oldsmobile Cutlass, worked nights, selling beer in the stands at Memorial Auditorium during hockey games. At the Aud, he was Zeb the Beer Guy, and sold more cups of Molson ale than anyone else there, his bald head shining with sweat by the end of the first period. With that money, and contributions, he kept a good part of the East Side afloat.
Abbie had started volunteering on weekends, part of the Reverend’s free-floating mission. As a white girl, a
County
girl, working on the East Side, she was a curiosity. But people welcomed her in, and what she’d found there had astonished her.
The motel case, Abbie thought, was a case of beginner’s luck.
Decatur had arrived unarmed at the crime scene and the assailant got the jump on him. As simple as that. The motel’s surveillance camera had been broken that day, as Abbie had learned after going back to the office and questioning the clerk one more time. If it had been working, she’d be staring at a video image of the killer right now.
But Jimmy Ryan was different. The killer had abducted a fit man who could handle himself, got him into St. Teresa’s without anyone seeing, tied him up expertly and worked him over for hours. He’d left nothing behind he didn’t want cops to find. He’d done intricate things with the knife, mutilated Ryan in very specific ways.
He hadn’t been lucky with Ryan. He’d been proficient. And he’d carved the number “1” into his forehead.
Most killers who leave tokens at crime scenes have committed to their craft
, Abbie thought.
There will be more toy monkeys
, she thought.
And more victims
.
CHAPTER TEN
A BBIE DROVE DOWN E LM S TREET IN DOWNTOWN B UFFALO . S HE NEEDED TO fill out the story of Gerald Decatur, know what shape of puzzle piece he really was, before she could fit him into the overall picture. From the file, she knew Decatur had no living relatives in Buffalo. Either the streets, a family history of diabetes (mentioned in his jacket, from his hospital intake at the downstate prison), or a job in another city had taken them away. That left her only one choice.
She had to go see Reverend Zebediah.
Ever since coming back to Buffalo, Abbie had known she was going to have to make this visit sooner or later, even before the Jimmy Ryan case. The Reverend was too deep a part of her history here; out of respect, Abbie needed to see him. But she was afraid that it would all go wrong and that her warm memory of the Reverend would be replaced by a picture of a broken, cynical man. Buffalo tended to grind you down. Abbie was running out of good memories of the city, and she wanted to keep the Reverend safe.
She’d first met him during her junior year in high school. He’d been the resident minister at the City Mission, the homeless shelter downtown where her mother had ended her days, addicted to heroin and abandoned by Abbie’s father, who had given his daughter her dark hair but didn’t even leave her his name. Abbie had met theReverend on one of her periodic quests to find her roots. He was the unofficial mayor of Buffalo’s poor and mostly black East Side, and was in and out of the City Mission on a weekly basis. If someone needed a job, the Reverend knew a construction project that was looking for some minority workers to make its federal quota. If you needed a place to stay, he had a crumbling four-story former hotel on Hertel Avenue that he’d refurbished, if you could call mopping the floors, putting in some beds, and horse-trading for sheets and towels a refurbishment. If you needed spiritual guidance, he had the perfect line of Scripture to show you the way. If you needed a lawyer, he knew several who worked cheap and wouldn’t take the D A’S first plea bargain to lighten their workload. His clientele was multiracial and usually desperate.
The Reverend didn’t drive around in a Cadillac, taking people’s contributions and living high. He drove an old Oldsmobile Cutlass, worked nights, selling beer in the stands at Memorial Auditorium during hockey games. At the Aud, he was Zeb the Beer Guy, and sold more cups of Molson ale than anyone else there, his bald head shining with sweat by the end of the first period. With that money, and contributions, he kept a good part of the East Side afloat.
Abbie had started volunteering on weekends, part of the Reverend’s free-floating mission. As a white girl, a
County
girl, working on the East Side, she was a curiosity. But people welcomed her in, and what she’d found there had astonished her.
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