Vice Cop Ch. 11

"No, I am. I've seen it in the movies and on TV. You are going to dig and dig for clues. You're going to ask a lot of questions."

"That is correct. Now, you're my friend and I don't want to believe Victor is dead. But it is our job to ask questions."

Lexa took out a notebook and prepared herself to take notes. She looked at Claire. Claire took out a handkerchief and dried her tears, blowing her nose at the same time. She did not say anything at first and took a deep breath.

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"Well," Claire said, "we had just arrived home from the ballet."

"Where was the ballet held?"

"It was the American Ballet Theater. They perform at the Metropolitan Opera House when the opera season isn't on. We had seen Swan Lake. After we got home, I changed into my nightgown and Victor said he wanted to go out for a walk. I never saw him again."

Mercedes returned with a cart that was weighed with plates, tea cups, tea pot and sugar. She rolled the cart directly in front of Claire. She served everyone tea.

"Thank you, Mercedes."

She smiled softly in response and left the room. Mason and Lexa picked up their tea cups and put it to their lips. Mason was studying Claire. He hadn't noticed her belly, which was somewhat big. Her coat had covered this.

"Are you expecting?" Mason said to Claire.

"Why yes," she said, "I'm pregnant. It's too early to tell if it's going to be a boy or girl."

"Congratulations."

"But this is why I worry. Where could he be? I'm so afraid for him. I wouldn't want to raise this child alone without its father."

"My partner and I will work on this case, Claire. I will not sleep until I find out what happened to yourhusband."

THREE

It was all over the news.

A wave of bizarre murders hit the city, each of them featuring decapitations. It was enough to frighten even the seemingly most secure Manhattan resident. The unknown serial killer did not discriminate and his tastes in victims were all over the place -- politicians, hookers, strippers, garbage men, postal workers, teachers, businessmen, police officers and people from all walks of life and various racial backgrounds. It was a dark time and New York City Police had their work cut out for them.

At Homicide, Detective Mason Holmes and Chief Barry Hiller and a group of other detectives had been investigating the case. The hunt for the serial killer was on. He was being called "the head hunter". Mason was holding a meeting in which he was talking to other investigators and detectives about this "head hunter" and his tactics, in the hopes that they could catch him before he beheaded another victim.

Mason had assigned Lexa to the specific case of locating Claire Marshall's husband, Reverend Victor Marshall, despite Lexa's initial desire to get on the case of the headhunter.

Mason worried for her safety and voiced his concern. He was even more protective of her now; after all, she was his live-in girlfriend and the woman he loved. Lexa was disappointed. It seemed as if Mason was stifling her abilities as a detective. But the case involving the missing doctor seemed difficult on its own. She accepted to take on the case, but hoped that it wouldn't take long before Mason appointed to heavier homicide cases.

Mason, in beige sports coat, was standing while the other homicide detectives were seated around a large conference table. Mason was standing before a board with a map of all of New York City's boroughs, with little dots and notes indicating where the killer had struck and how he was moving. It was erratic, and there was really no way to know where he would strike next.

"He doesn't strike in the same place twice," Mason said, "which makes it especially difficult to track him. He's familiar with New York City, and that has got to mean he was either born and raised here or even if he is not a native New Yorker; he might have lived here for years and become very acquainted with all parts of the city."

"I should say so," said one of the detectives, "His last murder was at a subway."

"Gentlemen, this is a very grandiose case. Serial killers do it for the thrills and to taunt police. They think they are endowed with special powers and intellect and feel that their killings are justified. This one is most likely an evil genius. I can't explain how I sense this serial killer moves in high social circles, that he does not look like your typical serial killer -- with a face that has got that evil in the eyes. This man might even be very charming. No one has ever seen him, so we are in for a long and hard fight."

"What do you propose to do, Holmes?" Chief Hiller said to him.

"Nothing would give me greater satisfaction than catching this devil myself, but it's too hard and we need all the help we can get."

"Why isn't Miss O'Neil on this case?" Chief Hiller inquired.

"She's on another one. It's very personal as it involves a friend of mine."

"I see."

"Miss O'Neil is doubtless a good detective but, well, I felt this is too much for her to handle and far too soon. She's just a beginner detective at this point."

Everyone looked at him reflectively. They all knew how he loved Lexa and was obviously getting her out of this particularly dangerous case so as to protect her. Chief Barry Hiller was looking at the map closely. He walked to and fro rubbing his chin with his hand. Then he addressed Mason.

"This guy is very intelligent," he said, "it's like you say, Holmes. He has murdered victims in Chinatown and has obviously lured them by speaking their language, as well as victims in Little Italy and the Hispanic/Puerto Rican areas of the Bronx."

"Right. Somehow, he lures the victims, possibly posing as a friend or someone who needs assistance. He is constantly mobile. His car has never been identified. If he is not in a car, then he must be taking a taxi or the subway, where he killed his last victim. Now it is my guess that this killer is a highly educated man, an academic intellectual --"

"Like a Professor at a University?" asked one of the detectives.

"Correct. So we ought to be interrogating professors from various universities and colleges in this state, professors who might fit the profile for this killer. The decapitations suggest this man has a fascination with headhunting, like the indigenous tribes in Indonesia, New Zealand and the Amazon jungle. We ought to be looking into professors of cultural anthropology, archaeology or even history. We need to look into all the major universities, and even some smaller colleges. Bill, you look into Cornell, Dan you look into Columbia and I will interrogate the professors at lesser known colleges and univeristies."

* * * *

Lexa was talking to Claire Marshall at her Park Avenue home. Lexa knew how to talk to other women, and being a warm, loving woman herself, she knew just how to speak with tact and with consideration to their feelings. She knew Claire was distraught and desperate. She was pale and fatigued, having been unable to sleep since her husband's disappearance. They were both in the parlor, drinking tea that Claire's Hispanic maid, Mercedes, had made for them.

"You said that your husband has always had an interest in the ballet?" Lexa said to her.

"Oh yes, and it was Victor who got me interested in the ballet," she said, "why do you ask this? "

"Because it's very significant, "Lexa replied, sipping her tea, "it would even be wise to meet with American Ballet Theater personnel and even the dancers and instructors. Perhaps your husband's interest in the ballet is greater than even you imagine."

"What do you mean?"

"Mrs. Marshall, I don't mean any disrespect. An investigation requires that I look at things from various angles and to form various theories. Yes, it's wonderful that you and your husband share a healthy interest in the ballet. My own mother was a figure in the performing arts scene; she was a great opera singer, perhaps you've heard of her, Katrina O'Neil?"

"No I don't follow opera."

"My mother had many admires. The male admirers were mostly homosexuals but there were also a number of straight men. Some of these men often seek out lovers from among the dancers. It's nothing new."

"Are you suggesting that my husband had a lover who was a ballerina?" Claire said, raising her voice, as if she had just been insulted.

"Calm down, Mrs. Marshall. It's only one theory. It could explain your husband's disappearance."

"I'm not sure I understand. Is it your theory that Victor has run away with a ballerina?"

"Not at all. I have met your husband at parties. Remember, he's Mason's friend. He does not seem like the kind of man who would abandon such a wonderful catch as yourself."

"I should say so. He is a highly respected minister and member of the Christian community here in Manhattan. He knows that adultery is a certifiable sin."

"You know that even this knowledge is not enough to hold back some men from committing adultery, hiding it from their wives, even if not from their God. One theory is that he may have had a rendezvous with a --"

"Then you're saying he'll return but with some detailed excuse and story when in reality he's been fooling around with a girl? Why this is terrible. I can't believe that. I don't want to believe Victor's been unfaithful."

"Miss Marshall, if this is indeed the case, and I do intend to find out, then this lover of his might have even done something to him. Women aren't all saints on pedestals."

"As if I didn't know. So you're positively certain that my husband's disappearance involves another woman?"

"It is but one of many theories. The other is a random abduction but there is no real evidence supporting that. You haven't received a ransom note, a call from the kidnapper or anything like that. Mrs. Marshall, if you are willing to collaborate, this investigation will run a lot faster and smoother. I'm going to visit the American Ballet Theater and ask if anyone has seen or known Reverend Marshall. I will also have to look into your husband's phone records."

"I understand. You have my permission to do so, "Claire said.

FOUR

They were on to him.

Already, a competent team of Homicide detectives were interrogating administration and professors at various campuses in New York. The bigger and more prestigious universities, like Columbia and NYU, were scandalized and downright insulted by the mere insinuation that one of their own could be responsible for the "headhunter murders". Yes, the killer was a genius, but Columbia and NYU were repulsed by the idea that this criminal genius lurked within their lofty academia. Naturally, it was all over the media and press, which further vexed and humiliated these professors.

Mason Holmes knew that New Amsterdam University, perhaps more so than the other universities, was more diverse, accepting students of diverse cultures and races and socioeconomic status. This was, to his mind, the most likely place where an evil, and highly cultured and intelligent genius could grow. It was his cop instinct, deep in his gut, that told him a professor who knew about various cultures was the serial killer, laughing each time after he beheaded a victim, thinking that all his life, until old age, he would get away with it unpunished.

He also suspected that this headhunter was the same headhunter criminal he had heard about years ago in LA, when he was only a uniformed cop, and with hopes of being a detective. He would follow news, even international news, regarding criminal activity. In the 70's, there was a similar unknown "headhunter" serial killer who was never captured. Police were baffled by the murders. He was acting alone, and he seemed to "morph" into various people, like a chameleon, and in fact this was his surname for many years -- the Chameleon. Hudson knew that the "Chameleon" was also the "Headhunter". Somehow, he was able to relate to his victim, to assimilate to their cultures. This was the hardest case to crack. And obviously, despite whatever charms he had, he was a dangerous man.

Having some experience as a sleuth, he knew that the best way to dig for clues was by interrogation, not only of suspects and potential suspects, but of decidedly innocent people somehow linked to the criminal himself. This was always the procedure and it had never failed him. Mason went to New Amsterdam University badge and all, to talk to administration and professors. F.B.I. agents and detectives who were also involved in this case were also on campus, though they were coming in at different times.

Mason was wearing a long beige trench coat and fedora, and after talking to security at the campus, was allowed to enter the administration buildings.

He requested to talk to the Dean but the Dean was not available. Instead, he was directed to the offices of various professors who taught history, cultural anthropology and archaeology. The big name was of course Professor Dorian Messing. He was like a celebrity at the university; and because of his jet-set lifestyle, which he managed to maintain when he was not teaching, he was not always available. But as it so happened, he was in his office when Mason arrived.

Instantly, Mason felt as if he was stepping into another time. The office was unlike any he had ever seen. Certain professors did not do much with their offices and their décor was bland, nothing more than a simple assortment of books, shelves, chairs and the desk. But Messing had an office that topped them all. It was rather large. It was once the office of a more distinguished archaeologist, Evan Triton. But after his death, Messing, who had been his pupil, took over as Professor and had for years taught at New Amsterdam.

Before that, he had taught at Oxford, when he was still a citizen of the United Kingdom. The office had a faint exotic fragrance, as if he had somehow captured an actual scent from the Amazon jungle where he had spent many years. A collection of Inca idols and African masks were in his office, ostentatiously arranged as if they were on display in a museum. The carpet was moss-green, as if mimicking a jungle terrain. Tall potted plants in elegant vases stood in the office; leafy, green, ridiculous; most likely plastic.

His office could have been mistaken for a conservatory or indoor greenhouse. Various exotic, tropical flowers were on display, as much a part of the "gallery" as his exotic masks and idols. The flowers ranged from small to big and included various rare orchids, bromeliad, Pink Mink Protea, and anthurium.

They stood on tables and on top of a number of short Greek pillars. On the walls were monuments to his achievements -- a Time magazine cover with his picture, newspaper articles about him, photographs of both black and white and color that depicted him at work in the rainforests of the world and talking to the natives. Every memento in the office was from another culture and another part of the globe. The only objet d'art that was distinctly British was a tall statue of a Medieval knight in shining armor and a portrait of Queen Elizabeth II.

There he was, this self-centered British professor, sitting on his desk and writing when Mason Holmes burst in. He seemed like he was the living statue in a shrine to himself.

"How dare you, what is the meaning of this intrusion," he said to Mason, angrily, "who are you?"

"I'm sorry, Professor. It's not always my style," Mason said, "especially being an NYPD detective who is on a very urgent case."

"I know all about it," he said, "this is regarding that crazy headhunter criminal fellow, correct?"

"You've heard about it."

"The entire academic scene in this state has heard the news. I assure you, Professor, there is no such criminal lurking in this campus. This is a beloved university with a love, respect and understanding of all kinds of people --"

"I wonder if this understanding extends to even those with criminal intentions, Professor."

"Maybe you are looking into the wrong department. I think you'd do a lot better if you spoke with the folks over at the Psychology Department."

"No. I'm in the right place. I believe the serial killer we are looking for is most likely a very educated man without any visible sign of insanity. He is an intelligent but very disturbed and dark individual, with a hatred for a lot of mankind. He can speak various languages and knows many different accents and has almost become other people, even foreigners. He would have to be someone who is learned in anthropology."

"If you're insinuating it would be have to be me or someone like me, you must think again. What would such a person gain from his murders and why would he even sit in a great place of learning?"

"Evil comes in many forms and this one, like all those masks up on the wall, wears a mask too, a mask of civilized and modern man."

"I don't like your tone, detective. This is a bad time. I'm busy working on a project."

"I'm not going to give up easily. It is a gut feeling I have that this killer is very close and I won't rest until he's behind bars. So you better believe I'll be back. This investigation has only begun and there is not enough protesting from among you Ph. D types to keep me from doing my job."

As he left, Professor Messing silently growled at him. He got up in a fit of anger and took a spear from his collection of artifacts hanging about in his office. He hurled the spear on to the wall, penetrating one of the African masks on the wall.

FIVE

American Ballet Theater Studio, Broadway, 2pm

Lexa O'Neil, in plainclothes, but holding her badge, showed up at the ABT dance studio. When she arrived, two different rehearsals were in progress. One of them was for the ballet scenes in two operas that would play at the Met that season -- Aida and Salome, the latter conducted by their most prominent soloist dancer, Madeline Cavanaugh. Lexa loved the theater, and the moment she stepped into the foyers and practice room, with its familiar air and energy, she was instantly taken back to her childhood, when her mother Katrina would rehearse for her operas.

The dancers rehearsing for Aida were costume-clad; Egyptian slave get-ups which showed off a lot of their flesh and looked like dancing figures in hieroglyphs on the walls of Egyptian temples. This was to be a lavish spectacle, and they would have live animals on stage -- tamed lions and bears and a great multitude of supernumeraries dressed in ancient Egyptian garb dancing in triumph amidst a background of pyramids and the Four Statues of the Pharaoh Ramses.

Lexa showed the bewildered dance instructors her detective's badge and told them that she was investigating an odd disappearance and missing person's case connected to the ballet. They were cooperative and allowed her to search the premises. But Lexa, who could read faces and could pick up instant vibes from people, got the feeling that they did not like her presence at the theater, that there was no possible way for such a hallowed place as their ballet company could be linked to any kind of crime. It was always the same attitude, Lexa thought.

The dancers looked at her as she walked among them and her eyes were darting about the large dress rehearsal rooms. She would have never imagined that she'd be in charge of investigation for a case that involved the American Ballet Theater. It was sure to garner press coverage and media attention, which would also mean that she would be receiving attention herself. A tall, thin, decidedly homosexual man in tights and a scarf with sunglasses on his hair approached her.

"I'm Julian Ormond, guest Artistic Director for this production," he said, as if his title meant he was royalty, "I've been informed that you're here investigating a missing person's case."

"That's right."

"I don't see how that can involve any of our dancers. They all have clean records. None of them have as much as a single D.U.I. We get girls here who come from Christian or Mormon families, or from families that may not be religious but who have good values."