Vice Cop Ch. 11

"Hello?" she said.

"Claire, this is Detective Lexa O'Neil."

"Oh hi."

"I know you want to be away from all this right now and I understand and sympathize but --"

"But you're still investigating Victor's death and you need my cooperation, right?"

"You have a wonderful habit of finishing my sentences, Claire," Lexa said with a short laugh.

"Alright, so what do you need this time?"

"Does Victor have things there that belong to him?"

"Yes. I didn't bother to look at them. I'm not sure what he has left here. I think he has some music records, some books, some clothes, probably his summer clothes and swimwear he would wear when we would be out here by the beach. Is it necessary to search this stuff?"

"Oh absolutely. I need to come over right away."

"I'm not going anywhere. I'm here all alone and your company would be nice. I'll be waiting for you dear."

* * *

The Hamptons, 6:30 p.m.

Claire's home in the Hamptons was not as imposing as the house on Park Avenue. It looked much older, and it had an almost rustic charm about it. It was two stories high with a sloping roof that formed a witches' hat or triangular formation at the top. It was painted a light grey color and it was very close to the beach. The conservatory could be seen from behind the house. The driveway seemed to come out naturally from the sandy shore. It was a beautiful home but because it was so far off, there was a lonely and isolated feeling around it, like an old woman too proud and too set in her ways, staring at the ocean.

Claire came out to greet Lexa. Claire was in a yellow sundress that matched her blonde hair and she had on a pair of sandals. Lexa parked her blue Corvette in front of the house on the driveway. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun was slowly setting. The skies were a lurid red and orange. The sunset's vividness grabbed Lexa's attention.

"Beautiful isn't it?" Claire said to her "This kind of sunset you never see from the city. That's why I love coming here. Come in. I'll make us some refreshments. I have some lemonade with ice. Maybe you can stay for dinner."

"That would be nice, Claire," Lexa said, "though I wasn't really thinking of staying for dinner."

"I don't mind if you stay overnight. But it's up to you".........

Seated comfortably around Claire's dinner table Lexa was enjoying Claire's lasagna which was for dinner. She had brought out vintage wine which was stored in the cellar. It was Victor's favorite wine and when he had been alive, they had only popped open these wine bottles during their anniversaries.

Claire was calm, but she was still in mourning. Although she had chosen not to wear funereal black dresses, her grief was written all over her face. She was determined, nevertheless, to get closure and to learn the identity of her husband's assassin, who was still at large. Although they had made pleasant conversation over dinner, as they finished they were prepared to talk seriously again.

"I'm sorry I have no dessert for you," she said, "Victor and I have always been health nuts and hardly ever had desserts, except at certain parties."

"That's alright, Claire," Lexa replied, "the meal was delicious."

"My pleasure, dear."

"Now, Claire I'm going to need to take a look at your husband's things.".....

Claire led her to a room in the back, a room she called the "party room". It was nothing more than a pretty parlor, with a piano, framed artwork on the walls, elegant drapes over the windows, flower vases here and there and a large mirror that reflected the entire room. There were bookshelves and shelves that contained several records. Claire waved her hand to them in a "voila!" gesture.

"Search where you need to search," she said.

Lexa turned her attention to the books and Mason to the records. They searched through these items carefully, surveying them as if they were very important. Claire watched her with a degree of some amusement.

"I don't see why you need to search through these items," she said to her, "all you'll find is that he had a taste for Thelonious Monk, bebop jazz and swing music. As for his books, some of those are just his old books on medicine."

"Not really," Lexa said, flipping through some of the books, "this is a copy of Dickens' Great Expectations. And over there's a big fat copy of Shakespeare's complete tragedies, and here's Tolstoy's War and Peace."

"What can I say, my husband liked the classics. I suppose these books he kept after his University days. He just couldn't find anywhere else to put them I guess." Mason put each record he removed back to its place on the shelf, though he stared with lingering curiosity at an opera album. It was Richard Strauss' Salome, with Birgit Nilsson singing the starring role of Salome, Sir Georg Solti conducting the Vienna Philharmonic. Right above this particular shelf was a very striking painting - the 1876 Gustav Moreau painting "Salome Dancing Before Herod", obviously a replica.

"I didn't know your husband liked opera," Lexa said.

"He didn't," Claire replied, "we never went to an opera. It wasn't really his thing. He did like ballet though and I remember a really beautiful Sleeping Beauty we saw once when the Kirov Ballet was in town."

"But this is an opera album of Strauss' Salome."

"That's very odd. I didn't even know he had that."

"And what can you tell me about that painting of Salome?"

"I really can't explain how that got there either. I suppose my husband bought that painting back in his student days too."

Lexa had continued browsing through the books on the shelf. She raised her eyebrows upon discovering one particular book, black hardcover, with blood-red titles. The British artist Aubrey Beardsley's Gothic and grotesque illustration of Salome kissing the severed head of John the Baptist was on the cover art.

"And this is Oscar Wilde's play Salome," Lexa said, "a first edition copy too, seems like a very old and valuable book. What is up with your husband's interest in the story of Salome?"

As she flipped through the pages, which were worn out due to age, she noticed handwriting at the end of the book. She read it to herself and was puzzled. Claire noticed her facial expression.

"What is it?" she said.

"It says: "With love from your dancer. I love you."

Claire looked at the book and gasped.

"It seems to me, Miss Marshall, that this book was a gift for your husband from another girl," Lexa said, "Putting two and two together I'm guessing your husband had a thing for a dancer -- maybe a ballerina, someone you never knew about? "

"Oh I don't want to believe it. I can't believe it. He never cheated on me. This girl must have been someone he had a fling with before marrying me."

"We still need to uncover phone records of calls made by your husband. As painful as it may be, Claire, it's possible that your husband was having an affair with someone. But it may also be just as you say. Maybe this girl, this dancer, was an old flame or lover, their relationship having ended before he married you."

"You don't think she killed --"

"That's not certain at all. What we need to do is investigate this and find out her whereabouts. Only she can tell us more information we can use."

"The phone records are at my Park Avenue home. I thought you already searched there."

Not phone records or address books. I'll have to do that."

"Then by all means, do so."

"Do you intend to stay here for a month like your housekeeper said, Miss Marshall?" Lexa said.

"Yes. I want to be in good health when I have to hear the reports by forensic anthropologists. And did you decide to stay overnight or will you be returning to the city?"

"I think I need to return to Manhattan. I have my work cut out for me."

ELEVEN

Mason Holmes sensed danger lay ahead. He could almost feel the Manhattan Headhunter's anger, could almost see him plotting his next move, which would most likely be an escape. He knew that time was running out. Once the killer was outside of New York, it would be even harder to trace him.

He had ordered a meeting of professors and also deans from universities and colleges in New York at a lecture hall on the campus of the lesser known university, University of New Amsterdam. He knew that the serial killer would be among them, so it would be the best move in the process of finding him. The University of New Amsterdam was a state university that was not very big but had the look and feel of an Ivy League university, somewhat resembling Cornell University in Ithaca. The campus had a huge four story library with a bell tower just above it, many classroom buildings with tainted windows and a theater. The crowds of professors and deans arrived promptly at six in the afternoon. Classes were in session and Mason Holmes had ensured that the lecture hall would be off-limits to outsiders. This was a serious matter and he wanted no intrusion.

He knew that professors liked to talk in long-winded sentences, as if they were always lecturing, and he did not want for this meeting to be like that. He wanted to directly confront them about the grave matter of a serial killer, a wolf in a Professor's tweed jacket, who could be found among any of them. They all wore worried faces and sat down talking and murmuring with each other when Mason Holmes arrived. With him was a team of uniformed cops who had been sent along with him for security purposes.

"Esteemed professors of New York," he said, "this is unorthodox but necessary. I may not be in the category of your distinguished membership, but I am a New Yorker like all of you and my job is the protection of the people of New York. My skills as detective help to get rid of the criminals that grow like weeds in our city. I need your full cooperation. I will be handing some papers with questions that may seem offensive for their insinuations but I need you to answer truthfully. This is not about keeping a university clean and free of any scandal or shock. No human institution is perfect. Not every church or university can be one hundred percent guilt-free."

He walked about, handing them papers with the help of some of the police officers. The professors sat in chairs in the aisles and began to look at the papers with looks on their faces that denoted protest.

"A very experienced psychologist has formed these questions that can help with --"

"A criminal psychologist, detective?" asked a professor from Columbia.

"Yes," said Mason, "and a very good one. Like I said don't take offense. This is for the good of our state."

Just then, as pencils were being prepared, screams broke out, ringing in the air. An alarm went off. Panic was everywhere as young students were fleeing from campus. Shots were being fired.

"My God, what is happening?" said one of the professors.

Mason looked out of the open door. From atop the bell tower over the library, a sniper was shooting at the scared students who were running below...............

It turned out to be Professor Dorian Messing. A large squad of armed cops was called immediately and they arrived within minutes to the campus. Detective Mason Holmes had always suspected it was him, the moment he took a look at his bizarre looking office. The Professor had finally lost his mind. Consumed with murderous rage, he began to fire and was targeting random people. After nearly ten minutes of firing, he ceased fire and was quiet, though he was still on top of the bell tower.

Mason was communicating with Chief Barry Hiller and other cops on his device.

"Alright, Holmes, what's the current situation?" said the Chief.

"Professor Messing has stopped shooting. He's up on the bell tower of the library but to get there he ascended some stairs from within the library. That could mean that he can enter the library again."

"Has the library been evacuated?"

"Everyone in the library at this time has fled. But we are not sure. Maybe some students are hiding somewhere. It's hard to tell. It's very eerie and quiet over here."

"You know what it's going to come down to right, Mason?"

"Oh yeah and you can bet I'm counting on it. I'm going to confront the crazy son of a bitch and cuff him."

"Do you have back-up with you right now and do you have your handgun?"

"I do. I'm ready to do this right now."

"Be careful in there Mason.".....................

Mason walked into the library, wielding his handgun and pointing it straight ahead of him. His eyes were alert and he darted them everywhere. He had excellent hearing and he was straining to hear the slightest footstep or movement. The library had been evacuated and it was deathly quiet. He got the feeling that this lunatic professor had deliberately arranged this situation. He was somewhere in the library, armed with a gun that picked out straight targets, ready to attack him.

Undoubtedly, he had heard his speech on the evening news. Mason Holmes was becoming more of a celebrity with each passing moment. His novel, "Crime After Dark" had been published and hit bookstores everywhere. In the book, a work of fiction but drawn from his own life, he describes the seedy side of Los Angeles and various crime waves that struck the city while he was a cop with the LAPD. The book was well-received but Mason did not know how to react to the stardom so he maintained his position as strong-jawed, determined, justice-loving detective. This, of course, was probably why Professor "Headhunter" wanted to kill him.

The library was vast. It was one of the biggest buildings on the campus of New Amsterdam University. The marble floors, polished so thoroughly that one's reflection could be seen on it, stretched out like the points of a star. Various rooms were reserved for students to study in private groups, other rooms contained maps and geographical information, while other rooms were simply there for adornment and contained ttractive furniture and sofas for students to relax and read. Potted plants decorated the corners and old paintings of wealthy patrons of the university going back to the turn of the century. Mason walked past these paintings, and the eyes of these men and women seemed to follow him.

He had come to the conclusion that Professor Messing was probably still on a higher floor or perhaps still in the bell tower. As he approached the stairs, the lights turned off by themselves. Instinctively, Mason knew that this was the Professor's doing. He must have done something to cut off the power. Outside, through the windows, he could hear the squad of armed cops assuming their position, surrounding the library. He heard, too, Chief Barry Hiller arriving and talking to F.B.I. men who were present. He turned on his communication device.

"He's turned off the power," Mason said, "I'm just glad the sun is still out and it's not completely dark. I think he's still on the bell tower.

"Be careful, just watch your every move" said Chief Barry Hiller, "we're here if you need us."

Mason walked up the stairs, which spiraled upward to the higher floors, looking like an elaborate spiral in a snail's back. There were two hanging chandeliers on the ceiling over the steps, dangling down like vines.

Mason held his gun firmly, his eyes searching everywhere. As he finally got the highest floor, he saw Professor Messing at the top of the stairs, standing there, waiting for him. He had one hand on the banister. The other concealed a weapon that Mason could not see.

"I was hoping they'd send you," said Messing, "this is all going exactly as I figured it would go."

"The only place you're going to is Rikers," Mason replied, "that's where you can "lecture" to all the other criminal geniuses in their cells."

"Oh, come now, do you think I'd let you do that? I'm not a murderer. I am a god. You will never know the power I have com to know, detective. It changes everything."

"If you're so smart, how come you're so damn insane?" Mason said, approaching him slowly, "don't you know that psychologists have analyzed you as psychotic? You've developed a rare mental disorder.

"What? Because of my time in the world's jungles and tropical islands? You think I emerged like some Vientam War soldier with trauma? No. I have always called the voices I hear divine. I'm endowed with special powers. The natives told me so. They revered me for having skin as white as ivory. They think I came from a line of gods."

"You're really crazier than I thought, Professor. You don't even seem to realize that --"

"You doubt the existence of pagan gods? Typical Westernized, Christian are you? If God is as real to you and others like you, then it's also logical that to other folks, like the natives I've come to know in various parts of the world, their gods are real. I was once alone and lost in Peru for days and --"

"Yes, I'm familiar with the anecdote. I read your book "For the eyes of the Gods". You wrote about the ancient astronaut theory possibly being true, that theory that holds that space aliens reached our planet centuries ago and helped to form human civilizations. Like in the case with the enigmatic Nazca lines. Did you have an encounter with an alien?"

"They are the real divine gods that the Inca worshipped. I encountered one of them and he communicated with me in the natives' language. He told me --"

"You're insane. You're delusional. You have no right to kill innocent people. I see that you are hiding something behind your back."

"Is it that obvious?"

"I take it it's a weapon you intend to use on me. Are you going to remove my head from my body, Professor? Is that how you get yourself off?"

"It is a pleasure, yes. It's a pleasure to feel the power I wield. I've tapped into the same sense of power that the ancient headhunters felt."

"Yeah, well, last time I checked it was 1986, not ancient times. You are committing crimes not acts of divinity."

"You still don't get it. I --"

"Hands in the air, you're under arrest. And drop whatever weapon you have with you."

Professor Messing was coldly silent, his eyes fixed on Mason, who pointed the gun at him.

"If you make as much as one move to hurt me, I will have to shoot you," Mason said.

Messing moved slowly, as if preparing to get on his knees. He then quickly got up and held a headhunter's hammer-like tool. He grabbed Mason in an arm lock and tried to strike him in the neck. Mason grunted and struggled against the Professor's grip. The Professor was quite strong for someone so thin, but Mason Holmes did not give up without a fight. He pushed the Professor and kicked him in the thigh. The Professor fell to the floor, just above the stairs, dangerously close to falling down the long spiraling flight. Mason, poised above him, put his foot on his thigh.

"You aren't listening, Professor. You're days of killing people are over. Now just stop resisting arrest."

"Fuck you!"

Messing was about to get up again but he slipped and he fell down the spiraling stairs in such a fast and frightening speed that he resembled a ball that had been kicked down the stairs.....................

TWELVE

Professor Messing had suffered injuries after his fall but immediately following his recovery, he was trialed and sentenced to the electric chair. He had killed some 200 people since the late 1960's, from all parts of the globe, even when he was on vacation. In New York alone, he had killed dozens of people. A thorough search of his home in Manhattan resulted in the discovery of a vast "trophy head" collection of all the dozens of people whose heads he had cut off.

He became so psychotic that during the trial, he spoke only in the language of the tribes he had visited along the Amazon. He had lost all sense of reality. Because Rikers Island was both a vast prison and mental instutition, he was sent to the right place. Mason Holmes, who had confronted the serial killer, fought with him and finally caught him, had acquired even more fame in New York City. He was a public figure in the NYPD and he even mentioned he'd write a new book, a thriller based on this psychotic professor...........