It Takes One To Know One

Eleven-year-old Chris Blucher is tired of his older brother calling him a sissy and is willing to do something drastic to make him stop.

“I bet I can stay in the cemetery longer than you.”

Mickey Blucher puffs out his chest. “You’re on, sissy.”

The brothers ride their bikes into the heart of Katonah’s Hermon Chapel Cemetery. They stop their bikes in front of a monument carved in the shape of a large cross.

Chris nervously pivots, feeling as if the darkness is closing in around him. The tombstones seem to wave at him like tongues giving him the Bronx cheer, and the bare trees hover over him like disappointed nuns, ready to punish him.

“Got the heebie-jeebies yet, sissy?”

Mickey’s taunting smile vanishes when he sees something lying on the slab in front of the monument.

He can feel his brother’s erratic breathing on the back of his neck as he moves closer to the grave.

“What is that? OH MY GOD!”

Screaming, tears streaming down their cheeks, the petrified pair of boys jump on their bikes, speeding toward the cemetery gate.

Their bikes skid to a halt outside the cemetery.

“Is something wrong, boys?” a voice calls out.

Chris looks across the road. A slim, pasty-looking man with slicked-back hair smiles slyly at them.

“Dracula!” Chris shouts.

“Relax, kid. I was driving by when I saw you bolt from the cemetery. Is anything wrong?”

“You bet, mister,” Mickey answers. “Can you call the cops? Our mother would skin us if she found out we were messing around in the cemetery.”

“Be glad to. What’s got you so frightened?”

***

Captain Braxton May of the Katonah Police Department leads F.B.I. agents Pervis Ellison and Severn Crosetti to the gravesite.

“You’ll see why this is way out of our league,” he says.

The pair of agents study the crime scene.

A woman in a worn Aerosmith half-shirt and faded jeans lies on top of a grave. Her hands are crossed over her chest, a fresh rose resting in them.

Pervis crosses himself. Tall, with a dour, craggy face, dark bushy brows, and upswept silvery hair, forty-seven-year-old Pervis and his partner, Severn, specialize in seemingly unsolvable crimes.

Lanky and charismatic, with soft features and a bright grin that puts everyone at ease, forty-two-year-old Severn has been partnered with Pervis for a dozen years yet still finds himself awed by Pervis’ ability to spot clues other agents miss.

“This screams of religious overtones,” Severn says.

Pervis kneels for a closer look at the body. “No blood, no drag marks. She was killed elsewhere and posed here.”

“What do you make of the rose?” Severn asks.

“Might be an expression of guilt over having killed someone he cared for. We’ll take a look at the husband or boyfriend.”

Pervis turns to Captain May. “Did you determine a cause of death yet?”

“This is where things get weird. She was strangled, but the actual cause of death was drowning.”

***

Back at their makeshift office at the local police department, Pervis and Severn take stock of the information they have.

“Who found the body?” Pervis asks.

“The caller was an anonymous male. He didn’t stick around.”

“Of course not. That would be too helpful. Details?”

“They’ve identified her. Yulia Baranov, twenty-four, originally from the Ukraine. She’s been here four years. She was a waitress at the Katonah Diner. She lived with a roommate, a buyer for Sachs, who’s currently on vacation in Newport. She had two D.U.I.s. I spoke with one of the officers who bagged her and a couple of others who rousted her out of bars on weekends. They all agreed she was a major-league drinker. It’s possible she met her killer in a bar.”

Severn drops a folder on the desk. “Westchester County is one of the quietest, most affluent places to live in the country, and there hasn’t been a murder in the town of Katonah in eight years. The same is true of Verplanck, twenty-two miles north. But now the two towns have something in common.”

Severn opens the folder, showing Pervis a photo.

“Victim number one. Rose Delgado. Her body was found last month in Assumption Cemetery. The good news is that the caretaker who lives across the street saw a car leaving the cemetery the night before he found her. He knows his cars. He said it was a Mercedes-Benz.”

***

She mutters, “Stupid bawbag,” as a police cruiser pulls up alongside her car.

Officer Tommy Tremble of the Peekskill Police Department steps out, smiling at the pretty, freckled redhead behind the wheel of a black Mercedes-Benz.

“Sorry to bother you, miss. We’re checking all Benzes in the area. You’re good. We’re looking for a male driver. Have a good day.”

“You too, officer,” she replies, accentuating her chirpy Scottish accent.

Officer Tremble gives her a flirty grin, then drives away.

A well-groomed man with a pale complexion exits Barham’s Florist with a bouquet of red roses and gets into the passenger seat.

“Trouble?”

“No. The police are looking for a man driving a black Mercedes.”

“Do you think we should ditch the car?” he asks.

“No. Now that we’ve been checked, they’ll put us on a list of cars that have been stopped and cleared.”

He bites his lower lip. “They’re tightening the noose.”

“We’re smarter than they are, aren’t we, Acton?”

“Yes, mistress.”

“Let’s show them.”

She takes the roses from Acton, sniffing them.

“…Reminds me of home…”

“I thought you hated the orphanage?”

“I did. Sometimes it’s good to be reminded of what causes you pain. It can motivate you to seek revenge. The smell of the roses reminds me of the nuns at the Glasgow orphanage hitting me with their yardsticks. It makes me think of the hours I spent on my knees, praying for forgiveness for saying no or being punished for some girlish prank. And the smell makes me think of the sweat box, that tiny wooden torture chamber next to the rose bushes. I trusted those nuns with my life. All they did was hurt me, so now all I want to do is hurt everyone else.”

***

The following morning, Pervis and Severn respond to the discovery of a woman’s body in Peekskill’s Lent Cemetery.

“That’s three women in less than three weeks… That we know of,” Pervis says. “Rose Delgado worked for Merry Maids; Yulia Baranov was a waitress; and the latest victim, Cammy Hernandez, was a clerk at the Chestnut Market.”

“Blue-collar jobs,” Severn notes. “They all frequented local bars and were considered party girls.”

“So, our killer targets vulnerable, marginalized women.”

“Most serial killers do.”

“There are no signs of sexual assault, so he gets his thrills from whatever ritual he goes through and from the act of murder.”

“This time, he transported the body,” Severn says. “Cammy Hernandez lived and worked in Bedford Hills, but her body was dumped in Peekskill, twenty miles away.”

“It’s the ritual aspect that has me stumped. We need to talk to an expert.”

“I thought we were the experts?” Severn replies.

“Is Coyle Chaffin still in Ossining at Sing Sing Prison?”

“When you said ‘expert,’ I thought you meant someone sane.”

“We’ve been at this for a week, and all we’ve got is the make of the killer’s vehicle and another victim.”

“But Chaffin? He’s what we Italians call ‘Gli manca qualche venerid’… Missing a few Fridays.”

“I don’t care how many days of the week he has or doesn’t have. It takes one to know one.”

***

Severn fights back a feeling of claustrophobia as the cell block gate closes behind them.

“I still say this is nuts. Chaffin’s desperately trying to make himself relevant and useful to delay his execution.”

“Chaffin admitted to forty-six murders. Suppose there were more? Suppose there are victims he hasn’t told us about?”

“So, you’re hoping he further incriminates himself and gives us something useful at the same time. Slick move, partner. But if he’s wearing a tin foil hat and has a Ouija board, I’m shoving you into his cell, locking the door, and leaving.”

Coyle Chaffin, a thirty-four-year-old California native, holds a Ph.D. in computer science, which he used to mask his identity when he contacted his victims during his five-year reign of terror. Dark-haired with bright blue eyes, Chaffin has been described by nearly everyone as charming, handsome, and intelligent. He was captured when a woman he left for dead survived to identify him.

Chaffin examines the case files and photographs with feverish relish, admiring the handiwork of another psychopath while concealing his desire to see a competitor captured.

“What do you expect in return for your help?” Pervis asks.

“Why, not to be executed, of course.”

“You might have to settle for a Happy Meal,” Severn replies.

“Or a day in the sunshine. I love the sun and need a tan. No restraints. I have plantar fasciitis, so it’s unlikely I’ll be able to run away.”

“Did you get that from stepping over your victim’s corpses?” Severn chirps.

“Easy, Severn. Why are you doing this?”

“Professional jealousy. I want you to catch this usurper before he threatens my record.”

“You make it sound like you’re Barry Bonds and he’s Hank Aaron, and you’re competing in a home run derby,” Severn replies. “This isn’t a game.”

“I respectfully disagree. Your killer thinks it’s a game and believes he holds the cards. You need my expertise to bring him to ground.”

“So, who is he?” Pervis asks.

“He’s young, intelligent, and frustrated. A woman in his life, someone he thought was pure or who presented herself as a nice person, betrayed him. The rose symbolizes that person’s supposed purity. Drowning his victims is another form of cleansing, like a baptism. The killer is trying to wipe away the memory of what’s been done to them while also seeking forgiveness for what they’ve done.”

Severn grumbles. “And strangling the victims, then stopping… What’s that all about?”

“Autoasphyxiation.”

“You mean this sicko gets off on nearly choking someone to death?”

“Exactly. Because of the traumatic event in their life, your killer has a low affect and a reduced ability to express emotions outwardly. Mere sex isn’t good enough. There has to be an element of danger in it.”

“…I’m getting nauseous…,” Severn says.

“We found a few similar cases in New Jersey dating back two years. Why the gaps in his story?” Pervis asks.

“Even serial killers fall in love. He found someone. Someone who appreciates him for the quiet, pious, gentle soul he pretends to be.”

“Does that mean he’s got an admirer, or a helper?”

“Perhaps both. He’s also Celtic, most likely Scottish or Irish.”

“Aw c’mon,” Severn protests. “How could you possibly know that?”

“The victims were posed in front of or atop monuments bearing Celtic symbols.”

“You’re the pious one, Pervis, and the stickler for detail,” Severn says.

“Sometimes you miss the obvious.”

“Your killer’s not working alone either,” Chaffin says confidently.

Severn runs his hands through his hair in frustration. “All right, Nostradamus, how do we capture him?”

“Station men at the cemeteries.”

“We’re already doing that,” Pervis replies. “But there are more than a hundred cemeteries in Westchester County.”

“He won’t go back to the places he’s already dumped his victims…”

“Great. That knocks it down to ninety-five.”

Chaffin smiles like a contented Cheshire cat. “He’s got an ego even bigger than mine. He’s likely to choose larger cemeteries for shock value and will strike more often, daring you to catch him for the thrill of it.”

Pervis and Severn walk on unsteady feet as they leave the prison.

“As far as I’m concerned, they can’t give him the hot shot fast enough,” Severn says, wiping his brow. Now I understand how Adam felt when he talked to the snake in the Garden of Eden. He liked what he heard, but his mind couldn’t comprehend how evil it was.”

***

Gretchen grins at the man sitting at the end of the bar. It may be Ladies Night at Gordo’s in Mount Pleasant, but the plump twenty-three-year-old pre-school aide with glasses as thick as the bottom of a Coke bottle never gets any attention from men, drunk or otherwise. This one may need a tan, but he’s got a pulse.

He slides down the bar, greeting her with a disarming, almost innocent smile.

An hour and six shots of Kamikazes later, Gretchen is headed to his hotel room.

Gretchen is on the bed, trading kisses with him, when things go wrong.

He reaches for her throat.

“No, I’m not like that. I’m not a deviant.”

“Trust me, you’re going to love it.”

He squeezes her windpipe. She begins to gasp for air, but he is either unable or unwilling to understand her pleas to stop.

Everything around Gretchen blurs, shrinks, then goes black.

Acton calls his partner’s name.

“Took you long enough. Bring her into the bathroom. The tub is ready.”

The pair go through the ritual of blurring Acton’s fingerprints with alcohol, then put Gretchen in the tub.

Gnashing her teeth, the woman cries out, “MOTHER!” as she pushes Gretchen’s head under the water.

After several minutes, Acton says quietly, “She’s gone. Let her up.”

“Don’t tell me what to do. Don’t think for a moment that you run the show.”

“Yes, mistress. Still pretending the women I bring you are your mother?”

“You make it sound like my mother and I had a little spat,” she replies. “My mother, that smiling ox, got my father drunk, choked him unconscious, then drowned him to make sure he was dead. She fled to America, leaving me with the nuns at St. Mary’s. The children at the orphanage, especially the girls, called me ‘the strangler’s spawn.’ The nuns treated me even worse. By the time they were through with me, all I was good for was grifting. But I fooled them. I made a mint in cyber theft, enough to come here and look for my mother. Her landlord in New Jersey said she moved to Westchester County. The day I find her, I want to be ready to repay her.”

“So, all this is practice for you?” Anton says.

“And for you?”

“It’s the thrill of the kill and knowing I get to reap the benefits of your arousal.”

***

With her cruiser concealed behind a group of trees at the East entrance to the Gate of Heaven Cemetery in Hawthorne, Officer Cristina Cortese watches a Mercedes-Benz pass by, heading toward the section of the cemetery where luminaries such as James Cagney, Dutch Schultz, and Babe Ruth are interred.

Acton sets Gretchen Barkin’s body down on the gravesite.

“Where are the roses?” she asks.

“I’m carrying this sack of blubber. I can’t do everything. The roses are your obsession.”

She heads down the path toward the car.

She sees a line of patrol cars with their lights flashing moving up the driveway. Hiding behind a mausoleum, she waits until the procession passes, then slips into the woods.

***

“Acton Fullbright is our serial killer? It doesn’t track for me,” Pervis says. “He was a bar back, a low-level nobody who made rent by selling prescription drugs.”

“He was standing over Gretchen Barkin’s body. He also got careless and left a few of the victim’s hairs on the bed in the hotel where he was staying. Above all else, he confessed.”

“Acton Fullbright is a southerner. Chaffin said our killer’s heritage was Celtic.”

“Nobody’s perfect. Especially an egotistical killer who’s ‘Gli manca qualche venerid.’ ”

“I don’t know, Severn. Fullbright is too gentile, too low-key.”

“Some maniacs are until the voices get too loud.”

***

Closing his eyes, Coyle Chaffin yawns, basking in the warmth of the sun.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” he asks the three officers.

He positions himself behind the nearest officer as they look at the sky.

“I mean, look at how blue the sky is. Isn’t it pretty?”

Removing the razor blade he’d taped to his cheek, Chaffin pulls the first officer into a headlock, slashing his throat. Grabbing the officer’s weapon as the officer slides to the ground, Chaffin shoots the other two dumbfounded men, leaving the first officer choking on his own blood.

***

“This is going to be a bad day,” Severn says. “Coyle Chaffin escaped during the road trip we arranged for him. He shot two guards and left a third without a voice box.”

Pervis groans. “Where do you think he’s headed?”

“Maybe we should ask Acton Fullbright. I’ve got more good news… A woman’s body was found in Harvest Home Cemetery in Scarsdale. She was holding a rose.”