Fear City

PROLOGUE

Ten years ago…

Langford would have much preferred to be rolling Code Three. Then the sea of faces and the eyes following their car as it drove past would just be a blur. The hostility and resentment he saw in every pair of eyes that made their car for what it was – an unmarked - would be a blur too.

The occasional shouted insult would be drowned out by the sirens, and Langford would be able to concentrate on Jessica Stevens and what he had to do.

If this part of Washington D.C. had a face then Langford thought it would be the face of a former beauty queen. Once beautiful, and full of hope, it was now pockmarked by murders, addictions and senseless gangland violence.

Rob Langford. Homicide detective. Sometimes he liked the sound of it. Especially the way it had sounded this morning, when Lydia whispered it in his ear to wake him up. It had been a long time in coming. He’d been in uniform longer than he figured he would be, but that was mainly because he didn’t kiss ass, ever, for anybody.

He’d been shot at, a bunch of times, and once he was stabbed in the leg by some punk trying to rip off a woman and her daughter. But he’d stuck at it, made his way without kissing ass and finally he’d hung up his uniform for good.

He’d done a stint on Property Crime, which had been boring and then Vice, which he’d found the most depressing of all. Somehow vice was worse than homicide, these people were stuck living these lives, and Langford had been right there, stuck living alongside them. But he’d kept his head down and done some good work with the gangs trying to muscle in on the pimps and finally this was his reward.

Homicide was the billet every detective wanted, and he’d finally gotten it. Rob Langford. Homicide detective. It was gonna take a while for him to get bored of hearing those words.

His partner, driving the unmarked, was a legend already. Lenny Wiseman, toughest cop in Washington, or so the stories went. Langford didn’t know how many of the stories Lenny had gotten started himself but, hell, if only a third of them were true then Langford was getting the chance to learn from the best.

He was going to have to learn by watching though, because Lenny wasn’t the most talkative cop in the District. They rode in silence right now, as they usually did. Lenny had one hand on the wheel, one hand in his buzz-cut hair. He looked pained and distracted.

What’s up? Langford asked, only half expecting an answer.

Sarah. Lenny’s wife, soon to be ex-wife. Bustin’ ‘em. You know the drill.

Langford nodded sympathetically but the truth was that he didn’t know the drill, not really. He’d met Lydia straight out of the Academy; they’d set up home together before most of their respective friends had even met each other. They’d ignored the calls to slow it down and take it easy and they’d gotten married, in Vegas, only six months after their first date. Shit, Elvis had been the best man.

And they’d been happy ever since, pretty much. Had a daughter. Lydia had coped with the strain of being a cop’s wife, never let it show too often, and never to their daughter. She’d been the first at his bedside every morning when he’d had the stabbed leg thing and she’d stayed until the nurses had kicked her out at night.

Sarah wants the fucking house, Lenny went on, running his hand back and forth through the thinning buzz-cut.

Again Langford was restricted to nodding sympathetically. It was rare for Lenny to open up like this, and he wanted to say something but he was in uncharted waters here and he didn’t want to show it. Nothing a man hates more when he’s going through divorce than a guy piping up about his blissful marriage.

So Langford kept his mouth shut.

They were on the way to the old Pheonix Brewery, the rotten old factory on Farragut North. Hadn’t made a bottle of beer there for twenty years but still the place stayed standing, barely. It was an eyesore in a city full of eyesores. Local residents complained, a local paper had started a petition, but still the building stood, immovable, permanent, almost noble.

But it was where little Jessica Stevens was last seen. Jessica was nineteen, but you wouldn’t know it from the photos. Langford had even asked her distraught Mom for a more recent photo when they’d been given it. It looked like Jessica was maybe fourteen in the picture but no, it had been taken last fall.

Both Langford and Wiseman suspected that whoever took her had figured she was more like fourteen. A paedophile with his sights off. She’d been snatched from near the mall on Farragut North. Found three days later on the banks of the Potomac, her throat cut. Whatever else had been done to the poor girl was going to be announced by the county coroner at three o’clock that afternoon.

But anyway, there was a reported sighting at the old Pheonix Brewery so they were going to check it out. Langford had asked Lenny, as he always did, if they should roll Code Three, with the lights and the sirens. Lenny had just grunted and said no, she’d still be dead when they got there.

So they drove through the morning traffic, an unmarked car in the middle of all the other cars, out towards the brewery, in no particular hurry. They weren’t even making good time, traffic was heavy. Langford felt frustration build up inside him but he kept his cool.

If he’d known what was going to happen when they got there he’d have wanted this journey to never end.

They pulled up outside the old, dilapidated building and got out of the car. It always took Lenny a few seconds to get out of the car but Langford never said anything. Langford spent the time waiting for his partner staring up at the building, wondering how the hell it didn’t fall down.

There was a side door, covered with flaking paint. Langford and Wiseman walked towards it, knocked three times and waited. And waited. Langford was just about to knock again when they heard a scraping sound from the other side of the door.

The caretaker cum security guard was opening the door, pulling the cans of paint he used to wedge the door shut out of the way. The door opened and Langford and Wiseman saw him for the first time. The only man here, the man charged with protecting this slum of a factory, with making sure that squatters didn’t break in and at least put it to some use.

Jerry Sadowitz.

He was a big man. His arms bulged within the green Army issue jacket was wearing. His belly spilled out over the torn and faded jeans he had on. He hadn’t shaved for what must have been weeks and his eyes looked red and moist, bloodshot.

Hey. Took your time, he said and both Langford and Wiseman smelt alcohol-sodden breath. Maybe he was using this place as a still, Langford thought, he had to be doing something out here to pass the time.

Come in.

Sadowitz stepped back and allowed the two detectives into the factory. It was dark inside, as all the windows were caked in dirt. Cleaning obviously wasn’t part of Sadowitz’s duties. They stepped over the paint cans at their feet and turned to face Sadowitz as he was closing the door behind them.

You know why we’re here, right? asked Wiseman.

Sure. The missing girl.

Dead. Dead girl. Found her this morning, fished her outta the river with a brand new smile four inches under where the old one used to be.

Oh my God. I’m sorry to hear that. But as he said these words he kept on with the task of pulling the heavy cans of paint back against the back of the door. Langford felt a stab of anxiety, a tingling feeling on his scalp. Something wasn’t right.

Sorry, gotta do this. Or the damn kids see the door open and bang, they’re in while I’m talking to you guys and then there’s no getting ‘em back out again. He sounded reasonable, and calm.

When he straightened up, the paint cans in position, he was much taller than Langford and Wiseman, both of whom were over six feet. Sadowitz was a big, big man. Langford relaxed. Whoever had taken little Jessica hadn’t been that much bigger than she was, according to witnesses. Maybe this was another one of those leads which comes to nothing.

Come in, I got a little office back here, Sadowitz said, sounding friendly. He smiled, and showed dying teeth. He started leading the two detectives deeper into the dark, dirty defunct building. They snaked through dank corridors, ignoring the smell. They heard dripping pipes, all over the place, like Chinese water torture.

We got a report saying the girl was seen here, two days ago, Wiseman said, doing the bad cop thing perfectly.

We’re just wondering if you saw anything suspicious, Langford chimed in with the good cop persona, his usual half of the routine.

Uh, no, nothing. Don’t see much round here, ain’t exactly the central attraction, this place.

Up ahead was a half open door, darkness behind it. Sadowitz seemed to be leading them towards it. Langford felt another prick of nerves, he had hated the dark as a kid, and it had taken him up to his ninth year to get used to it.

Office is in here, we’ll sit an’ we’ll talk, said Sadowitz, stepping back and letting Wiseman pass in front of him.

That was when everything seemed to go into slow motion.

Langford saw Sadowitz put his hand in his jacket pocket. His own hand went to his Beretta 9 in his holster.

Lenny! Langford shouted, saw Wiseman spin round, only to get a blast from the Mace spray in Sadowitz’s hand.

Langford fumbled with his gun, his heart beating so fast he felt dizzy, sick. He put his hand up instinctively, managed to block just some of the spray from going in his eyes. There was still enough to cause him blinding pain.

Through the haze that was all he could see he glimpsed Wiseman going down on his knees, clutching his burning face, also fumbling for his gun. He saw dimly saw Sadowitz reach down, grab the gun from Wiseman’s hand and use it to pistol-whip Wiseman round the head.

Langford actually heard the dull clang of gun metal on bone, saw Wiseman pitch forward, out cold. Sadowitz whirled round, so fast for a big man. Langford still had one hand on his Beretta. Only stopped struggling to get it out when he felt the cold muzzle of Wiseman’s gun press hard against his forehead.

Give me your cuffs, was all Sadowitz said, his voice so different now, like an animal’s growl.

Langford had no choice, he feebly reached onto his belt and got out the cuffs, handing them up to Sadowitz. A split second later he felt a flash of intense pain as Sadowitz thumped him round the head with Wiseman’s gun.

Langford wasn’t knocked out cleanly. He moaned in pain as he slumped forward. Tried to stop moaning, tried to pretend he was out cold, because he was only too aware that Sadowitz was still standing over him and could try again at any moment.

But Sadowitz seemed content to let Langford be only half out of it. He just put one end of the cuffs around Wiseman’s limp right wrist and started dragging him through that half-open door, into the darkness.

Langford fought to regain control of his body. He slumped further forward, the left side of his face pressing down on filthy cold concrete, the sudden cold sensation helping to clear his head. He reared up, quickly, disorientated but with an overriding urge to get up, to fight or flee, to survive.

He got to his feet, but too quickly. Knew from his days in the boxing ring that he’d made a mistake. Like a fighter desperate to beat the ref’s count he’d lurched to his feet before his brain had stopped rattling around in his skull.

He paid the price as he fell forwards again, face first. His nose broke on the concrete, sending blood everywhere.

And now Sadowitz was coming back, it was too late. Groggy, his vision blurred by a combination of Mace, pain and blood, he looked up at the big man as he reached down and grabbed Langford’s wrist.

Pulling him towards that half-open door, towards the darkness.

It turned out that there was no office behind that door.

Behind that door there was nothing but Hell…

CHAPTER 1

Ten years later…

If fear was a drug then the whole city was high. Everywhere people looked askance at one another, never holding eye contact, fleeting, fear-filled glimpses. People walked faster than normal, eyes darting nervously around.

Nick Martin was sick of it. Life was for the living. After all, there was still more chance of him winning the lottery than, well, being the next unlucky one. He looked around the store he was in, a small 24 hour convenience store on the corner of Lexington and Fifth. He found himself sizing up all the other shoppers in there and the clerk who looked like he’d done the last 24 hours single-handed. Then he cursed himself for falling into that paranoid trap and went back to his chaotic choosing of groceries.

Once his basket was full to overflowing with junk-food and processed cheese he headed to the counter. Forced himself to smile, be open and friendly. To shed some damn light on all this darkness. The clerk’s tired eyes flicked downward momentarily, revealing his fear. Nick swore under his breath. Sooner the cops did their damn job the sooner it would be okay to smile at clerks. Hell, they might even start smiling back.

He dumped the groceries out onto the counter, slung the basket onto the small pile at his feet. The clerk rang them up, and never once made eye contact with the strange young man who smiled even though anybody could die at any time. Nick reached into his pocket for crumpled dollar bills, practically threw them onto the counter as he scooped up his junk into a brown paper bag.

Never looked back as he left the store, even though he could almost feel the clerk’s eyes on his back as he reached the street. He looked around, tired of the fearful expressions, tired of everyone being so very anxious not to bump into each other, tired of feeling like one of the sick, older animals at the back of the herd, just waiting for the lion to pounce.

Nick was twenty-three, good-looking, not as tall as he’d like but not too short either. The kind of guy who would be a surfer if he lived near the sea, and be good at it too. Generally he smiled a lot, and generally people he met tended to warm to that, and to him. He had led a charmed life, and he knew it. He couldn’t wait for this nightmare to blow over so he could get back to it.

He was headed back to his beat-up old car, the car his Uncle couldn’t stand to even look at, when he saw her.

A pretty blond girl. Sitting on a wall just behind a hot dog stand. And he noticed her golden hair, and he noticed the top cut low enough to show just a little bit of cleavage. He noticed the torn jeans, clearly designer-torn, not life-torn. And the Nike trainers that looked brand new. But what he noticed most about her, way more than any of that other stuff, was her smile.

She was smiling. Talking to the hot dog vendor, a big greasy-looking guy. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, not from where he was standing, but it didn’t matter. He had found a smile.

He didn’t need to think about it, he was walking over towards her. Doing his best to stride. The kind of strut John Travolta would be proud of. And she saw him approach, and her smile faded. But didn’t turn into the usual hostile, scared look he was getting used to. No, she just watched him calmly approach, and the corners of her mouth were still upturned, a bit, and it was a sexy, knowing look she was giving him now and he quickened his pace.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a battered, rust-covered green Ford Explorer. Old, worn-out, sitting listlessly on the curb, on balding tires. And just for a moment Nick found himself thinking, that’s the kinda car that guy might… Until he stopped himself. Crazy talk, and the fastest way to blow it with this girl is to start thinking like that. She’s smiling. She is not thinking crazy like that. So he wouldn’t either.

Hi. Nick managed to not cringe when he said it. Not much of an opener but the best he could do.

Hi., the pretty blond girl said back. Still calm, and now with that little smile playing across her red lips.

I’m Nick.

I’m Stacey. She kept eye contact with him the whole time. Her expression open and friendly. Maybe she was glad to see a friendly face herself, and didn’t want to scare him off. Nothing lonelier than a scared, frightened, timid city.

How you doing? This time Nick did cringe, openly. Instantly knew that sounded just like Joey from Friends and all the girls knew what kinda guy Joey from Friends was. I, uh, meant, what are you doing, uh, today?

Stacey smiled. Just chillin’. Nothing special. How about you?

Nick lifted his grocery bag a little bit. Shopping. Not much else. I’m kinda bored, tell you the truth. Loved that expression, Tell you the truth. Used it every time he tried to pick up a girl. Sounded so open and honest, girls loved it.

Well, we can’t have that, can we?

Nick’s heart quickened a bit. Especially when he saw the little glint in her eye. That little glint that says, Okay, now try harder. And you might just get somewhere.

You not waiting for somebody?

Nope.

Pretty girl like you, you’re always waiting for somebody.

Her smile got wider, and warmer. Maybe she knew she was pretty, maybe she didn’t. But she sure didn’t mind being told.

Nobody special. I was just wondering what to do with the rest of my day. There, the ball was firmly back in his court now. She’d pretty much told him she didn’t have a boyfriend. She’d pretty much told her day was free. She’d opened the door, now she’d see if he was man enough to step through it.

Well, maybe, we should go do something. Hang out.

Not exactly leaping through the door, but these days even a conversation took guts.

She blinked, once, then smiled some more. Sure. What did you have in mind?

And Nick’s mind was racing now, looking at her expression, trying to guess exactly how far towards the let’s go back to your place suggestion he could get. The suggestion he’d had in mind from the moment he’d seen her smile.

Uh…

His concentration was broken by a young black guy walking by, almost shoulder-barging his way past him. He saw the black guy was wearing a T-shirt with a target symbol on the front. The young black guy swaggered away, without looking back.

What an asshole.

Did you see his shirt? That’s what I call brave. Stacey seemed strangely impressed, much to Nick’s annoyance.

That ain’t brave. Just dumb. The whole city’s walking round like they’re already stood at their own graveside and that asshole’s walking around with a target on his chest.

Are you scared?

The first reference she’d made to it. He’d thought for a while she was somehow above it, immune to it, the way she’d been smiling and laughing with the hot dog guy. He was disappointed, again.

Fuck, no. We got more chance of being hit by light-

He never got to finish.

From somewhere high above there was a sharp crack. Birds suddenly flew up, seemingly as one, filling the sky.

Something thick and dark and red suddenly spattered Stacey’s face.

Her expression turned to pure horror and all around them people starting screaming, ducking down, running like headless chickens.

Nick just stared at Stacey’s blood-soaked face. He was rooted to the spot. Couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t understand…

The three quarters of his brain that were left couldn’t make sense of what had happened to him.

Nick pitched suddenly forward, uncomprehending. Suddenly all he could see was pavement. Then legs, sideways, as people ran, bumping into each other. Nick just stared at this sideways view, still not understanding, as his blood flowed out the front of his head and formed a widening puddle on the ground.

A few seconds later he was dead. Never knowing what had happened.

Number 28.

CHAPTER 2

Rob Langford knew what was coming next. He could still read the other guy. Only problem was his feet weren’t fast enough now to get him out of trouble.

He was up on the balls of his feet, moving laterally, using the ring well. Old Chris Kent, his trainer back at the Academy, would’ve been proud of him. Kent used to tell him he could’ve been a pro. Coulda been a contender and all that jazz.

Not any more. The kid in front of him, and Langford definitely thought of him as a kid, was coming in and moving fast. Jab, cross, jab. Faster than Langford could see but experience still meant he was able to block the last two well enough.

Langford moved again, conscious of not getting caught in the corner. Again. His ribs still ached a bit from the last round. Fired his own jab, which the kid blocked disdainfully, but it still bought him time to escape the corner.

Langford was breathing hard, and disgusted at himself for it. His sweatshirt was soaked. The kid was bare-chested but Langford would never go bare-chested in here. Never.

He became aware that they were being watched. By loads of the younger guys. All eager to see what Rob Highway Langford still had in the tank.

Not much, Langford thought, as the kid threw another combination and at least one right hand lead got through, stinging his cheek.

Langford’s head got spun around, for a split second he found himself facing the back of the gym. And a very attractive young red-head caught his eye. She was ignoring what was going on in the ring, in the centre of the gym, and was instead doing dumbbell curls in one corner. Not heavy weights, but heavy enough.

Maybe I’m not so old after all, Langford thought, if I can still spot the girls. Then the kid came back at him again and he was forced to raise both hands, bob and weave for all he was worth and still that wasn’t enough.

Punch after punch landed. And Tony Hogbin, who a long time ago had been Langford’s partner and still had regard for him, felt the need to climb up into the ring.

Okay, okay. Time! Time!

The kid looked round, obviously disappointed. Saw Hogbin step up to pull him back. The round ain’t over, the kid argued. But Hogbin brushed him off.

We’re all on the same team kid. Let’s play nice.

C’mon man.

Save it for the gang bangers, Hogbin said sternly and the kid got the message and started biting at the tape round his gloves to get them off. It was over.

Langford looked ruefully at Hogbin, his saviour.

I coulda taken him.

Sure Rob. You and twelve of your closest friends, maybe.

Langford nodded and smiled, grateful that it was over and that the last exchange had been said quietly. He started taking off his own gloves, having not bothered with the tape. Headed for the showers, noticing the crowd of young onlookers, young cops just in uniform, still parted respectfully when he came down the steps from the ring.

Maybe he was getting old, 47 next month and maybe he wasn’t as fast as he was. But he was still Rob Langford. The Highway Man. And he still, he was relieved to see, got some respect at Washington Metro P.D.

He walked through the gym. Right past the corner where the attractive red-haired young woman was doing her curls. Except she’d stopped now, and was just watching him. He caught her eye and even tried a little smile.

She smiled back. But seemed a bit nervous, intimidated. Hey honey, he thought, the way you were cranking those weights, you got no reason to be scared of a dino like me.

He left the gym, and heard the talking start behind him. The Man, did you see that? and He ain’t so bad. He was starting to get used to that. This is what happened to legends, he supposed, they either die young or fade away.

And he could feel himself fading away.

The shower was hot. Way too hot as usual. It burned like a bastard. But Langford forced himself to stay under it. Keeping, as he always did, his back firmly to the wall. Other guys did the exact opposite, modesty making them turn away from each other. Langford kept his back to the wall for a similar reason.

Nobody was ever allowed to see his back.

He would flush if anybody ever did get a glimpse of it. He would be able to feel his cheeks go crimson when it happened, which was rare. It wouldn’t be hard to see the looks of horror on their faces but that wasn’t what freaked him out the most. No, what was worse was the sympathy. That really burned his ass, the looks of pity, of wonderment.

He put soap on his chest, still wide and strong after all this time. Still had big arms, even if they were too slow to block a right hand lead. Used soap on his hair too, greying brown hair he kept permanently in a buzz cut, because it was easy and because it was something like a tribute to Lenny. Langford used soap because he always forgot to bring any shampoo to the gym.

Had soap in his eyes, having to keep them tightly shut, when he heard the commotion start up in the locker room next door. An excited buzz of conversation.

He couldn’t make out any words yet, and he couldn’t open his eyes yet to see who was chattering away. But he didn’t need to, he already knew.

Ten years working Homicide and he’d never experienced anything like this.

Scrubbed the soap roughly out of his eyes and grabbed his towel. Rushed through to the locker room, as all the other guys under the shower jets were doing.

He hurried into the locker room, for once unaware that there were guys behind him looking at his back.

He already knew what was going on but his heart sank anyway when he heard.

There’s been another one.

CHAPTER 3

Despite the imminent threat of death from above there was nothing that could stop the rubber-neckers. They’d formed a crowd behind the wooden blue police barricades and were right now leaning around one another to try and get behind Lisa Scullard as she was doing her thing to the NBTV camera.

Lisa Scullard had a lazy eye, the right eye, and everybody had told her she’d never make it in front of camera. Stick to being a researcher, she’d been told more times than she could remember. But she’d persevered. She had jet black hair and a beauty spot right where Cindy Crawford had hers. There were things that made up for the lazy eye. So now she was stood at the corner of Lexington and Fifth, microphone in hand and she was inching towards the networks, bit by bit, word by word, report by report.

Police have so far refused to name the victim, thought to be a young man in his early twenties. They have also refused to confirm that this murder is definitely linked to the 27 others attributed to the self-styled Deathstalker.

Lisa tried not to be put off by the crowds whooping behind her, although she was aware of the jostling to get into shot that was going on behind her. She prided herself on her professionalism.

There were at least ten patrol cars there already. Uniformed cops held the crowds back, an ambulance was there, waiting patiently with the back doors open, ready to receive the dead.

Paramedics were right now loading Nick Martin onto a gurney. Off to one side a shell-shocked Stacey was both giving her statement to a cop and being comforted by another paramedic. She had a silver space blanket draped around her shoulders in case the shock made her feel cold.

The air filled with the sounds of sirens once again as the next phalanx of law enforcement vehicles came screeching in. Two grey Econoline vans containing the FBI Tactical unit came to a stop first. Black-suited, helmeted FBI Tactical Officers burst out the back doors of both, headed for a tenement building on the West side of the street. Running, MP5 assault rifles held tightly against their black vests.

An unmarked police car pulled up just behind them, its doors opening before it had even come to a complete stop.

Detective Rob Langford got out, looking out at the assembled crowd with disgust. Even saw one young guy with a Deathstalker Rules T-shirt. For the millionth time Langford wished there was a law against being stupid.

He looked over and saw the FBI Tactical Squad all headed into the tenement building and thought, Shit, they’re holding out on us again. Then he saw Detective Reed ambling over, his big gut swaying back and forth as he came towards him.

What have we got?

Reed looked just a bit out of breath when he reached Langford, and covered by getting out a notepad from his jacket pocket so he wouldn’t have to talk right away. Pretending to read, he said, A Nick Martin. 26 years old. Local boy.

Shit. Worse when they’re young.

And how come the Feebs seem to know where they’re headed? Langford nodded over to the tenement building, just as the last of the FBI Tactical guys disappeared inside.

I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her? Reed was pointing to a young-looking woman in a grey suit, a redhead, standing with her back to them, watching the tenement building intently.

Who is she?

New ASAC. Meaning Assistant Special Agent in Charge. I heard she just transferred down here, from Quantico. Maybe one of them Behavioural types you’re always hearin’ about.

What’s her name?

Johnson. Linda Johnson.

And so Langford started to walk over to the young, slim woman, still facing away from him. Reed called out from behind him.

Careful Rob, heard she’s a ball breaker.

Langford ignored him, as usual, and went up to Agent Johnson’s right shoulder. Agent Johnson? I’m Rob Langford, I’ve been the Metro P.D.’s liaison with the Bureau on this case.

Agent Johnson turned around. And Langford, to his surprise, recognized her as the young woman who’d been doing curls in the gym earlier. Straight away he recognized the bright greenish eyes, the thin straight nose and the high cheekbones.

Boy, you got here fast.

Agent Johnson just looked at him.

I saw you earlier, Langford found himself explaining. At the gym. You were doing weights, I was getting my head handed to me.

Agent Johnson smiled. But it was the kind of smile that isn’t reflected in the eyes, and seemed like nothing more than an automatic gesture. Oh yes, I remember. And how is your head?

Nothing worse than usual. Getting a bit old for that kinda thing.

Yes. Said simply, but enough to crush Langford’s spirits just that little bit more.

So, if you’re the ASAC maybe you can tell me what you guys have, so far.

Sure.

Do we know it’s him?

Johnson nodded. We’ve got the bullet. .22 Long rifle. Same as always.

And the victim this time?

Nick Martin. Young man. Shot clean through the head, one shot, precise as ever. And seemingly picked totally randomly, as always.

She was desperate; Langford could see that in those green-tinted eyes. One of these career types, she was probably excited to have gotten the transfer down here. Ecstatic to get ASAC, probably thought it was a step up. Only to find herself with this bastard of a first case. The Deathstalker.

Killing at random. Anybody, any time, anywhere. No rhyme or reason to it, no patterns to exploit, no trap to set. Destined to go on killing and killing. And, incidentally, as far as Langford was concerned, destined to effectively end careers in law enforcement too.

What’s all the fuss about that tenement building?

Eye wit. Says she saw a flash from up there. And there are empty apartments, it fits his M.O.

You know what floor?

No, not exactly. Witness wasn’t sure, but high. I’ve got the Tactical team checking the whole building.

I’ve got, Langford thought. Got an ego, this one.

Soon as they find where he took the shot from I’ll let you know.

That would be great.

And Agent Johnson turned away from him and Langford became aware that he’d been dismissed. He started walking away, back towards Reed who, would you believe it? was eating a hot dog.

Detective Langford? Agent Johnson blurted out suddenly. Langford turned back, surprised.

`I’m sorry for what I said just then.

What? Langford genuinely didn’t know what she meant.

When I said you were too old to box. I didn’t mean it. It’s just been a long day already and I haven’t even had lunch yet.

No problem.

Agent Johnson smiled a small smile that nevertheless seemed real, and turned away again. Langford kept on walking.

Up ahead he could see Reed was now talking to a young uniform, a guy he vaguely recognized. They were chattering away, animatedly. It was the most animated Langford had seen Reed for a long time, maybe ever.

He approached them, noting the look on the young uniform’s face when he saw him. Suddenly he stopped talking, looked embarrassed.

What’s the excitement? Langford asked.

Reed was positively bubbling by now, and wouldn’t have been able to keep it quiet even if he’d wanted to.

Rumour going round, that’s all. About the victim.

What rumour?

We didn’t put it together, we knew his name but we never thought-

Thought what? Langford was getting impatient.

I mean, it’s all random. The Deathstalker’s just shooting whoever he sees walking by that he don’t like the look of, right?

Looks that way. Now are you gonna tell me what’s different about this one or not?

Nick Martin. Guys are saying his uncle is Wendall Martin.

The Wendall Martin?

The uniformed cop found the courage to speak up. "That’s what they’re