The Profiler Page 16

  Though I nod my head in agreement to keep this dialogue short, I don’t know. What could this killer possibly want with me? I can’t help feeling he saw me as the weakest of the three and decided to angle his taunts in my direction, hoping to get a reaction from me. Well, that’s not going to happen.

  My determination to go into profiling, once I get the required field experience, is to dissect the minds of criminals and see what it is that makes them do what they do. If this guy thinks he’s getting what he wants by reeling me in closer to his game plan, he has it upside down. In the end, we’ll get him behind bars, but I will have gained the understanding of what and who he is, readying me for NCAVC one day.

  As we near the end of our drive, I think of the history of Sing Sing. I’ve never been here, but it is perhaps one of the state’s, if not the country’s, most famous prison grounds.

  My knowledge of it stems mostly from the press, relating to the infamous escape attempts made in the early years. Now, though, it still houses a good collection of felons, ranging in age and severity of crime, and pretty much anything is possible within its historic nest.

  We head along Hunter Street, and I’m beginning to see the great structure against the backdrop of the lengthy Hudson River. The original wall surrounding the prison was made of handmade bricks. Those now have a place in history, and the newer, more modern blockage is designed for maximum security with a combined fence and state-of-the-art cement wall. Tough to get in, tough to get out.

  We pass our first security clearance and wind through the gateway to the entrance. Once parked, Severo and I trail back on the footpath to find a way inside, and neither of us can resist looking around, as though we’re tourists. The enormity of the place is worth at least a moment of awe. This will be my first time stepping inside the famous walls, but hopefully the last.

  “Philip Martin,” Severo says at the front desk, showing his identification as he signs a collection of forms.

  “Says here, he’ll be out in a week,” the guard says, and when she says “out,” I know she doesn’t mean free.

  Another guard ushers us through a maze of hallways, and my adrenaline is increasing at the thought of conversing with a man on death row. As we walk through multiple security lockdowns, it occurs to me I failed to ask what Philip was in for. He may have a history of counterfeit, but they don’t hand out death sentences like candy. There must be something more to his deal. Then again, I may not want to know the details.

  The door buzzes open as Severo and I are guided into a stale visitation chamber, a plain room with a few glass windows along the side to allow guards visual advantage. The place is maxed out with security, both human and technological, so I know we’re safe in here.

  “Who the hell are you?” The man drops hard into his seat.

  “Philip Martin? I’m Detective Carson Severo of the NYPD and this is Special Agent David with the FBI.” As we sit down across from the convict, I push a button on my tape recorder so we don’t miss anything, and then I quickly make eye contact to establish decorum. “We’re looking into a case you may have some connection with.”

  My eyes meet Martin’s, and his glassy pupils stare back at me, intrigued. “I don’t need to talk to you.”

  We were expecting a little friction, so I take my time warming him up with a feminine voice. “I know you probably don’t care what’s going on out there. I also know you’re on a short leash, so I won’t waste your time. But believe me when I say you could prove to be a big help for this case.”

  Philip stares in silence, eyes peering at me as though they’re looking through me, somehow.

  “I’m willing to sit here all day, if that’s what it takes.”

  Still nothing.

  Severo leans his elbows onto the institutional desk, his attitude adjusting to accommodate the situation. “Maybe there’s something you want? Something, perhaps, to make your last days a little more pleasant?”

  Bribery is not my strong point, so I’m glad Severo has taken this step. I realize whatever this guy has done wrong is well in the past, and if offering up any material possession will bring him joy, it’ll only be a temporary satisfaction.

  “You got gum?”

  My brow arches toward Severo as Martin says this. “Gum? Yes, I think I do.” I reach into my bag and then halt, looking back at him. “Or were you kidding?”

  “I like gum.”

  “Okay,” I say, locating the spearmint sticks in my bag’s side pocket. A guard approaches me, inspects the chewing gum, then approves it for the inmate. I don’t see how such a simple pleasure could coerce his opinion any, but who am I to judge.

  Severo gets right back to business. “So, Philip. Anything you can say to help us out would be greatly appreciated. We know of your history with Mario James Anderson, but that’s not what we came to talk about.”

  The blank stare returns as Severo begins to draw out some files. It occurs to me this man may be more responsive to my voice, so I take the chance. “We’re looking for someone you may know. He’s been after a group of men who appear to be connected in some way, though we can’t really share the full details with you. I hope you’ll understand.”

  His shrug does little to state his interest or lack thereof. Severo nods to me, though, and I’m glad he thinks I’m making progress, and doesn’t mind me cutting in.

  “It seems he’s been killing men by replicating the deaths of the apostles. These men also share the names of the apostles, and the method of murder.”

  Philip straightens in his chair, and I don’t know whether to take it as a sign or if he’s just feeling restless. I look to Severo, then back at Philip Martin, and cut the tail-chasing short.

  “Do you have any idea what I’m talking about? Because if you do, and I know you probably couldn’t care less whether or not we put someone away for murder, but if you do—”

  “Yeah, I get it.”

  Both Severo and I sit up at his words.

  “Excuse me? What do you get?” I ask.

  Philip leans into the space between us, his body angled slightly over the table, and I hear his breathing pulse in a calm rhythm. “You mean Jude. Right? You’re talking about Jude.”

  I slide my documents outlining the names of the apostles to Severo. Though the name is a variation of Judas, this can’t be a coincidence. There’s no way.

  “Yes. Yes, I think so. You know this man, Mr. Martin?”

  Philip leans back in his seat, glazed eyes looking directly at me. His voice is calm, as though he’s been sedated into complacency, like a lap cat. “I do. Jude Barnaby, or Judas, as he likes to call himself. Stupid ass.”

  The detective tries again to get in on the conversation with our convict. “Do you know about the murders?”

  “Nope. Got nothing to do with it,” he says, without taking his eyes off of me.

  I glance across the notes we’ve brought along, and some accompanying photos. Normally, I probably wouldn’t feel so inclined to share inside knowledge with a convicted felon, but I’m getting the feeling Philip doesn’t mind talking to me, and that maybe he can help in more ways than he has already.

  I slide a photo across the table, letting him touch the image. “Do you recognize this man, Mr. Martin?”

  “Thomas Devlin.”

  I glance at Severo, then exchange the photo for another.

  “Matthias Killarney.”

  I shift to another photo, then another. He names off the four victims we have, as though they were standing in front of us in a lineup. We already know of his counterfeit history with Mario James Anderson, so that makes it five for five.

  “How are they all connected, Mr. Martin? My guess is they all know each other. After all, you seem to know them by name.”

  Philip nods to the pack of gum set on the table between the detective and me, and I hand the guard the entire pack, knowing we’re getting our end of the bargain.

  Severo shifts in his seat, resigning himself to take notes as I continue to
converse with the convict. I’m grateful the detective feels so confident with me leading this exchange, rather than wanting to dominate what is, in fact, really his case, after all. I guess he’s putting the job before his ego, which is admirable.

  “Years ago, maybe ten or so,” Martin begins, and I pay close attention to his words, “we all got started on a project. Didn’t amount to much. I guess you can figure that, with those success stories in front of you.”

  “What kind of project?”

  Philip takes another piece of gum, begins to chew, then looks down at his hands, worn and dirty. “Guess you could say we were a bunch of do-gooders.” Though I find this hard to believe, I listen intently as he explains. “Back then, we were all a bunch of good guys. You know, respectable men with jobs and futures ahead of us. Not like now.”

  He pauses, but I don’t speak. His voice is slowly warming up, and I don’t want to risk not retrieving valuable information by interrupting.

  “Jude was a minister at the time. So was Matthias. The rest of us were just churchgoing folk who wanted to make a difference. When Jude came up with this idea, it sounded good.”

  He stops and I wait for him to continue, but the pause grows longer. “What idea was that?”

  “Like what you guys call a community watch, nowadays. It was just the group of us, looking out for our neighborhoods, trying to keep the streets clean. We wanted a safe place to call home, but it was tough with all the drugs and sex happening in our own backyards.”

  Severo speaks up, asking, “What did you do to control it?” But he returns to taking notes when Philip Martin keeps his eyes on me as he replies.

  “Nothing really. Except,” he says, now using his cuffed hands to gesture. His wrists are worn like leather where the metal meets his skin. “When something was going down on one of our blocks, the other boys would come in to help. Police didn’t do much for that sort of petty crime, but it was important to us.”

  I let my eyes measure his face, cautious to appear sympathetic. “Where did things go wrong?”

  “Jude starting getting a little more out there with his ideas. Wanted to make our group into something it wasn’t. He called us the Apostles of Peace and we all changed our names accordingly. You know, so we’d have names like James and John, and the like.”

  His eyes drift briefly to Severo, who is feverishly taking notes, but then his stare returns to me. “Some of us didn’t have to do that, like me and Thomas, as that’s just what our folks called us, being godly people and all. Hell, it made sense at the time, but instead of focusing on the good we could do, he started getting fancy ideas on how to cleanse the earth. Rid the world of scum and the like.”

  Even though I see the tape recorder is running, I feel the need to repeatedly check it. Severo’s notes will be useful, too, but the more concrete testimony we have regarding this case, the better. I don’t want Cain to miss out on any of the information, as this is proving to be the best lead yet.

  I look into Mr. Martin’s eyes. “What kind of fancy ideas?”

  “He wanted our group to be a larger organization than it was. He had big dreams, but we were just a bunch of guys. We had jobs, and we couldn’t do all he wanted us to.” He pauses as I settle better into my chair. They certainly don’t make the furniture around here very comfortable. Guess it’s their way to discourage long visits.

  “So, he gets it in his head he wants to make this a bigger stink than it is, and some of the guys had doubts. But he doesn’t care. Jude’s on this power trip, ya know, and no one could say shit to him about it. He’s got a mind to do it and wants to get money together to create an empire, spread out our resources and tackle the world’s troubles from more than one city. Clean off the streets, so to speak. Idiot.”

  “Where’d he get the money from?”

  “That’s where the trouble starts. Jude’s asking us and asking us to give every cent we’ve got, but no one wants to turn their hard-earned cash over to this guy, no matter it started out with good intentions. So at first he skims from the donations at the church.”

  Philip asks for some water and a guard brings a paper cup to him, half-full. “Then he moves on to bigger opportunities. trying to get other churches to give up their coin, and when the doors start slamming in his face, he loses it. Gets in with the wrong group of people.”

  With what Philip is providing, I know we’re not going to have any problems tracking down Jude Barnaby. To top it off, we’ll have his life history to shove in his face as we nail him for four murders, and intentions for a fifth.

  “Then the laundering starts. He’s got money coming in from God knows where, and I can bet my life some of it’s counterfeit. I know it when I see it,” he says, a hint of regret in his voice. “He’s setting up deals he can’t possibly commit to, and before you know it, he’s peddling crack with brokers to make a buck for this thing none of us even want to be associated with anymore. It just got out of hand.”

  “Did you leave the group?” I ask, wondering if Philip’s life behind bars stems from his involvement with the Apostles of Peace.

  “Not at first. But then Jude got busted and ends up jailed. He’s trying to get out, and trying to get out, but you feds keep him in here as long as you can, and ya did right by it, too. But I knew it wouldn’t be long till he got out on some sissy ass excuse or another and hit the streets again. I suspect he’s seeking vengeance on those who betrayed him. It’s messed up, though, since I think he even had a suit or two in on the profit.”

  Severo looks up into Philip Martin’s eyes as he hears these words. Martin just goes on, matter-of-factly. “You know, cops making a buck and keeping their mouths shut. If only I had his luck. Instead, here I am, waiting to bite the dust.”

  “Do you remember who they were? Whoever it was Judas had an arrangement with?”

  “Nah, he always kept that side of the business to himself. He didn’t want any of us knowing too much, you know, in case we got found out one day. Can’t spill what ya don’t know.”

  “Okay, when was this? When did Jude get out?”

  There had to be an event to trigger these crimes. After his release, there had to be some moment in Jude’s life to make him act on his anger and seek to kill members of the former fellowship.

  “Just recently, I think, but I can’t keep up with the news. I have limited resources here, as you can imagine.”

  “What happened to everyone? How did they disassociate with him, knowing he had a bad streak?”

  “Hell if I know. I got thrown in here so I’m off his list. Just the others who have to deal with that son of a bitch.”

  I flip the cassette tape in my recorder and return my eyes to Philip. There’s no reason he’d be lying to us. It’s a freaky tale, to think a minister started this whole thing, but it has to be true. The bodies prove it.

  “And you?” I begin, knowing I’m asking more than I need to know now. “How did you end up in here?”

  A buzzer sounds and I realize it must be prison lunchtime. My stay with Philip Martin is coming to a close, so I need to get as much as I can from him before he heads back to his cell.

  “Well, I dropped my relationship with God when I made a friend of heroin. When the counterfeit turned out bad, I busted into a bank and had to shoot my way out, taking down a few cops on the way. Hey, shit happens.”

  Severo flinches briefly at these words, but I reach a hand under the table to brush his knee, quieting his reflex.

  “Philip Martin, you’ve been a great deal of help. If there’s one more thing I can ask of you,” I say, clicking the cap off my pen to take a copy of these notes for myself. “Can you tell us the names of the others? If Judas, or Jude, is aiming to take revenge on those who betrayed him, there’s a few lives we’d like to save.”

  Both the detective and I jot down the full names of the yet to be found apostles, and I am so relieved to know we’ll be able to stop any more deaths at the hands of this former minister.

  “And I don’t k
now that he’s sitting around, waiting for company to show up,” Philip says, shrugging his upper body. “But last I heard, Jude was hanging around some new stomping grounds. I think somewhere in the East Village?”

  Severo clears his throat and I meet his glance. That’s the same neighborhood where Jean La Roche lived. With so many places as possible hideouts in that area, it’ll take some hefty legwork to find him. Then again, I’ve always been a fan of hide-and-go-seek.

  “Philip,” I say, reaching across the table and shaking the prisoner’s cuffed hand. “You have been extremely helpful. I know you didn’t have to tell us everything like that, but I’m glad you did. I only wish I had more gum to thank you with.”

  For the first time throughout our conversation, a smile slowly makes its way across his lips. “Hey, I can arrange for a conjugal if you want to express your gratitude that badly,” Philip jokes. I look back at him and let a simple grin destroy his attempts. “Hey, ya can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  “No, I can’t. Thanks, Philip. Take care of yourself,” I say, then regret the words as I realize how idiotic it must sound to someone who will be put to death in a few days. He gave us more than we could have imagined, and I’m glad at least one person will be able to remember that man for something positive.

  As Severo and I are about to pass through the secured entranceway, I pivot and hold off the detective from departing just yet.

  “Hey, Philip,” I ask, while I still have the chance. “Do you remember the name of the federal agent who brought in Jude?” If we can locate who was on this case before, we may be able to gather background information to nail this guy even more.

  “You’re joking, right?” the convict asks, as a guard leads him to the exit on the opposite side of the room. My look of confusion clearly surprises him, and he says, “I thought that’s why you came here, Agent David.”

  “I don’t get your meaning,” I say, then I look at Severo, who also seems caught trying to make the interpretation.