So in the wake of the Izolda Ozmian interview, he’d dutifully banged on all the doors, shown up at all the scenes, and coughed up the best stories he could. He’d made himself as visible during the press conference two days before as he possibly could without holding up a neon sign. But he wasn’t fooling himself: visibility alone didn’t sell papers, and these new stories of his were long on innuendo but short on facts and evidence.

He made two more perambulations of the apartment and stopped once again in the living room. The laptop sat there, word processor open, cursor blinking at him like a taunting middle finger. He looked around. Three walls of the room were covered with half-decent oils, watercolors, and sketches he’d inherited; the fourth wall was devoted to pictures of his deceased girlfriend, Shannon, as well as to a few plaques and awards he’d received for his work on spotlighting cancer research. The most prominent plaque was for the Shannon Croix Foundation, a fund he had set up in her name to gather money for medical research into uterine cancer. He had accomplished this with the help of the Post, which from time to time did charity drives in coordination with a series of articles. The foundation had become modestly successful, having brought in several million dollars. Harriman was on the board. There was nothing he could do to bring Shannon back—but at least he could do his best to ensure her death had not been entirely in vain.

With a sigh, he forced himself to take a seat at the table and shuffle through the three piles again. It was strange as hell—three beheadings, all in the same area, all within less than two weeks—but with no clear connection between them. Here were three people from different backgrounds, of different social strata, of different ages, professions, and proclivities. Different everything. It was crazy.

If only there was a commonality, he thought. Now, wouldn’t that be something? Not three stories, but one. One huge story. If he could find some common thread running through these murders, these three piles of paper…It could be the story of a lifetime.

He leaned back in his chair. Maybe he ought to head down to the precinct again, try to get some more info about the shootout the night before. They’d really called out the cavalry for that one. He knew it involved a person of interest in the Cantucci murder. But that’s all he could find out.

He just didn’t buy into these complex theories of copycats and multiple killers and conflicting motivations. His gut told him it was one killer. And if so, the killings had to have something in common besides the decapitations—a common motivation. But what? After all, here were three disgustingly rich scumbags who had never even met one another, and yet…

At this, he paused. Three disgustingly rich scumbags. Could that be it? Could that possibly be it?

Maybe not everything about the three victims was different, after all. It seemed so simple. So clean. Three rich scumbags who—in the killer’s mind—deserved to die. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Perfect sense.

In fact, it was the only theory that made sense.

He felt that tingling sensation running up his spine that only occurred when he was on to something big.

But he had to be careful here—very careful. It was a theory, after all. He didn’t want a repeat of that Von Menck story from a few years back, the crazy old scientist predicting New York’s imminent destruction by fire. That particular piece had landed him in hot water. No: if he really was on to something here, it had to be a theory that was backed up by solid reporting, facts, and evidence.

Slowly, deliberately, he paged through first one pile of sheets, then the second, and then the third, thinking carefully as he did so, looking for holes in his theory. Here were three people of overtly bad character. Ozmian, rich party girl; Cantucci, mob lawyer; Bogachyov, arms dealer and all-around asshole. But…it turned out Grace Ozmian had a terrible secret. And he would bet that the other two also had some grotesque evil hidden in their past. Of course they did. They weren’t just low-grade scumbags: each one must have done a horrible deed, like Grace Ozmian, that had never been adequately punished—the very nature of their professions made it almost inevitable. The longer he thought, the more he examined the evidence, the more certain he became. It was so simple, so obvious, it had been staring him in the face all the time.

He began pacing the apartment again, but now the pacing was different: excited, animated. Nobody had figured it out. The police didn’t have a clue. But the more he examined his discovery from every possible angle, the more he became confident…no, convinced…that he was right.

He strode back into the living room, sat down at the Queen Anne table, and pulled the laptop toward him. For a minute he sat motionless, composing his thoughts. And then he began to type: slowly at first, then faster and faster, the keys clacking deep into the snowy night. This would be a Christmas Day story that nobody would soon forget.

26

THE DECAPITATOR REVEALED

Headless Killings Linked

Bryce Harriman, New York Post — December 25

For almost two weeks, New York has been gripped by fear of a murderer. Three people have been brutally killed, their heads removed and spirited away, by an unknown perpetrator or perpetrators. Six others, security guards who apparently got in the way, were also murdered.

The NYPD are stymied. They have admitted they do not know if it is one murderer, or two—or even three. They don’t have a motive. They don’t have solid leads. The investigation has been desperately seeking a connection among the chief victims—any connection—without success.

But is this a classic case of not seeing the forest for the trees? An exclusive Post review of the evidence does suggest a connection, and the very motive, that the police have been floundering to find.

The Post analysis of the evidence lays out certain facts about the primary victims.

Victim one: Grace Ozmian, 23-year-old party girl with no greater aspiration in life than to spend Daddy’s cash, indulge in illegal drug use, and lead a parasitic lifestyle when she’s not in court getting slapped on the wrist for the hit-and-run killing of an eight-year-old boy while driving drunk.

Victim two: Marc Cantucci, AG turned mob lawyer, 65, who’s raked in millions protecting New Jersey’s most notorious crime bosses, a man who’s beaten every grand jury investigation of his activities from embezzlement and extortion to racketeering and murder.

Victim three: Viktor Bogachyov, Russian oligarch, 51, who made his living by brokering decommissioned nuclear weapons via China, who then left his native country to take up residence in a massive Hamptons estate, where he promptly embroiled himself in lawsuits for nonpayment of taxes, stiffing employees, and riding roughshod over town regulations.

Can anyone look at these three “victims” and claim there is no connection among them? The Post analysis shows the glaring commonality: all three are utterly lacking in human decency.

These three “victims” are exceedingly rich, flagrantly corrupt, and entirely reprehensible. You don’t have to be an expert in criminal profiling to find the thread that unites them: they have no redeeming value. The world would be better off if they were dead. They are the very embodiment of the worst of the ultra-rich.

So what is the motive to murder three such people? That now seems obvious. These killings may well be the work of a person who has taken upon himself the role of judge, jury, and executioner; a killer who is certainly a lunatic, perhaps also a religious or moral absolutist, who chooses his victims precisely because they embody the most depraved and dissolute aspects of our contemporary world. And what better place to find such icons of excess than among the one percenters in New York City? And what better place to sow vengeance—to, quite literally, turn Gotham into a City of Endless Night?

While the three victims were murdered by various means, all were then decapitated. Decapitation is the most ancient and pure of punishments. The Decapitator smites his victims with the sword of righteousness, the scythe of God’s wrath, and sends their souls to perdition.

What, then, is New York to learn from these killings? Perhaps the Decapitator is preaching to the city. The killings are a warning to New York and the country. That warning has two parts. The first is made clear by the lifestyles of the victims, and it says: ye one percenters, mend your ways before it’s too late. The second part of the warning is evident in the way the Decapitator selects his victims from the most invulnerable, protected, and bodyguarded in our midst. And that warning is:

No one is safe.

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