The Anniversary Man Page 5

  FG: So tell us how these kids were chosen, Robert. Tell us about how that was done.

  RMC: They all looked the same, didn′t they? They were all young and beautiful and innocent, and they were doing things that they shouldn′t have been doing. Doing things out in the street, in public. All of them. All of them were doing those things, and their faces had to disappear. I had to make them disappear, you see? I had to make them go away, and that was the only way they could ever get into Heaven.

  FG: Did you choose them beforehand, or did you just go out at night with your hammer?

  RMC: It was not my hammer.

  WH: Whose was it?

  RMC: God′s Hammer. It was God′s Hammer. Have you not listened to anything I′ve said?

  WARREN HENNESSY/FRANK GORMAN-ROBERT MELVIN CLARE INTERVIEWS. SECTION THREE (PAGES 93-94)

  FG: Tell us about the first couple, Robert . . . tell us about Dominic and Janine. Did you watch them for a while? Did you select them, or was it something random?

  RMC: They were selected.

  WH: And how was the selection process carried out, Robert?

  RMC: They had to look a certain way, I think. I don′t know how they are chosen.

  WH: Do you choose them, or does someone choose them for you? RMC: They are chosen for me.

  WH: And who does the choosing for you, Robert?

  RMC: I don′t know.

  FG: You don′t know, or you don′t remember?

  RMC: I don′t know. I know that someone is sent, and someone shows me who has been chosen.

  FG: Someone is sent?

  RMC: I am not saying anything more about that.

  FG: Okay, okay. So tell us what you remember about the first two you attacked.

  RMC: I remember how she screamed . . . like she thought if she made enough noise someone might hear and come and help her. I hit the boy first. That was a mistake. I learned that you have to hit the girl first because they always make the most noise, but you have to be fast and hit the girl hard enough to silence her. Then you have to hit the boy before he has a chance to react.

  FG: And what did you do to her, Robert?

  RMC: I cleaned her up real good, you know? I can call you Frank? Is it okay if I call you Frank, Detective Gorman?

  FG: Sure you can, Robert.

  RMC: Frank and Warren. Okay.

  FG: You were saying?

  RMC: Yes . . . she got fixed up real good, Frank. That′s a good name. Frank. Frank is a good name . . . a good masculine name, simple, no mistaking Frank, eh, Frank?

  FG: No, Robert, no mistaking Frank. Carry on telling us what happened to her.

  RMC: She had on white socks, I think - and sneakers. Yes, white socks and sneakers. And there was blood all over her. A lot of blood, I think. But she had this expression like there was something hopeful inside of her, something that told her to make like she was enjoying herself, and she might walk away alive.

  WH: But she didn′t, right, Robert? She didn′t walk away from it did she?

  RMC: No she didn′t, Warren . . . she didn′t ever walk again.

  FG: And then?

  RMC: And then nothing. I hit the boy, I hit the girl, everything was finished. I went home. I was gonna stop for pizza on the way back but I wasn′t really hungry.

  JERSEY CITY TRIBUNE

  Thursday, 20 December 1984

  Editor′s Viewpoint The Death of Community

  As the Editor of a major city newspaper I am constantly alerted to the fact that our society has dramatically changed. In my twenty-three year career as a journalist and newspaperman, I have seen the headlines week after week, year after year, and it seems that the job of reporting has now become less a matter of relaying the facts as a matter of stomaching the brutal truth of what human beings are capable of doing to one another.

  It is a tragic comment on our community when a man has to apply to the District Attorney′s Office to protect his home and business premises from people he refers to as ′murder freaks′. (See Page 1 of this edition: ′Hammer of God′ Boss Instigates Legal Action Against Trespassers′.) Don Farbolin has lived and worked in Jersey City for nineteen years. His wife, Maureen, works alongside him at the company they own, a small but moderately successful car repair and renovation shop called ′Auto-Medic Vehicle Repair and Recovery′ on Luis Muñoz Marin Boulevard. Mr Farbolin has stated that his business has collapsed since the arrest of Robert Clare, currently being held in the State Psychiatric Facility in Elizabeth awaiting evaluation for fitness for trial for five recent murders. This collapse is due to loss of custom, the majority of this loss down to the fact that both his home and his business premises have been overrun by people seeking some sort of ′memento′ of Clare, a serial murderer. ′I don′t understand it,′ Mr Farbolin said. ′Who, in their right mind, would want to own something that belonged to a person like Robert Clare? The guy killed people. He was a bad person, it′s as simple as that. I feel like I′ve been targeted by people simply because I had the decency to give someone a job. It′s not right. This isn′t the American Way.′ (Continued on Page 23)

  WARREN HENNESSY/FRANK GORMAN-ROBERT MELVIN CLARE INTERVIEWS. SECTION FOUR (PAGE 95)

  WH: What happened then, after you went home, Robert?

  RMC: I don′t know what happens right away . . . later, when everything . . .

  WH: Everything what, Robert?

  RMC: I don′t remember.

  FG: Tell us something you do remember.

  RMC: The blood. I remember the blood. I remember the sound of the hammer when it hit the boy. Again when it hit the girl afterwards. That was the first time I did it, and for a little while it made me sick to my stomach, but I didn′t have a choice. I remember watching the first girl . . . the way her expression changed, you know? The things that were done to her . . . the way she became a woman before she was even old enough to understand what being a woman was all about. I saw those things. They made me crazy, Frank, really crazy. All that kissing and touching . . .

  FG: And how did you feel later? You know, later, when you got home. How did you feel after the first one? [Subject is silent for forty-nine seconds]

  FG: Robert?

  RMC: How did I feel? How would anyone feel after such a thing? I felt like the Hammer of God.

  SECTION FIVE (PAGES 96-97)

  FG: And what about the second one?

  RMC: The second one?

  FG: The one after Dominic Vallelly and Janine Luckman? You remember them Robert? The 4th of October. Gerry Wheland and Samantha Merrett. RMC: I remember them.

  WH: Tell us what happened between the first attack and the second. RMC: Happened? Nothing happened.

  FG: You waited nearly two months to attack again. How come so long?

  RMC: Everything was out of my control, Frank. Everything was way beyond my control by that point.

  FG: What d′you mean, way beyond your control?

  RMC: Everything took on a life of its own. It was like something possessed me . . . something got inside of me and I couldn′t stop it. There they were - they were right in front of me - and there was nothing I could do to stop any of it happening. If I hadn′t done it then everything would have been so much worse. I can′t expect you to understand what it was like . . . you haven′t ever seen anything like the things I saw—WH: What you saw? Saw where?

  RMC: The night I went out again. The second night. In October. I thought it wouldn′t happen again, thought maybe two were enough. But that night I got the message again . . . the message to go out to work again . . .

  WH: Where did the message come from, Robert?

  RMC: I don′t know. Didn′t I already tell you I don′t know? I don′t know where the message came from . . . it′s all dark inside, dark all the time, like there are no windows, and I go down there and I can see them, and hear them crying and screaming like their souls are crying and screaming . . . like they know what they′re doing is wrong and they need to be cleansed, but they′re too afraid to do it for themselves so they
need me to help them . . . and I could feel how afraid they were, and I knew the only thing that would stop them being so afraid is if they were wished all the way up into Heaven. The instruction comes, and you don′t ignore it, right? It was like a light came on above them and I knew they were the ones . . . And it proves beyond all doubt the compassion of God, that He loves all men regardless of what they have done.

  FG: How so, Robert?

  RMC: Because even the bad ones, you know . . . even the bad ones are given a chance. They′re given a chance, and they take it, and all I had to do was go there and fix it so they′d get their chance when it was right.

  FG: So what happened after the second attack? What did you do?

  RMC: I went home and took a shower.

  FG: You took a shower?

  RMC: Right.

  FG: To wash off the blood?

  RMC: No, because I always take a shower. Every night before I go to bed I take a shower and then I have a glass of milk, and then I go to bed. I can′t sleep if I feel dirty.

  WH: So you went home and took a shower and went to bed?

  RMC: Right. Oh, wait. No, I took a shower and had some milk and I watched TV for a little while.

  FG: What did you watch, Robert?

  RMC: I watched The Rockford Files.

  FG: And this happened the same way with the next couple?

  RMC: What did?

  FG: The sequence of events . . . you went out, you attacked them, and once you were done you went home and had a shower and watched TV?

  RMC: The third time I didn′t watch TV. I went to bed early and read a book.

  FG: Which book?

  RMC: I was reading Raymond Chandler. I like Raymond Chandler. Do you like Raymond Chandler, Frank?

  FG: Haven′t read any, Robert.

  RMC: You should, Frank, you should . . . being a detective and everything. You should read Raymond Chandler.

  JERSEY CITY TRIBUNE

  Thursday, 27 December 1984

  ′Hammer of God′ Killer Suicide at Elizabeth Facility

  Robert Melvin Clare (32), arrested and charged with five counts of murder and one of attempted murder, was this morning found dead in his room at the Jersey State Psychiatric Facility in Elizabeth. Initial reports suggest Clare hung himself with a rope fashioned from strips of sheeting. Head of the Facility, Dr Mitchell Lansden, was unavailable for comment, but a spokesman for the Facility said that a full and complete inquiry would be instigated immediately to determine how such an event could have taken place. Clare had already been questioned by Detective Frank Gorman, head of the Jersey City Homicide Task Force, regarding the recent ′Hammer of God′ murders and had been bound over to the care of the Jersey State Psychiatric Facility for evaluation regarding fitness for trial. When asked for comment, Detective Gorman was reported as having been disappointed that Clare would not be tried for these murders. He also allowed that he was certain of Clare′s guilt, and that with his suicide the State would not have to bear the cost of a trial, and the families of the victims would not have to endure the heartbreak of seeing their sons′ and daughters′ names and pictures in the newspapers. No official statement has been made by the District Attorney′s Office.

  ′You heard what happened?′ Gorman asked.

  ′Heard he killed himself.′

  ′He hung himself . . . made a rope by tearing a sheet into strips, and then he wound them together like a rope.′

  ′Where did he hang himself from?′

  ′Lifted up his bed and leaned it vertically against the wall. Truth was that he didn′t so much as hang himself as choke himself to death. He had to keep his feet up off the ground.′

  John Costello was silent for a while. With difficulty he turned his head and looked toward the window. ′You think he was the one?′

  ′No doubt about it,′ Gorman replied.

  ′He confessed?′

  Gorman was quiet for a few moments. ′I′m not supposed to say anything about his interrogation but yes, he confessed.′

  ′He say why he did it?′

  ′He did, yes.′

  John smiled weakly, turned his head and looked at Gorman.

  ′It was crazy stuff, John. There was no reason. Of course there wasn′t any rational reason. You can′t rationalize irrational behavior.′

  ′But he had a reason he believed in, didn′t he?′

  ′He did.′

  ′You wanna tell me what it was?′

  ′No, of course I don′t want to.′

  ′But you will, right?′

  ′You think it′ll do any good?′

  ′To me?′ John asked. ′No, I don′t think so. Like you said, it′s crazy stuff. I mean it would have to be crazy, wouldn′t it? Sane people don′t go out and smash peoples′ heads in with a hammer.′

  ′He thought he was doing something good,′ Gorman said. ′He thought that he was helping the people that he killed get into Heaven.′

  John smiled sardonically. ′That′s just crazy.′

  ′Sure it is.′ He paused a few moments, then said, ′Anyway, we′ll talk some more later. Get some rest. You look like you′re on the mend.′

  ′You look like you never sleep.′

  ′I don′t.′

  ′Maybe now, eh? Now it′s over.′

  ′Sure, kid. Maybe now.′

  JERSEY CITY TRIBUNE

  Friday, January 4th, 1985

  ′Hammer of God′ Cop Death

  Detective Frank Gorman, head of the Jersey City Homicide Task Force, most recently engaged in the investigation of the Hammer of God murders, died yesterday evening in the restroom of a city restaurant from what was believed to be a heart attack. Gorman (51), a Police Department veteran of twenty-eight years, unmarried and without children, was understood to have been dining alone. Chief of Police Marcus Garrick this morning gave a statement to the effect that Gorman was a diligent and committed officer who will be sorely missed. His funeral will be held at First Communion Church of God on Wednesday, 9th January. Instead of flowers, Chief Garrick has asked that donations be made to the Jersey Police Department Widows and Orphans Beneficiary Fund, care of the Mayor′s office.

  John Costello became the sort of person who finds safety in routines. In counting. In making lists.

  He is not afraid of the dark, for he carries all the darkness he needs inside him.

  See him in the street and he looks like a million others.

  Talk to him and he appears to be just like you.

  But he is not.

  And never will be.

  ONE

  JUNE 2006

  The Carnegie Deli and Restaurant at 854, Seventh Avenue, with its faded yellow sign, its red arched awning, and the fact that they had always cured and smoked and pickled their own, was a little slice of heaven. And once inside, the aromas of salt beef, pickled herring and chicken soup with kneidles, the pictures on the walls, the veteran waiters, their famous rudeness countered only by smiling waitresses, gave a feeling of welcome familiarity.

  Ray Irving, Fourth Precinct Homicide Division, was not himself Jewish, but believed his stomach was a hot contender.

  From the extensive kosher-style menu came his breakfast - bologna omelette, pancake-style, perhaps Virginia ham, thick-cut, with eggs. Other times called for kippered baked salmon with cream cheese, lettuce, Bermuda onion, a bagel on the side, Elberta peaches, chocolate, fruit and nut babka, pumpernickel toast and cranberry juice.

  For lunch there were sandwiches, but these were no ordinary sandwiches. These were the renowned salt beef sandwiches big enough to feed a small family, the Gargantuan Combos with names like Fifty Ways To Love Your Liver, Ah, There′s The Reuben, Beefamania and Hamalot. And for dinner there was Meatloaf and Baked Short Ribs, Vermont Turkey Platter, Roumanian Chicken Paprikash, pastrami served open-faced on homemade potato knishes with melted Swiss cheese. You wanted a salad, they′d make you a salad: Central Park, Julienne Child, George Shrimpton, Zorba the Greek, AM-FM Tuna, the Hudson Liver, and R
ay Irving′s all-time favorite - Salmon Chanted Evening.

  Irving owned an apartment in a three-story brownstone on the West Side at 40th Street and Tenth Avenue. He was not married. He had no children. He did not cook. The Fourth Precinct house was on Sixth at 57th, and thus his route from home to work and back again allowed him to take in Carnegie′s: park behind the Arlen Building near the 57th Street subway station, a short walk, and he was there. They knew him by face and by name, and they didn′t treat him like a cop. They treated him like family. They took his messages when he could not be reached at his home or the precinct house. He ran a tab and paid it monthly. They never asked, and he was never late. Had been this way for years, no reason to change. Amidst the horror that was his life, the things he saw, the part he played as witness to the brutality that human beings were effortlessly capable of perpetrating one against the other, he believed that some things should remain inviolate and unchanged. The Carnegie Deli & Restaurant was one of them.

  Ray Irving slept well, he ate well, and until seven months earlier he had visited a woman called Deborah Wiltshire in her apartment on West 11th near St Vincent′s. They′d talked of nothing consequential, they drank bourbon and played cards, they listened to Miles Davis and Dave Brubeck, they made out like teenagers. Deborah was thirty-nine, a divorcée, and Ray believed that she might once have been a hooker . . . or maybe a dancer. He had known her for nine years, met her on a routine house-to-house after a teenager was found murdered in back of her building. She′d had no information that helped him, but when he was done asking questions she′d looked at him with that light in her eyes and told him to come back if he needed anything else. He′d gone back the following day to ask if she was single, to invite her for a drink. They saw one another for some months, and then he′d started in on what the lawyers would call ′a request for further and better particulars′.

  ′You ever want to make this thing more—′