Читать книгу Gladyss of the Hunt - Arthur Nersesian - Страница 9
ОглавлениеBernie Farrell wasn’t one of the nineteen who died the night Sandy hit Staten Island. In fact he survived nearly a month after that lethal storm surge. He’d been in bad shape when he retired, because of injuries he’d suffered on the job, and since he was too damn bull-headed to get proper treatment, let alone physical therapy, I’m sure his health had declined further over the years. Reports indicated that for three excruciating weeks after the storm he had camped out in his ramshackle home in New Dorp Beach without electricity, a charged cell phone, or any kind of heat, foraging for whatever food he could find. Apparently he became isolated toward the end. I still don’t know why he ever moved out of his spacious, rent-controlled Manhattan apartment—or how he wound up down there, in the middle of nowhere. No one I knew kept in touch, let alone visited him. Still, you couldn’t feel sorry for him. I’m sure he wanted it that way. Even his immediate neighbors seem to have avoided him. His body was finally discovered when a FEMA housing inspector, after repeated attempts to check for damage, peeked below his window shade, past the can filled with empty liquor bottles, and saw his legs splayed out on the filthy kitchen floor.
I wish I could’ve cried for him. I should’ve felt bad, but after the Blonde Hooker case we went our separate ways, and I was in an awful place. A self-help book I read on depression at the time said it was important to avoid triggers, so I put a big red traffic cone in front of him and everyone else who’d been involved in the whole affair.
Shortly after hearing of Bernie’s death—during the family New Year’s Eve party, before I could welcome in 2013—I had a major falling out with my bipolar brother. It wasn’t so much the fight that bothered me, it was realizing how bad things had gotten. That night I did something I never do—I went home and got seriously drunk. And that was when I found myself carefully piecing together the whole fucked-up mess that had begun almost a decade earlier. Ultimately it really was all Eddie O’Ryan’s fault.
We were both rookies, and after graduating from the police academy O’Ryan and I had been dumped into the Neighborhood Stabilization Unit attached to the One-Four in Midtown South. It wasn’t a bad area, but crowd control on Times Square during New Year’s Eve of 2003 was stressful enough—everyone was still waiting for that next big terrorist attack.
Afterwards, in his studio apartment, we had our own little countdown and popped the cork on a small bottle of champagne. Though Eddie was a little bland, he had rugged good looks and at work he always had my back. The single detail I found most appealing about him was the fact that he was taller than me—at six foot two, I found it difficult to find men I could look up to. He wasn’t a bad kisser and the mood was perfect.
Slowly clothes came off: my shirt, bra, pants, panties. His fingers migrated subtly southward. I had made up my mind to finally get it over with. Quickly we moved from his tiny sofa to his king-size bed, a shiny brass affair that looked like some kind of sexy chariot. As his giant spear rose over me, I started backing away nervously.
“This is actually my first time,” I confessed.
“First time at what?”
“It!”
“Gladyss, are you kidding me!”
“I wish I were.”
“Wow! Not many virgins around nowadays,” he murmured.
“Why don’t I . . .” He slithered down and proceeded to lick me where I was already wet enough. I told him that now I was ready for the kill, and reached down to find that he had gone soft.
Suddenly my cellphone chimed. My brother Carl calling from California. Back then, he was the only person I’d always pick up for.
“Why don’t we take a break?” I suggested, since O’Ryan obviously needed a moment. I hadn’t spoken to Carl in a while and figured he just wanted to quickly wish me a Happy New Year. As Eddie headed into the bathroom, my brother launched into his rant of the day about “Bush’s rape of Iraq.” Soon I heard the toilet flush, and the door opened.
“You’re going to feel foolish when they do find Saddam’s cache,” I told Carl.
“Who?” O’Ryan mouthed.
Since my wallet was on the side table I held it up, showing him the plastic window with a photo of my brother and I hugging.
O’Ryan took the wallet out of my hand and gasped at it in amazement. He had never seen or met my twin, though I had told him about Carl’s anti-war sentiments.
“Is he back on his ‘leave it to the UN’ spiel?”
I didn’t respond. It was best just to let Carl exhaust himself, then I could say goodbye and O’Ryan and I could get back to the business at hand. But my would-be lover shouted out: “If Saddam really had nothing to hide, he’d just give the weapons inspectors full access!”
“Let me speak to that guy,” said Carl.
Within seconds, O’Ryan had my cell pressed to his face and the two were going back and forth about Iraq’s nuclear capabilities. “Saddam was within six months of weapons-grade production back in ’91!” O’Ryan yelled.
I vowed never to answer my brother’s calls again. I should’ve expected this. As twins, the closest thing Carl and I had to a psychic bond was his uncanny ability to call me at the worst possible moments. And yet I’d always answer—perhaps because he always seemed distressed.
I don’t remember falling asleep that night, but when I woke up early the next morning O’Ryan was passed out next to me, snoring loudly. When I delicately tried to revive him, he only rolled to the far side of the bed. For a couple of fidgety hours I tried to go back to sleep. Eventually, unable to get past his kazoo-like snoring, I quietly dressed and went home.
Later that day I decided that my continued virginity was officially Carl’s fault. I left a message on Eddie’s voice mail apologizing for tiptoeing out, adding that I had New Year’s chores awaiting me. I expected that he would quickly call me back, and we’d pick up where we left off, but the call never came. In fact, though I saw him every day at work, over the days and weeks that followed he didn’t say a single word about the aborted act—it was as if the evening had never happened.
I finally called Carl and complained about his phone call interruptus. Without apologizing, he said, “You know, this is exactly what I suspected would happen. I knew you’d go out and do something crazy on New Year’s Eve, and I was right!”
“Give me a break! You’re not my father!”
“No, I’m your older brother and . . .” He took a deep breath. “And you don’t need to rush into this, is all I’m saying.”
“I’m not rushing! I’m the last virgin in this city and Eddie O’Ryan happens to be a really good guy. We work together.”
“That’s no reason to jump in the sack with him.”
“We get along. In fact, he’s my most compatible sign—a Scorpio.”
“Trust me, I saved you from getting stung by a scorpion!” he said, compelling me to hang up on him.
Some winters New York got off easy, but that year it was unforgivably cold. In fact if it hadn’t been so damn cold, I probably would’ve requested a new assignment and a new partner, but the frost seemed to freeze all insecurities. With wind chills hitting minus ten, it was all I could do just to stay on the job. This was before we knew that global warming meant manic cold as well as hot weather. After a barrage of storms that dropped over four feet of snow in a single month, everything froze into mini glaciers. I’d always get a thrill when I heard that alternate side of the street parking had been suspended—it meant a day I didn’t have to write tickets. Unfortunately, those days were few.
I was in the habit of grabbing a venti cup of Starbucks chai when I started my morning tour. Usually I’d spot a violation before I was halfway through drinking it, and I’d have to toss the remainder so I could write the ticket. That day, still feeling a little sleepy, I made the mistake of ordering a coffee. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I was able to down the entire twenty ounces without writing a single ticket and I soon found myself in desperate need of a bathroom. The only sanitary establishment on Forty-second between Ninth and Tenth was an expensive restaurant called DiCarlo’s, and I was pleasantly surprised to see it was open that early. I went in and asked the maitre d’ if I could use their facilities. She pointed to the rear.
As I headed back there, I overheard a waiter addressing the place’s only customer: “Sir, I truly regret having to ask, but cigarette smoking in New York restaurants is no longer permitted.”
When I returned a couple minutes later, I heard the maitre d’ saying, “I’d hate to have to ask you again . . .”
“All right, just one autograph.”
Now that my eyes had adjusted to the dark room, I realized the customer in question was none other than motion picture star Noel Holden, sitting in a corner booth. Of all the celebrities in the pantheon of tabloid gods, he was the one my next door neighbor Maggie was most obsessed with. She had clipped photos of him from various magazines and taped them around the mirror above her armoire.
“It’s the cigar, sir,” the maitre d’ replied. “I believe the waiter just explained—”
“The waiter only said cigarette smoking was prohibited.”
“No smoking is allowed of any kind,” the maitre d’ said politely.
“Look, this is a hundred dollar cigar.” Holden held it up. “I can’t just put it out.”
“We’re in the process of getting a smoking van that will be parked out front,” she told him. “Right now though, all we have is a Bloomberg bucket near the front door.”
Restaurant smoking was the first casualty of the new mayor’s health crusade, which would eventually lead to the banning of trans fats in restaurants and the creation of a city-wide bike system.
“It’s twenty degrees below outside. Let me just have a minute and…” He took another thick puff.
“Either put out the cigar right now or I’ll write you a ticket,” I said, stepping in. Technically it was the job of the Cabaret Unit to monitor illegal smoking, but I owed the maitre d’ a favor.
“This cigar probably cost more than your ticket,” Holden said, looking me over. “But if you’re leaving, I’ll go with you and smoke it outside.”
“Fair enough,” I replied, staring back at him. His zero-fat body and aching good looks were a genuine anomaly. A couple hundred years ago, such absurd perfection would’ve gotten him shunned as a freak.
“You know, I have an even better idea,” he said. “Why don’t I put out the cigar and you join me for an early lunch?”
“Because I’m on duty.”
He stood up and escorted me outside, then—despite the fact that he was wearing only a light sports jacket—followed me into the arctic chill.
I suppose I should’ve been flattered, but I knew from Maggie’s constant chatter about him that Holden was already involved with someone. a surgically enhanced airhead heiress called Venezia Ramada. She had worked briefly as a fashion model, but her breasts were so salined up that they crowded the return lane on the catwalk. Recently she’d completed her first movie—with co-star Noel Holden.
“How about a quick drink?” he persisted as he followed me up the frozen block. “A wholesome cup of cocoa. What do you say?”
“I’m on duty, sir.”
“Surely an Amazonian princess like you can do anything you want.”
O’Ryan must’ve spotted us leaving the restaurant. Sneaking up behind us, he suddenly shoved the actor up against a closed store-front. The icy sidewalk forced Holden to grab hold of O’Ryan to regain his balance, at which point O’Ryan slipped backwards on the ice and fell right on his ass.
“I’m so sorry,” the actor said, unable to avoid a snicker as he extended a hand. “I’m Noel Holden.”
Slapping it away, O’Ryan sprang to his feet and yelled, “I know who you are, asshole! That doesn’t give you the right to harass a police officer!”
“Pardon?”
“It’s okay,” I told O’Ryan.
“If you ever disrespect a cop again,” O’Ryan said, shoving his long index finger into the man’s pretty face, “I don’t care who you are.”
“Was I disrespecting you, my dear?” the handsome one asked me innocently. Of course he wasn’t, but I couldn’t say that. You were supposed to back up your partner. I simply turned away and walked east. O’Ryan followed.
Female civilians are constantly flirting with male cops—I couldn’t count how many times I’d seen O’Ryan enjoying this—but when a guy did it, apparently it was harassment. Nearly a month had passed since Eddie’s failed deflowering of me, and he still hadn’t so much as mentioned it.
It wasn’t until we turned down Ninth Avenue that I finally said, “What the hell is your problem, Eddie?”
“It’s just—I thought he was coming on to you.”
“What if he was?”
He looked away, red-faced. “I saw you coming out of that restaurant with him trailing you,” he said contritely, “and I thought you might be in trouble.”
“Did I look like I was trouble?”
“What were you doing in there anyway?”
“I had to use the goddamn bathroom.”
We proceeded silently down Ninth Avenue, searching for quality-of-life violations or anything that might put the awkwardness behind us.
“Help! Police!” we heard as we reached the corner of Thirty-fifth Street.
We turned to see our sergeant grinning at us from his patrol car. Warm air seeped from his half-lowered window as he asked, “So which one of you wants your first big murder case?”
“What do you mean?” O’Ryan asked.
“I got a crime scene needs protecting.” Sgt. McKenner said.
Security guard work. O’Ryan didn’t say anything, so I said, “I’ll take it.”
O’Ryan often bragged about his pals in City Hall and was hoping for some big administrative appointment in the Mayor’s office sooner or later. He had offered to take me with him when it came through, but back then all I wanted was to be in homicide. Still, he usually would’ve fought to be on a murder scene, so I figured he was trying to make amends.
“Pick up some lunch. You’re going to be there a while.”
“Where?”
“The Templeton, southeast corner of Forty-second and Ninth.”
“We just passed there.” The hotel was half a block east of the pricey restaurant where I had just peed. It was a dive.
“The body was called in this morning, but the murder probably took place last night,” the sergeant explained. “I need you to go and relieve the first on the scene.”
I grabbed another tea on the way. Rookies always caught the jobs no one else wanted. We were constantly being tossed into line-ups or watching investigation sites. And if we were lucky, we occasionally guarded a murder scene.
Several police cars were parked out front of the Templeton. In the lobby was a sloppily dressed clerk who silently pointed to the metal gate to his right. When I went over to it, he buzzed me in, then I went up a flight of stairs.
The browning wallpaper looked more like flypaper. The lighting was permanently dim, and the floor tiles were worn down or missing altogether.
A yellow ribbon sagged loosely across the end of the second-floor corridor. As I stepped over it, I heard a police radio and traced it to Room 236. A big, middle-aged patrolman named Lenny Lombardi was leaning in the doorway finishing a hotdog.
“What’s up?”
“It’s the Blonde Hooker thing,” he replied. Somebody had killed two prostitutes within the past two months, both of them tall and blonde. I didn’t know exactly what had happened, but there were rumors that the murderer had mutilated the bodies horribly.
“So what exactly does he do?”
“Believe me, you don’t want to know. And you don’t want to go in there.” He pointed behind him with his half-eaten hotdog.
“I’ve seen bodies before,” I replied, although actually I had only seen new ones. At that point, childbirths were my one claim to fame. I had driven one bursting mama to Roosevelt Hospital, and on another occasion I’d arrived in the middle of a labor in process and helped in the delivery.
“The killer pulled this one apart limb by limb, numbered the pieces, then taped her back together.” An annoying strand of sauerkraut was hanging from Lenny’s large right cheek.
“Numbered her?” Inside I could only see the back of one of the gloved and masked CSU investigators. He was on his hands and knees, going over the worn carpet with a lint brush. Since the window was open and it was about thirty degrees, he had kept his Northern Exposure parka on. The other technician had Crime Scene Unit printed on the back of his jacket, and was dusting the end table for fingerprints. Their metallic suitcases were open in the corner of the room.
When I took a step inside the room, I saw the vic. With her blood-splattered arms and legs thrust in the air, it looked as if she’d died in the Happy Baby yoga pose. I couldn’t understand how the limbs were defying gravity until one of the forensic people moved away. Several tight coils of transparent tape glistened in the sunlight. The tape encompassed the victim’s elbows and wound its way up her wrists. A black bracelet with large onyx-like pieces dangled from her left wrist, and between her slightly curled fingers the killer had apparently slipped a business card for some local establishment. Another spiral of tape was wrapped around her knees and connected her ankles. More tape tied her upper and lower limbs together.
Not until I looked closely did I see the full barbarity of the crime. The victim had been raggedly decapitated. Nestled on her abdomen, within the tightly woven confinement of taped-up arms and legs, was her head. I slipped back out to the hallway.
“Anyone know who she is?”
“Pross.”
As I watched the technicians dusting the surfaces and the bedside lamp, I asked, “When did they find her?”
“Maid found her this morning,” Lenny said.
“No one saw the john?”
“The desk clerk said the girl signed for the room. A guy was with her, but he couldn’t even give an age or race,” Lenny explained. I knew he was tired of talking about it.
“So whose case is it?”
“Hernandez already came and went.” He was one of the precinct homicide detectives.
When a murder occurred, the precinct detectives came first. If it was an isolated killing, as it usually was, it belonged to them. After they ran it through the database, if a preexisting pattern turned up—an open case—they would call for homicide investigators from Manhattan South. They caught everything south of 59th Street.
As he pulled on his scarf and buttoned up his coat, Lenny said, “About ten minutes ago, the guy at the desk was going to send someone up with a chair. I’ll remind him on my way out.”
I thanked him and he was gone.
When one of the techs finally exited the room, I peeked inside as the other guy was carefully putting away his tools and chemicals and asked if they’d found anything.
“Yeah, a sperm archive of every man born in the last century. I don’t think they ever changed the sheets.” He nodded toward the body. “No sign our killer had sex with this one, though.”
“How old was the victim?” I asked.
“Early twenties,” he read from his report. “Blonde hair. Several identifying tattoos that could have been done in prison.”
The maid, an older black woman in a torn wool sweater, appeared at the end of the hallway. She was pushing a broom cart out of one room, heading toward another.
“Excuse me!” I called, walking over to her. “Are you the one who found the body?”
“Hell yeah, and I’ll never forget it. Never saw no one with no head before.” She spoke with a faded island dialect. “And some policeman took my fingerprints, but I was telling them, I didn’t do nothing wrong.”
“They’ll just be elimination prints, to make sure we can rule you out. Did anyone interview you?”
“Yeah, some guy with a bushy mustache.” That was Hernandez. “Oh, and the cop who was just here. He took my name and the name of a tenant who’s lived down the hall a long time.”
“Did you ever see the victim before, when she was alive?” I inquired. I wasn’t supposed to question anyone, but I was alone and I had time to kill.
“Yeah, I told the other officer. She came here from time to time.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I remembered her ’cause she tipped me once, when the room was a real mess.”
“How’d you know it was her?”
“The cop let me look at her face,” she said. “I remembered her tattoo.”
“What tattoo?”
“She had a tiny tear drop near her eye.” I had noticed it.
“So when was the last time you saw her?”
“A month or so ago, I guess. I don’t really remember. The old desk clerk, Sam, he used to have deals with some of the girls.”
“What kind of deals?”
“He’d give the girls a room, just for an hour or so. After a guest checked out, but before I’d clean them. He died a while back, before the big sweep. Maybe the new guy does it now.”
“Would you recognize any of the johns who were with her in the past?”
“Maybe, if I saw them, but I didn’t know her regulars.”
“Does this place have any exits other than the one through the lobby?”
“The fire escape out front,” she replied.
Some detective, a young guy in a Gucci knock-off, came in with a uniform cop named Ray. I sensed they were only there for a little sightseeing.
I thanked the cleaning lady, and followed them into the room. The sightseers fell silent when they saw the vic, so I asked them to watch the scene a minute while I dashed out.
I thought there was at least a chance the killer had left some trace behind, on his way to and from the room. Flicking on my Maglite, I pointed it at the floor as I headed down the hallway. Stopping myself, I paused, closed my eyes, and took some quick shallow breaths—a technique I had recently learned that was designed to heighten my awareness. After a moment my heartbeat quickened. I knew I was ready.
I continued to the staircase and looked down all the way to the lobby—nada. I went back up. On the half landing, just above the murder scene, I spotted a double A battery in the corner. Let it be relevant to the case, I thought as I bent over. Almost through sheer force of will, it became a tube of lipstick. When I rolled it up, and saw the color was bright orange, I realized I had stopped willing too soon. It didn’t quite match the color worn by the victim. Still, I held it by its edge as I returned to the room.
“We gotta dash,” one of the sightseeing cops said when I returned.
An old wooden folding chair was now leaning against the hallway wall. I opened it, unlidded my cold tea, and waited for the Johnny-come-lately from Homicide South.
Ten minutes later a surprisingly young guy showed up, a cigarette between his yellow teeth and a gold shield dangling from a leather wallet that was wedged in his jacket pocket.
“How’s it going?” he greeted me.
“You’re a detective?” I asked astonished. With his fuzzy post-adolescent mustache, he couldn’t have been much older than me.
“What do we have?”
“I only looked inside,” I said, in case he was testing me. “Her head is cut off, and her limbs were taped together.”
“Holy shit!” he said, then snapped a photo of the victim from the doorway. “Do we have a name?”
“Not to my knowledge. Seems like she was a hooker.”
“So how many murders does this make it?”
“You’re the detective, you tell me,” I replied. “Are you allowed to smoke in here?”
When he grinned, I realized I hadn’t been following proper procedures. I flipped open my memo book and told him that if he wanted to enter the room, he had to sign it first, since I was technically in charge of the scene. I should’ve gotten the earlier sightseers to do likewise.
“Let me finish my cig first,” he said and walked back down the stairs.
It took me a minute or two before I realized he wasn’t coming back. Whoever that kid was, he wasn’t a detective. Probably a reporter, damn it. They were constantly monitoring police radios.
Twenty minutes later, I heard coughing in the distance. The cough slowly grew louder and was accompanied by an odd thud. Finally a rugged, older man emerged from the stairway, panting for air. He walked with a distinct limp. This guy had detective written all over him.
As soon as he saw me, he nervously planted an unlit cigarette between his lips.
“My fucking foot is killing me.”
“Who exactly are you?” I asked.
He took his wallet from his pocket and flipped open his gold shield. “Detective Sergeant Bernie Farrell. Is the rest of the squad here?”
“Just me, sir.”
“Who are you again?”
“Officer Chronou.”
“First name, dear heart?”
“Gladyss, with two esses.”
“Tell me no reporters came by, Gladyss.”
“Actually this young guy just came by . . . He said he was a detective, but he kept asking me questions.”
“Make me glad, Gladyss with two esses, and tell me he didn’t snap a picture.”
“He took a picture.”
“Shit! Exactly what does ‘protect the crime scene’ mean to you?”
“I’m really sorry, sir,” I said.
“No, I shoulda told . . . See, some asshole reporter got ahold of the mugs of the last vic, as well as the crime scene of the first vic, and has been running stories on the case.”
Detective Farrell went over and stared down at the body. He hung his hand forward and pursed his lips like a gargoyle. “Shit,” he said. He walked around the room until he came to the window, then stared up at the surrounding buildings silently for several long minutes.
“Why don’t you warn him off?” I said, if only to awaken him.
“We tried, but there wasn’t a byline on the stories, they were just credited to a special correspondent,” Farrell said. “And surprise, surprise, the newspaper’s editor refused to reveal their sources.”
“The real fear,” he continued, “is that killers sometimes like to return to the scene of the crime. And this killer does this whole weird human sculpture thing.”
“I remember this guy’s face pretty clearly.”
“Well, he probably isn’t the murderer. The killer is obviously smart, or we would’ve caught him by now. And this murder officially makes him a serial killer.”
“This is the third?”
“The third that we know of, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there are others we don’t know about. Look at this weird shit.” He pointed to the corpse.
“They’re all tall with blonde hair.”
“Maybe his ex was tall?”
“I think the reason he looks for tall gals is because of this whole structure he makes.” He pointed to the bound limbs. “He wants them nice and erect.”
“She’s holding a card in her hand.”
“Yeah, the last one had an expired Metrocard, and some tacky bracelet on her other wrist, too—but it really varies here.” He pointed to the poor woman’s skull. “In the first murder, he moved the head up over there, and he carved the number 9 on the vic’s forehead. The second one, he cut the number 2 on her forehead and put the head over there.” He pointed to the right.
“It’s like some perverse work of art, isn’t it?”
“Shit! I definitely should’ve had this joint staked out.”
“How could you know he’d bring her here?”
“It’s one of the only three places he could’ve brought her.”
“Isn’t this area loaded with fleabag hotels?”
“Not anymore. Everything’s either been zoned or priced up. Ten, fifteen years ago you could rent rooms by the trick, screw, strangle, and be out in twenty. But all the streetwalkers and car johns have moved online or up to Hunts Point.”
“I’ve seen streetwalkers around here,” I said.
“Yeah, you still get a few desperadoes along Lex—but all our vics are from escort services. And the hotels around here are strictly all-night affairs. Some of the rooms are three, four times the price of the girl. But aside from being one of the cheapest, this crap-ass dive is one of the last three hotels in the area that doesn’t even have a video setup in the lobby.”
He let out a big sigh and muttered, apparently to himself. “Fuck, Bert would’ve had them all staked out—at least for a week after the last girl. Course, he had the power to authorize that and I don’t.”
“Someone must have seen something.”
“The clerk here said he had no recollection of the john, just the girl. We were luckier at the last scene. The clerk there clearly remembered the vic and her john.”
The detective pulled out a creased sketch that looked eerily similar to the one I remembered of the Unabomber. He could’ve been anywhere from forty to sixty, and wore dark sunglasses and a loose hoodie.
“How’d he pay for the room?’
“A stolen credit card that didn’t lead anywhere.”
“So what now?”
“Well, now he’s going to have to leave his hunting ground—’cause we’re going to be waiting for him in all the old familiar places.”
Looking at his wristwatch, Farrell said, “The medical examiner is still at a murder scene up in East Harlem. After he’s been here and checked out this body, you can call the morgue to come collect her. Then it’s the ME’s job. You can seal up the room.”
“No one’s going to relieve me?”
“You’re on a regular daytime shift, right?
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll be done by the end of your shift.”
Hopefully I could still make my evening yoga class.
The detective snapped on a pair of latex gloves, took out his notebook, and started scribbling notes as he walked carefully around the room. Finally he took out a magnifying glass and inspected the floor.
“This guy must’ve used a fucking drop cloth,” the detective said. “Forensics told me, but I had to see it for myself. Except for right here, there ain’t a drop of blood.”
“Wouldn’t a lot of blood have pumped out when he decapitated her?”
“Not when they’re already dead,” Bernie replied. “This guy drugs them, strangles them, and then beheads them. That’s a lot of time and energy.”
“What does he slip them, roofies?”
“Nah, you only use roofies if you want to keep them alive, and he doesn’t want to screw them. He gives them some cheap over-the-counter shit, then once they’re nodding off, he strangles them with his hands.”
After a moment he asked, “So how long you been out of the academy?”
“Six months.”
“So you’re still a proby.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied. Then I asked him back, “Do you always work on your own, sir?”
“My squad was here earlier; they’re supposed to come back soon. I had the same partner for nearly twenty years. Bert died recently.”
I suddenly remembered. “Oh! I might’ve found a clue.”
I showed him the lipstick I’d found on the stairs. “It doesn’t match anything she’s wearing, but I thought it might possibly be evidence.” Still wearing his latex gloves, he carefully took the lipstick.
“But you found this outside the room?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a crazy little go-getter, aren’t you? I like that.”
He tossed the lipstick into the trash. “There’s a reason we have a crime scene. You can go crazy if you start on an endless scavenger hunt. Unless of course you find a gun. Those are always keepers.”
“Sorry.” I’d hoped that my Kundalini had finally been turned on.
“Most cops are fat and lazy, so you get points for trying.”
“You said the other victims were all blondes?”
“Yeah, why?”
“And this girl’s pretty tall.”
“Even without her head,” he joked.
“So he must be calling escort services and asking for tall blondes.”
“You figured that out, did you?”
“I’m a tall blonde,” I said.
“Chronou,” he read my name plate. “What are you, Greek?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Greeks are usually brunette.”
“Not necessarily. If you read histories of ancient Greece, they are usually described as a blonde race.”
“But how do I know you’re a natural blonde?” he said, sliding his unlit cigarette back into the pack.
“Does this look like a dye job?” I said, plucking off my hat and ear warmers.
“I don’t know how he knows,” the detective said earnestly, “but with all the vics, the carpet has always matched the drapes.”
I wasn’t sure if he was kidding me, so I didn’t say anything. When I saw the helpful maid passing by, I introduced her to Detective Farrell without making eye contact with him.
“You look familiar,” Farrell said. “I never hauled you in for anything, did I?”
“No sir.”
He gave her a slight grin and thanked her for her help, then turned back to me.
“So how’d you like a juicy ninety-day assignment?” he asked.
“Sure,” I shot back.
The PBA had a rule that cops couldn’t get temporary transfers to homicide for longer than 90 days, because these short assignments rarely led to promotions. Still, it was a chance to get my foot in the door.
“Prove to me you’re a natural blonde and the assignment’s all yours,” he said.
I lifted my right leg, yanked up the cuff of my pants along with my long johns, and showed him the two-week growth of yellowish stubble on my upper calf.
“I ain’t showing you my carpet, but you can see my welcome mat.”
The detective broke out laughing.
“A female cop who shaves her legs that infrequently deserves to be brought in from the cold.”
It crossed my mind that if he did get me a transfer, I’d have a conflict. I was scheduled to have laser surgery on my eyes in little more than a month, to fix my nearsightedness. An eye-glassectomy, as my neighbor Maggie called it. But I’d only be out of action for a day or so.
Detective Sergeant Bernie Farrell wrote down my name and badge number, and asked why my first name had two esses instead of one. I explained that it was an old Welsh spelling.
“I thought you were Greek.”
“I am. My mom named me after an old family friend.”
Two other detectives from Farrell’s squad came by, a rotund black man and a slim white woman, both in their forties. He quietly reviewed several points with them and they all left together.
Over the next hour or so, several other cops dropped in to see the murder scene. I copied down their names and badge numbers. Toward the end of the shift, O’Ryan finally made an appearance.
“So this is your big murder case?” he asked, peeking inside.
“Guess what?” I said. “The lead detective said he was going to consider me for a ninety-day homicide assignment.”
“Whose case is it?”
“Detective Farrell’s.”
“Burnout Farrell!” He burst out laughing. “Oh, you drew the short straw on this one!”
“Why?”
He carried on chuckling like I had just been pranked.
“Aside from the rumor that he killed his partner, he is one nasty SOB.”
“What do you mean he killed his partner?”
“The guy had some lingering disease, and Farrell was the last to see him alive at the hospital.”
“As long as he wasn’t shot in the back.”
“Anyway, they might give you a thirty-day, but that’s it.”
“Hey, thirty days in homicide is fine.”
O’Ryan looked closely at the body. Probably because we were amateurs at this, we talked like seasoned detectives. I relayed what I’d seen and what I’d been told, and we hypothesized about the killing just as they had taught us in the academy.
“If he didn’t screw her, why’d he kill her here?” O’Ryan said, trying to get inside the killer’s head. I shrugged. “It’d be so much easier to pick her up in a car, then he could just dump her body in the river. That’s what I would do.”
The Caribbean maid appeared in the hallway.
“Where’s that other guy?” she asked.
“What other guy?”
“That older guy that was here with you.”
“He left.”
“I saw him with her before, that’s why I’m asking.”
O’Ryan gave me a funny look and asked her, “You saw the lead detective with the victim on a previous occasion?”
“Yes sir.”
“When?”
“A few weeks ago. They were in here together.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure. Game leg. Smoker’s hack. He was pretty rough with her, too.”
“Lucky he didn’t recognize you,” O’Ryan said.
“He probably did. That’s why he asked me if I had a criminal record. He was trying to ’timidate me.”
“Was he with her?” O’Ryan asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Was the detective her john?”
She shrugged.
“Was he alone or with another cop?” I asked.
“You know what? Maybe I’m wrong. Forget it,” she said nervously and left.
If she was right, I thought, that could account for Farrell’s weird reaction on seeing the victim’s body.
“Most detectives look like johns, though.” O’Ryan always defended cops automatically. “And there are a lot of vindictive people in this job.”
“Believe me,” I said staring at him with arched brows, “I know.”
“Listen,” O’Ryan said slightly jerkily. “I’m sorry about earlier today.”
“You should be.”
“Hey, if he was just another guy, I wouldn’t have said anything, but I read enough gossip columns to know Holden’s a real sleazebag.”
“Like what, exactly?”
“Like he slept with the director’s fiancée! And the guy was supposedly his best friend.”
The ME finally showed up and began his examination of the body. If it had taken him this long to get here during the worst of the summer heat, it would’ve been decomposed by now. Feeling self-conscious, O’Ryan checked his watch and said he’d better get back to work.
Half an hour later, when the ME was done and was signing the paperwork, I radioed for the morgue. The ME left, and twenty minutes later the meat wagon arrived and took all the parts of the ravaged body away, leaving a bloody spot in the middle of the carpeted floor, where the killer had evidently done all his cutting. I carefully sealed the room with a BY ORDER OF THE NYPD sticker, and locked the door, taking the key with me.
