Wednesday afternoon, just after three p.m., Ellis and Warren found themselves standing over the body of yet another slaughtered female. They had received the call from a 49th Precinct homicide dick, who after one look at the victim, surmised that ‘the Butcher crew’ had better be alerted.
Sydney parked his Blazer, rolled down his window and attached the flashing light. He then made his way to his two sergeants, noticing that the medical examiner was working steadily on the fallen woman.
Ellis looked up as he approached. “Hey.”
Sydney grunted a reply. “Who found the body?”
“Two kids on their way home from school.”
“He give you anything yet?” Sydney asked, nodding toward the young M.E.
“Not yet,” Ellis said, turning to the young man. “Hey Tate, what you got for me?”
Without looking up from his grim task, he replied, “Judging from the level of rigor mortis, I’d guess she probably died late last night or early this morning.” He looked up at the detectives. “I’ll know more after I get her over to the lab.”
“Bernie Frank is aware she’s coming,” Sydney stated matter-of-factly. “He’ll be handling it from here.”
Anger flashed in the man’s eyes. “With all due respect, Lieutenant, I’d sure like a crack at this one.”
“Sorry, Bernie’s my medical examiner on these particular homicides.”
Tate turned back to the dead woman. “Then why isn’t his tired old ass down here, sir?”
Sydney admired the kid’s spunk, but only to a point. “I told him to take today off—not that it’s any of your damn business.” Tate nodded, subdued, but far from appeased. “However,” Sydney continued, “I was able to track him down. If you ask nicely, I just might let you assist him on this one.”
The young examiner looked up at Sydney hopefully. “You just might learn something from his tired old ass.”
“Sorry, Lieutenant, no offence intended. I just think I can help.”
“Alright, you can start by telling me what you’ve learned about our Jane Doe here.”
Warren stepped forward, the ever-present notebook open and in his hand. “I believe we’ve got an ID on her, Lieutenant. Two of her co-workers from across the street say she is a Rosemary Battle.”
Sydney appeared surprised. “A hooker?”
“Apparently.”
Tate kneeled next to the slain woman. “Lieutenant, take a look at the wounds.”
Sydney frowned, but reluctantly joined him, grimacing at the jagged throat wound at which Tate was pointing. He fought the bile rising in his throat.
“This one is so deep that it wouldn’t have taken much more force to sever the head completely.” He then brought his hand down to the grotesque lower wound. “This wound is compatible with the ones of your other victims, I believe.”
Sydney forced himself to study the horrid gash, the intestines purposely exposed and pulled outside of the body.
“Probable murder weapon?” he asked through clinched teeth.
“I wouldn’t doubt a butcher knife.”
Ellis kneeled beside Sydney, pointing at the body. “Syd, you notice anything different about these wounds?”
Sydney made himself look again. “I don’t know… a little more jagged maybe.”
Ellis nodded, raising his bulky body from the uncomfortable position. “Yeah, I thought so too.”
Tate stood, facing Sydney. “We should be finished here in a few more minutes. I’ll get with Dr. Frank and we’ll have something for you guys soon.”
“Sounds good,” Sydney replied. He turned to Warren. “You think you could handle things here? I need to borrow your partner.”
“Sure, there’s plenty of him to go around.”
Sydney started to smile, but catching a glimpse of one of Rosemary Battle’s outstretched legs out of the corner of his eye, he could only manage a grimace. “Thanks, buddy—we’ll see you back at the station.” Sydney took one last glance at the carnage, then walked to the Blazer, with Ellis is tow.
They put the fifteen-minute drive to good use, eagerly trading ideas and questions. “You think our boy is killing hookers now?” Sydney asked.
“Maybe—it looks like he might be slumming it now. That’s the first one on this side of town.” He stared at Sydney. “This pretty much gets the senator off the hook.”
“According to Morrell, the plane wasn’t scheduled to leave until sometime this morning. Technically, that might still keep Reed in the ballgame.”
“I’ll find out the exact time of the departure,” Ellis said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Damn, I really don’t buy him coming to the Bronx. He’d stick out like a sore thumb.”
“I’m sure that Bulldog Burroughs is checking to see if anyone saw anything.”
“Judging by your conversation with Captain Bradshaw, I guess showing Reed’s photo to some of those prostitutes is out of the question,” Ellis said, smiling mischievously.
Sydney grunted a laugh. “Yes, smart ass. I can get myself fired without any help from you.”
◆ ◆ ◆
It was well past seven o’clock when Bernie Frank finally summoned Sydney. Ellis decided to tag along.
Sydney noted that young Tate was working side by side with Frank. He nodded a greeting at him as he entered the room.
Bernie looked up. “Sydney, Ellis… how are New York City’s two finest?”
“You tell us, Bernie,” Sydney responded. “Our mood always seems to be influenced by you lately.”
Frank was still working on the body of the young prostitute, forcing Sydney to fight the queasiness he always felt in that room. Ellis calmly surveyed the proceedings, prompting Sydney to shake his head. “You squeal like a damn toddler during a car chase, but you can watch this shit without blinking an eye.”
“Hasn’t Doctor von Frankenstein here explained that after the soul has left—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Sydney interrupted, “after the soul has left the body, you’re talking perishable goods.”
“I definitely believe this is the work of our boy,” Bernie said, ignoring the banter.
Ellis stepped closer, pointing to the abdominal wound. “I was telling Syd that the cut looked different on this one. Couldn’t this have been some kind of copycat killing? Maybe a different knife was used?”
Bernie looked up from his work, meeting the eyes of both detectives. “Sorry, Ellis, I think you’re off base on that one. First,” he stated, pointing to the abdominal cavity of the body, “yes, the wound is different from the others—but in appearance only.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Sydney groused.
“The depth and severity of the wound is consistent with the others. I believe that the same—or similar—knife was used.”
Sydney and Ellis still registered confused expressions.
“It should be obvious to you guys,” Tate said, speaking for the first time.
Ellis gave the young man a weary glare. “Oh please, Doogie Howser, share with us your infinite wisdom.” Seeing Tate’s confused expression at the reference, he continued, “Doogie Howser? Sitcom in the 80’s?” Still nothing from Tate. “Damn, just how young are you?”
Tate, bored from the distraction, turned back to the cavity wound. “The jagged effect on this particular victim was caused by one very simple fact.” He paused for effect. “The Butcher hurried on this one.”
Sydney glanced at Bernie, who added, “Think about it, fellas. He’s in an alley just a few blocks down from this poor victim’s hooker friends. He probably wanted to spend more time, but the risk of discovery was too great.”
“Any sign of sexual assault?” Ellis asked.
“There are definite traces of semen about the abdominal cavity, just like the others,” Bernie answered, glancing at Sydney. “And, unless I’m mistaken, you’ve never told the press about this particular anti-social habit our boy displays?”
“Nope, not a word. Damn, this has to be our guy.”
“Yep,” Bernie stated, nodding in agreement. “If this sample comes back PGM 1, class A secretor, you can bet your pension it’s his work.” He went back to work on Rosemary Battle. “This one appears to be a little older than his normal taste, not to mention the fact that she was a prostitute. Why do you think he switched up this time?”
“Yeah, she was thirty-one,” Ellis said. “Why a hooker? That’s a good question.”
“Then I suggest that you two fellas get out there and find out why. Meanwhile, me and Doogie here will finish this up.”
Sydney grunted, dreading his next duty. “First I have to go out and feed some very hungry wolves.”
Ellis, noting the confused expressions on the faces of both medical examiners, added, “The press.”
Nodding their good-byes, Ellis and Sydney walked through the door and down the hallway. Sydney suddenly stopped, punching the wall with a clenched fist. “Dammit!”
“What?” Ellis asked, deeply concerned.
“If we had just tailed Reed last night like any detectives worth their fucking salt, we’d know right now whether or not the guy was involved.”
“Yeah, but if the esteemed senator had spotted us, we’d be hung out to dry, with our dicks hanging in the wind,” Ellis reasoned.
Sydney nodded grimly, disgusted with the truth behind Ellis Moore’s statement. “Sometimes this job sucks.”
“That it does, Syd—that is does. You sure you wanna face those hell hounds outside? I can sneak you out the back.”
He shook his head, sighing loudly. “It’s part of the job, buddy. Thanks anyway.” He took a couple of steps toward the front door, then turned back to Ellis. “You and Warren meet me in my office tomorrow morning at seven-thirty.”
“You got it boss.”
◆ ◆ ◆
“Lieutenant Berry, is there anything else you can give us? Come on… help us out a little.”
Sydney glared at the aggressive reporter from The Times. Everything seemed to be in slow motion, as he scanned the mass of scrambling journalists, physically trampling each other to get “the story.” A microphone was thrust so close that it grazed his chin. The heat rose in his face, as he roughly shoved the intruding equipment away. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen of the press, I have every reason to believe that those high-tech microphones will pick up my voice from, say, at least six inches away.”
The mob backed off, but only slightly.
“I’m not going to blow wind up your skirts. We are not where I would like to be in this investigation. We are, however, working fourteen-hour days, trying our damndest to make some headway.”
Shirley Richards, standing several feet behind the pile of reporters, still managed to be heard above the din. “Lieutenant, surely he has left some clue behind, some shred of himself. DNA, hair fibers… something.”
Sydney locked eyes with her, anger boiling inside him. “Just for the sake of argument, Ms. Richards, let’s say that we do have some little secret we are keeping from all of you—one morsel of information that could mean the difference between catching this guy or not. Now, giving out this tidbit would make great copy for you, but could theoretically screw up our entire case in the process. I’m sure that none of you would impede our investigation over a few lousy ratings points. Would I be naïve to assume that, Ms. Richards?”
Shirley’s eyes flashed with rising anger. “Your low opinion of our profession is showing again, Lieutenant.”
“No, Ms. Richards, I’m simply asking for a little mutual respect between a group of professionals with jobs to do. The only thing I ask of the media is that you realize we’re not the Keystone Cops. I have really good people putting in countless extra hours trying to catch this monster.”
Sydney and Shirley stared at each other, declaring a mutual cease fire. The other reporters looked on with a mixture of curiosity and confusion over the dynamic between the two. “One thing I would like to stress in closing… if the same person was responsible for this murder, then he has broadened his victim base somewhat. As I have already told you, this victim was a prostitute. I advise all women, regardless of age or race, to exercise extreme caution until we apprehend this individual. If they don’t have a dead bolt, get one. If they have one, use it. Stay off the streets at night. Only travel in pairs or groups.”
“There are no suspects at all, Lieutenant?” a male reporter asked sheepishly.
Sydney paused momentarily, imperceptibly to everyone except Shirley Richards. “No, unfortunately we have no suspects at this time.”
Shirley frowned at Sydney, knowing that he was hiding something. She was certain of it.
◆ ◆ ◆
Ellis Moore sat in his black leather recliner, flipping through the channels with the ever-present remote control. His mind never left the case for more than a few minutes. His wife and daughter had retired hours before, leaving him to contemplate the most frustrating two months of his career.
At eleven-thirty, he finally climbed from the worn chair, making his way toward the bedroom. He jumped as the kitchen wall phone rang out just as he walked by. “Damn,” he muttered, startled by the loud noise. “Hello,” he answered, irritated.
“Sergeant Moore?” the voice asked.
“Yeah,” he answered gruffly, “who’s this?”
“Sorry to call so late, Sergeant. This is Terry Morrell—calling from Washington.”
Ellis cleared his throat. “Yeah, Terry, how’s it going?”
“A friend of mine called tonight. He said that another girl was killed.”
“Your friend was correct. A prostitute named Rosemary Battle was killed late last night—or very early this morning.”
“Why didn’t you or Lieutenant Berry call? I would have thought you might.”
“I was going to call you first thing in the morning—I had a feeling you’d be hard to reach when this thing broke. What time did the senator leave this morning?”
Terry had expected the question. “Ten a.m., almost to the second. That means it could’ve conceivably been Reed—he was still in New York.”
“Whoever did it hurried on this one. He killed her in an alley in the red-light district.”
“Of course he hurried on this one,” Terry snapped in disgust. “The bastard had a plane to catch first thing this morning. But, hey, he did manage to work one more in before leaving town.”
Ellis cleared his throat before proceeding with his next statement. “Terry, we’ve been advised to stay away from the senator. He can’t know that we are checking on him. Understand?”
Terry snorted a sarcastic laugh. “That didn’t take long. Dexter fucking Reed—Mr. Untouchable.”
“Terry, I’m not saying we’re gonna leave you high and dry. We just have to be extra careful.”
Terry sighed audibly, his frustration shared by Ellis. “Yeah… okay… I’m not going anywhere.”
“Take an extra good look at him in the morning. See if there are any scratches on his arms, face, or neck.”
“I didn’t notice anything this morning,” Terry said, “but I’ll take a closer look.”
“Call me back if you come up with anything.”
“Yes sir—you do the same. Talk to you soon.”
Ellis hung up the phone, turning to head for the bedroom. The refrigerator caught his eye. Fantasies of strawberry shortcake, submarine sandwiches, and ice cream… danced in his head. Who would know? his mind reasoned. After much silent debate, he sadly shook his head, forcing himself to walk away from the almond colored appliance that had, for years, held him captive. “Damned lieutenant’s exam,” he mumbled, stumbling in the dark.
◆ ◆ ◆
Sydney’s apartment just didn’t feel right that night. He had lived there for thirteen years, so it should have fit like an old shoe. Two months prior, he would have eagerly plopped down in front of the television after a long day, a huge ham, salami and cheese hoagie in one hand, a frosty cold beer in the other. He probably would have watched ESPN until eleven or twelve, before retiring to his bed or falling asleep on the sofa.
Then the killings had started. He and Shirley were thrown together. Irritation gave way to admiration, which then led to flirtation. There was something chemical that went on between them—something obvious to them both.
Sydney had been married once, at twenty-one. He had also been divorced once, at twenty-two. He liked to think it was all her fault, but the truth was that they were just too damn young.
In the years since, he had dated occasionally, though never growing remotely serious with anyone. He was no ladies’ man, by any stretch of the imagination. He did know, however, where all the soft spots were on a woman’s body. He realized as he passed thirty and beyond that he had no inclination to give up his freedom, or poker nights with Jim, Ellis and the guys.
That was the way it had been. Shirley Richards changed all that. After a few weeks of cat and mouse, he had finally asked her out. She said no. He charmed her. She said yes. Nature took it from there.
He smiled, reclining on the sofa, remembering their first time and every time since. He was forty-three years old, but found himself as lovesick as any sixteen-year-old alive. He picked up the phone, dialing her number.
“Hello,” her angelic voice filtered into his ear.
“Hello yourself. I was hoping you were coming over tonight. I could really use the company.”
She paused, causing Sydney to wonder if she was still on the line.
“Shirl?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” she said softly.
“What’s wrong?” Sydney asked, worry creeping into his voice.
“Sydney, we need to talk.”
He suddenly felt dead, unable to focus. He knew instinctively that she was about to break his heart. “What is it Shirl?” he asked nervously.
“We were reckless today,” she replied softly.
He knew where she was headed. “Come on—you’re just being paranoid.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I am paranoid.”
“Shirley, no one noticed anything. Hell, even if they did, who the hell cares?”
“I care, dammit,” she said sternly.
His anger rose. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t.”
“Do you realize the implications of our relationship? What people would think if they knew we were sleeping together?”
“It’s nobody’s damn business.”
“Come off it, Sydney. You are head of the biggest investigation to hit this city since Son of Sam. I’m in one of the most competitive businesses known to man.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“Do you want people to think I’m a whore?” she asked flatly.
“Of course not, but—”
“But nothing,” she interrupted. “My integrity is at stake here. It’s different for a woman. Think about it—you know I’m right,” she finished, barely above a whisper.
Feeling her slipping away, he desperately tried to keep her talking. “Have I ever given you one single fact about this case that your colleagues were not privy to?”
She paused for a few seconds. “Yes, you did—and without even realizing it.”
“Make sense, Shirl—what the hell are you talking about?”
“At your press conference this afternoon, remember when you said that there were no suspects?”
“Yeah, so?”
She laughed wryly. “So? So you were lying and you damn well know it.”
“You’re wrong, lady,” he replied, his face reddening.
“Bullshit. There is definitely a suspect. As a reporter, I want to know who that suspect is.”
“What suspect?” Sydney asked coolly.
She ignored his denial. “See, that’s the problem. The lines are getting too blurred for me. The reporter in me expects you to lie to me. As your lover, I resent the hell out of it.”
“You know that’s not fair, Shirl.”
Her voice once again softened. “You’re right—it isn’t fair. That’s why we need to cool it for a while—at least until this case is over and done with and things die down a little.”
“That is a copout if I’ve ever heard one,” Sydney said wearily, “and I really never took you for a quitter.”
He sensed that she was crying, though trying to conceal it. After a lengthy pause, she sniffed, then spoke in a soft monotone, “You may be right—I probably am copping out. I just know that I have to do what feels right to me.”
“This is crazy,” he said, sighing audibly.
Her voice rose slightly, her tone more insistent. “Dammit, Sydney, I’ve worked too hard to get to where I am to carelessly disregard the consequences of my actions. You have no idea how difficult a task it is for a woman to be taken seriously.”
“So what you’re saying is that your career takes priority over anything we have together?” Sydney asked, a subdued tone to his normally strong voice.
“I’m asking for some time. I don’t want to close any doors.”
Sydney paused, weighing his next statement carefully, one he had never made to a woman and really meant. “Shirl, I’m going to make this as difficult for you as possible. I am head-over-heels in love with you.”
The phone remained silent against his ear, except for her sniffing in the background. “Why did you pick tonight to tell me that?” she finally said, her voice breaking.
His voice grew husky, swept away with the emotions of the moment. “I don’t think I totally realized it until you started talking this nonsense. The only thing I am very sure about is that the thought of you not being here tomorrow, or the night after that, or maybe ever again, makes me feel dead inside.” He did not give her time to reply. “I’m not the kind to throw those words around lightly.”
She sighed, trying to gather her thoughts. “I do believe that you love me. Believe me when I say that you are the most wonderful man I’ve ever met… and I think that I may love you too…”
“Dammit, Shirl, that’s your problem,” Sydney nearly shouted. “You say that you might love me. Bullshit! If you loved me, you’d tell the whole world to go to hell.”
Her voice grew more distant. “If you love me, then give me some time.”
Sydney’s stubborn streak, serving him so well in police work, betrayed him in love. “I do love you, lady… but I won’t promise that I’ll wait for you. Good night, Shirley.”
He hung up the phone, staring ahead, though seeing absolutely nothing. Never remembering the apartment ever being so quiet, he had a sense of watching himself sitting like a zombie on the sofa. Minutes passed before his brain began to function again. His first thought was that he wondered how he had ever enjoyed being alone in that damn apartment. He was amazed that he had ever enjoyed hoagies, beer, television, or poker with the guys.
He had never felt so alone.