HAVING COMPLETED their work, the Medical Examiner and Crime Scene techs depart. The door-to-door yields no actionable leads; no boyfriend, no acquaintance, no identifiable suspect coming or going, no one seen fleeing the scene. No quick and easy solution. Three hours after arriving, we secure the crime scene with yellow police tape and return to the Precinct leaving a marked cruiser at the curb.
From a Social Security card recovered at the apartment, we identify the victim as Miranda Livingstone, age thirty-six years. Identification won’t be positive until we confirm with next-of-kin.
From the database, we learn Manischewitz and Mancinelli are, indeed, victims of homicide. The investigation is flagged Active, originating from Detective Bureau Queens, assigned to Detectives Terrance Lattimer and Robert Danilenko. I know neither.
We take an hour to create a case file, input our notes including victim’s personal 4-1-1, scene-of-crime observations, details on my conversation with The Chatterbox, the connection to Manischewitz and Mancinelli, and a follow-up action plan. In my report, I do not refer to The Chatterbox as The Chatterbox.
We’ve missed dinner, so we order-in pizza. We drink coffee while speaking to our Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Jimmy O’Neill, by phone. O’Neill is a thirty-two year veteran of the force three years to retirement. With Jimmy, I go along to get along. Jimmy treats Gabby like a long-lost daughter.
Over speakerphone, O’Neill complains of my conversation with the alleged perp.
“He called me, Chief, I didn’t call him,” I say by way of explanation.
“It puts you in the shit, Dex.”
“I don’t see how.”
“Of course, you don’t.”
“Your call, Jimmy. You want me to disconnect next time he rings?”
O’Neill is conflicted. On the one hand, I am an investigator in direct contact with a suspect, which could lead to a speedy resolution via confession. On the other, I am in direct contact with a suspect, which could just as easily overturn a conviction if he confesses directly to me without my first advising him of his rights.
Cursing Miranda and the Fifth Amendment, O’Neill says, “Confer with the detectives’ handling the original investigation.”
“Are you saying we pass it on?”
“I’m saying speak with Lattimer and Danilenko. See where they are, what they have, compare notes. Angelo Esposito is the Loo over in Queens. He’s just been parachuted in to clean up the mess over there. We’ll decide whose desk it lands on.”
“It should be ours, Chief,” Gabby says.
“Of course, it should, hon,” O’Neill says, solicitous. “I’m just saying to speak with Lattimer and Danilenko on Manischewitz and Mancinelli. Livingstone is our patch. Meanwhile, I’ll give the Chief of Ds and Central Investigation a heads-up.”
Central Investigation and Resource Division, Homicide Analysis Unit of the NYPD, provides Inspectors for coordinating multi, serial, or otherwise complex homicide investigations. The Chief of Detectives, or Chief of Ds, outranks us all, including O’Neill.
Sensing the potential for bureaucratic overkill, I say, “Calling in the big dogs is premature, isn’t it?”
“Trust me, I’ve been at this longer than the two of you were born. Never too early to call in the big dogs. If things go balls-up, it’s good to have a White-Shirt calling the plays; it’s the coach they fire first.”
In the NYPD the dress uniform for the rank of Lieutenant and above includes a white shirt while in Dress. In Dress, the rest of us wear blue. Though Jimmy talks sense, I’ve been with the Department long enough to know shit flows downhill.
O’Neill rings off. Looking concerned, Gabby says, “How’s the knee?”
“Better,” I say, though it throbs like an amputation.
“Still on the meds?”
“Down to once, maybe twice a day.”
“Physio?”
“I’ll get around to it.”
Eyeing me skeptically, Gabby says, “It’s getting late. We should notify next-of-kin.”
“Let’s,” I say, standing, tossing my coffee cup to the waste can, which I miss by two feet.