I ARRIVE at Midtown North to find Gabby at our shared work-space scrolling through files on her laptop. Removing my jacket, I toss it over the back-rest of my chair and take a seat opposite. Gabby passes me a cup of Starbucks coffee.
“Just arrived myself,” she says. Then, eyeing me speculatively, “You look like shit, partner. Rough night?”
Before she can pass judgment, I say, “Working.”
For the next twenty minutes, I repeat the gist from my early-morning confab with The Chatterbox. Gabby takes notes as I talk.
“He made himself a sandwich? At the crime-scene?”
“Apparently. Choking the life out of another human works up an appetite, I suppose. I’m not sure how much of what he says is bullshit, Gabby. We need to match it against the forensics. But, man, can he talk. If not for the obvious, he’s a pretty engaging guy.”
“So was Ted Bundy,” Gabby says of one of America’s most notorious serial killers. “I’ve requested the Manischewitz and Mancinelli files from Bureau Queens. I hope this doesn’t become a jurisdictional dick-wagging contest.”
“He’s talking to me. I say this gives us first dibs.” Running a hand through my still damp hair, I say, “Postmortem is at ten. You want to join me?”
Like a sprinter breaking from the blocks, Gabby kicks back her chair almost knocking it to the floor. She stands, grabs her Starbucks extra-large, and charges to the door. “Sorry, partner. I need to be in Saddle River to interview the ex by ten. Already running late.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Forty-five minutes later, I’m with Detective Melissa Johns. Johns has been assigned by Jimmy O’Neill from a roster of available detectives at Midtown North.
Standing shoulder-to-shoulder at a plate-glass window, Johns and I watch as a pathologist dissects the remains of Miranda Livingstone. Her parents have been and gone, leaving the doctor free to do her dirty work. For me, the victim autopsy is an unenviable task, one I would avoid if not required by my CO, if not expressly by New York State law. As a relative novice, Johns is fascinated.
Speaking into a microphone, the pathologist—a new arrival to the Crypt, Doctor Cassandra Agarwal—begins.
“Decedent is female Caucasian, thirty-six years of age, five-foot-eight-inches in height, weighing one hundred twenty-two-point-five pounds. There is a butterfly tattoo above the pubic hairline, two small heart tattoos above the nipple on the left breast, one pink, one blue. Abdominal scars indicate birth by Caesarean Section. There is visible but faded scar tissue beneath each breast indicating some form of cosmetic reconstruction.”
Johns glances in my direction as if this is a breakthrough.
I shrug.
After an hour of extracting fluids, removing and weighing vital organs, and carving-off tissue samples to be sent to the lab for further analysis, the pathologist arrives at the part most relevant to the investigation.
“Decedent smells of alcohol, though I’ll have to wait for the blood work to say if she’d been drinking. Abrasions indicate the deceased was bound ankles and wrists. Death by asphyxiation with a pair of George brand nylon pantyhose; size is consistent with height and weight of the deceased—they may belong to the victim, but we’ll need DNA to confirm.”
In fact, we can’t assume anything. If the nylons don’t belong to the victim, do they belong to the killer? Did he arrive with the murder weapon in his pocket, or are they a weapon of opportunity? A fetish? Swiped from a laundromat? Off a clothesline? Do they belong to a wife? A girlfriend? A daughter? This possibility makes me squirm.
George brand is exclusive to Walmart stores, so it’s a starting point. But with thousands probably sold in the past few months alone, it’s a daunting task. This is only one of the many details that will occupy a team of investigators working overtime.
Continuing, the pathologist notes there is no fracture of the trachea. “Compression was gradual and prolonged resulting in death by cerebral ischemia, which would have been slow, if relatively painless.
“Time of death sometime between the hours of nine p.m. Sunday evening and three a.m. Monday morning,” the pathologist concludes. “No sign of defensive wounds or a struggle. Once analyzed, nail scrapings may suggest otherwise. Toxicology to determine if the decedent was either drugged or otherwise under the influence. No vaginal or anal bruising or tears. No outward or obvious signs of sexual interference. Swabs taken will detect the presence of semen or foreign DNA, and determine if the decedent engaged in either vaginal, anal, or oral intercourse before death.”
After an hour, the pathologist says, “That’s it, Detectives. Nothing more I can say till we receive tox and tissue analysis back from the lab. You want to stick around while I carve her up?”
No thanking her, Johns and I exit the building leaving the pathologist to open-up Miranda.
On the street the heat is oppressive. A wall of humidity builds off the east coast over the Atlantic Ocean promising no relief until the weekend when relief will be least welcome.
Appropriate to the weather, Melissa wears a gauzy blouse with khaki slacks. She says, “What now, Chief?”
Unwilling to be vested with undue authority, I say, “I’m not your Chief.”
“Boss?”
“Not your boss, either.”
Johns stands five-foot-three-inches tall in flats. She is board-thin; all angles in the places where most women are curves. Her fair hair falls to her shoulders. At thirty-two years of age, she can pass for a college freshman. Once or twice, she has gone undercover on the campus of NYU and Fordham Universities.
I’ve never worked an investigation with her but, as O’Neill saw fit to assign her to the team, I assume Jimmy has confidence in her ability. Besides which, Johns is university educated with a degree in Police Science and Criminology from NYU, so I know she’s smart. But street smart? TBD.
With the sun beating down, I decide we should stay together. “Ride with me, Mel. Let’s see how the day unfolds, shall we?”
Before leaving the Precinct, I head to the toilet where I down two Zantac and two painkillers with water from the tap.