DURING THE American Revolution, Prospect Park was the site of the Battle of Long Island where American forces confronted the British at Battle Pass, a natural opening in the terminal moraine where the old Flatbush Road passed from Brooklyn to Flatbush. After some heavy fighting, the territory fell to the English. The loss contributed to a decision by George Washington to retreat from the area. Even though the Continental Army lost the Battle of Long Island, they were able to hold the British back long enough for Washington's army to eventually escape to Manhattan. The rest, as they say, is history.
The Boathouse in Prospect Park is one of the first buildings in New York City to be officially designated a Historic Landmark. Constructed in nineteen-oh-five in the Beaux Arts style, the building overlooks the scenic Lullwater and Lullwater Bridge on the northeast shore of The Lake southeast of the Ravine District in Brooklyn.
The Boathouse has survived both neglect and the modernization imposed on the Park by former Commissioner Robert Moses. For over thirty years after being appointed by Mayor Fiorello La Guardia, Moses is said to have ruled over the five hundred eighty-five acre sanctuary like an occupying Nazi general.
Today, for five thousand dollars, you can be married at The Boathouse which, in a place like New York City, is still a bargain at twice the price.
From my apartment located at 12th Street and 7th Ave, I practically sprint the two-mile distance to the crime scene. 9th Street to Prospect Park West passing through Grand Army Plaza. A short-cut over to Flatbush. All-out through the park along Flatbush to intersect with Ocean Avenue. Follow Ocean Ave around in a quarter circle, enter the park over a wrought-iron fence. The fence almost slices my balls off. Crossing the lawn over East Drive, I discover roof-lights flashing, alternating shades of blood-red and ice-blue against the leafy trees.
Adrenalin numbs my senses. If my knee pains me, I don’t know it.
With my shield visible, I approach the Patrol Officers standing guard over a body on Lullwater Bridge. Immediately, I recognize the athletic-looking woman in the park who offered to call 9-1-1. She wears only panties and a sports bra, but I can’t miss the DayGlo tights wrapped around the young woman’s throat.
All I can think is: in this instant, the DayGlo tights make the poor woman look slightly ridiculous, that had she known her fate this night she would have dressed more appropriately.
For a moment I falter, gourd rising to my throat. Steadying myself on the rail, I let out a howl like a wounded dog. I heave, spilling my guts into the murky water below, leaving the Patrol Officers to wonder how I made it to detective in the first place.