TO SAVE TIME, GABBY SPENDS THE NIGHT. Two hours before sun-up, we hit the road in a rented Ford Escort four-door hatch courtesy of the NYPD. After clearing the congestion of the City, we head north on the I87. The previous afternoon, Bobby Danilenko consents to meet with us sounding as if he’d welcome the company.
The trip to Otter Lodge, located upstate on Elk Lake in the Adirondack Mountains, takes five hours twelve minutes. By the time we arrive, we’re closer to Montreal, Canada, than we are to Manhattan.
Just after nine a.m., we turn off the I87 at Blue Ridge Road in North Hudson. We travel due-east seven miles before jogging north on Elk Lake Road. I’ve never in my life seen so many trees; the roadway is a claustrophobic valley of green stretching to infinity on both sides. I half expect a man wearing a leather mask and carrying a chainsaw to jump into the road to chop us to bits. Another seven miles and we reach our destination.
At the lake, the road terminates, becomes a virtual dead-end with only a turn-about to reverse direction. To the left, is a path barely wide enough to accommodate our rented Ford. It leads off at right-angles into a dense thicket of still more towering trees.
The turn-about, itself, is in full sunshine but beyond the tree-line, the path is narrow and darkened by shadow. To the right of us is a paved two-lane roadway, groomed, with a professionally rendered sign announcing the direction to Elk Lake Lodge. City born and bred, I’m unsure of our next move.
“Path to the left looks pretty rough and uneven, Gabby. I don’t want to take out the bottom of the vehicle.”
Just as I’m about to default to the lane-way on the right, I see it. A small hand-etched sign tacked high to a tree bordering the left-side path: Otter Lodge is this way!
Gabby sees it too. “Quit stalling, partner. We either drive it or walk it, and I’m in no mood to be kidnapped by mosquitoes.”
“Or Polar bears.”
Pointing the Ford into the forest, I navigate over a rutted trail. Low-hanging branches scrape the side of the vehicle. I’m glad to have taken out supplemental collision insurance. We bounce around at a speed of ten miles an hour for fifteen minutes before arriving at a clearing with a view overlooking the lake. The view can be described only as breath-taking.
Stretching before us Elk Lake is a four-mile sheet of glassy water dotted by a dozen pine-top islands. The emerald crest of Mount Marcy rises five thousand feet in the distance. Piles of dark gauzy cloud roll like breakers in an ocean through the valleys among the lesser hilltops. We’re in sunshine now, but the sky promises rain.
As I’m plotting a way forward, Gabby says: “There.” With a finger, she indicates a place somewhere through the trees. “See it?”
I do—the broad face of a weathered-gray single-level log cabin. “Not much of a lodge.”
“I suppose the view makes up for it.”
With nowhere to park, I leave the vehicle where it sits. Retrieving my laptop from the rear seat, Gabby and I make our way along a narrow footpath leading to the cabin. We approach the front door over an uneven stone walkway. Up close, I see the place is built like a fortress.
“Looks as if it could withstand a hurricane or an assault from a band of rampaging Apaches,” I say.
“No Apaches here,” a voice from behind bellows.
Bobby Danilenko, aka The Uke, has come up behind us from nowhere. A shotgun rests comfortably in the crook of one massive forearm, a brace of dead pheasant on a line hanging from the other. He’s six-foot-six-inches tall and wide as an Adirondack mountain. He wears blue jeans and a plaid flannel shirt even though the temperature is in the mid-seventies. He has a full head of shoulder-length auburn hair shot through with white, and a gnarly beard to match.
“No Algonquin and no Iroquois either, both dominant tribes of the region though never ventured far into these hills.” He says this as if it’s a wonder why not. “Fernandez and Fortune, I presume? You must be hungry. Let’s go inside. I’ll fry us up some fish ‘n eggs. After that, ask me whatever you like.”
✽ ✽ ✽
To speed things along, Gabby and I help with the clean-up. Danilenko plucks, guts, and strings his pheasant in a detached smoker-cabin located behind the main lodge. He tells us the smoker-cabin has a foundation four feet deep where block ice remains frozen throughout the summer season. Danilenko carves out two-by-two by three-foot slabs, transporting them by boat and selling them to Elk Lake Lodge, a popular tourist destination located along the shoreline three miles away.
“Cubes melt in your mouth like butter,” he claims.
The fish fry is excellent. I tell him so and exclaim on the difference between his fresh-caught and store-bought frozen.
Danilenko chuckles. “I buy my fish in the village, frozen. They catch ’em in lakes from the surrounding area. Out there, the fishing is shit.” Danilenko indicates the lake visible through a wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling pane of plate-glass window.
Gabby chuckles, too.
“Sure,” I say to her. “Outdoors-man that you are, you would know the difference?”
The Uke says, “Don’t feel bad; flash-frozen is better than fresh any day. Takes less than twelve hours for fresh-caught fish to turn in the refrigerator.”
After lunch, we move outside to a deck overlooking the lake. A stairway leads down to the shoreline where a twelve-foot skiff is tethered to a small floating dock. The boat has no outboard engine, only oars. Overhead, the sun burns hot as a hundred watt light bulb. The rolling rain-clouds are still a far way off. On the lake, a trio of canoes plays hide-and-seek among the smaller islands. A powerboat buzzes across the top of the surface like a water-spider.
“Before you know it, they’ll allow Sea-Doos. That should make for some wilderness experience,” The Uke says, sounding bitter.
“Start a petition,” Gabby says.
“Easier to just shoot them.”
I don’t know if he's serious. “Do the tourists know the fishing is shit?”
“They don’t care. Don’t come here to fish, do they? Elk Lake Lodge”—with a nod he gestures to a point somewhere across the lake beyond our line of sight—“calls itself the ultimate wilderness experience—at three hundred bucks a night. People like that don’t come here to experience, they just act like they do. Mostly, they just want a story to tell their friends when they get back home.”
“If you feel that way, why do you stay? Why not move to Florida?” Gabby says.
“I’ve thought about it. Kids might visit more often if I did. Grand-kids, too.”
The Uke tells us he is divorced with three children and four grandchildren who he doesn’t see as often as he’d like. The lodge is winterized and is now his year-round permanent place of residence, his ex-wife having got the matrimonial home in the divorce settlement. He retired from the NYPD after thirty-five years distinguished service on a full pension. He loved the work, hated the politics, cashed in his chips as soon as he could.
It’s past noon, and The Uke offers us Hungarian vodka: Khortytsa Brand Deluxe. “Expensive, but what else have I got to spend my money on?”
The tension of the investigation easing, I accept. “But only one. I’m driving.”
“I’m not,” Gabby says. “Make mine a double.”
We talk shop as the afternoon drones on. Finally, after two more vodkas each, I say, “Tell us about Manischewitz and Mancinelli. Tell us about Terry Lattimer. Did he kill himself over this case?”
The Uke bellows, a great hearty laugh that echoes through the valleys of the countryside rolling up and over the surrounding mountaintops like a clap of thunder. By the time he speaks, his eyes water.
“Jesus Christ, is that what you guys think?”
“Hey,” I say, “We can only assume.”
The Uke snorts. “Is that how you’re doing it nowadays? No evidence, just assume?”
“I don’t mean any disrespect to your partner.”
The Uke glares. “Respect? Terry Lattimer doesn’t deserve it, god damn his soul."
The Uke shakes his head and pours shots of Khortytsa Brand Deluxe all round, which over ice-cubes frozen with water pulled from the lake goes down like honey.
“Lattimer was a douche-bag. If he hadn’t plugged himself, he would have died in prison. I might have died alongside him ‘cept I’m not a crooked cop. No suggestion I ever was, ever.”
Gabby and I stare. First at each other, then to The Uke.
“What?” I say, being the first of the Fernandez-Fortune partnership to discover my tongue.
“Don’t look so surprised. You all know Serpico.”
(Serpico is a movie from the seventies featuring Al Pacino in the title role of Francesco Frank Serpico, a retired Italian-American NYPD officer known for whistle-blowing on police corruption within the NYPD in the late sixties and early seventies, prompting then New York Mayor John Lindsay to appoint the landmark Knapp Commission to investigate the department.)
“You’re saying Lattimer was corrupt? It’s why he took himself off the board?” Gabby says.
“He was corrupt, he was an alcoholic, he was a wife-beater, he had sex with prostitutes and underage runaways. A million reasons for the man to punch his own ticket.”
“But he was your partner?” I say.
“Three years by the time we caught the Manischewitz file. By then, I’d already ratted him out to my CO—I didn’t care. Lattimer was a real nasty job who had to be stopped.” The Uke stands. “Mind if I smoke? I limit myself to six a day. It’s after three. I’m overdue.”
He retreats to the cabin.
The sun has disappeared behind a fold of slate-color rain-cloud. The wind rises, roiling the surface of the lake. The water is gray, a mirror image of the dull sky overhead. The canoes are off the water, nowhere to be seen. The temperature has dropped, but the vodka keeps me warm.
“I didn’t bring a change of panties, partner,” Gabby says.
“What’s that?”
“It’s after three, and we’re half in the bag. You realize we’re not leaving here tonight, don’t you?”
“You mean you think we should stay?”
“I mean we have no choice but to spend the night. Neither of us is fit to drive.”
“Shit,” is all I can think to say.
“Well, I suppose I can turn ‘em inside out.” I must look confused, because Gabby explains: “It’s a trick I learned from a girl at the academy. The underwear, in a pinch, you turn ‘em inside out for the next day.”
“Thanks for the image.”
The Uke returns with a pack of Benson and Hedges. He offers all around. I accept, Gabby declines.
“So, we catch the Manischewitz case, and the CO tells me to work it with Terry, not to worry, he’s got the asshole covered, he’ll sort it out. Just solve the crime and everything else will turn out tickety-boo. First thing the CO does is to order Terry to see a shrink, for the drinking. A fucking shrink. Not a word to Internal Affairs. I know what Terry is thinking, he’s dodged a bullet. This is penance to pay for his greater sins. I only learned later, the CO had no intention to refer Lattimer to IAD.”
“Was the CO in on it with Lattimer?”
“Nah. He was just a cowardly prick and a fool.”
Cigarette smoke wafts up and out over the balcony. The Uke offers a fourth shot of vodka. Knowing we’re not going anywhere, Gabby and I accept. Besides, The Uke is enjoying himself, planning to drag this out.
“Dorothy Manischewitz was a sorry piece of work. An abusive meth-head who lost custody of her three children years earlier to her husband and was left with no alimony or financial support. She’s in the system. She’s living in a shitty neighborhood in Queens. To make ends meet, she deals some drugs and offers sex for cash to men she picks up at AA meetings in a store-front on Rockaway Boulevard in South Ozone Park.
“Her body was discovered in her apartment eight days after she was last reported seen in public cashing her social security check, buying smokes at the neighborhood bodega. Eight days, only because no one cared enough about her to have reported her missing. And then only because of the stink.”
Knowingly, Gabby and I nod.
“So, because of her lifestyle, we decide the perp could be anyone. The woman has no friends or family who care enough to kill her, and no man in her life we know of. No security cameras outside her crummy building. The case grows cold very quickly. Besides, there are more worthy victims aren’t there? We don’t exactly bust our ass.”
“And Lattimer? What’s going on with him all this time?” Gabby says.
The Uke shrugs. “He keeps seeing the shrink. It’s a woman, and I imagine he gets his jollies talking dirty to her. But Terry is still Terry. Hasn’t become a good cop or evolved into a better human being, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Tell us about the second murder, Maria Mancinelli.” I’m feeling light-headed and fear my words will begin to slur. Gabby looks like she could match The Uke shot-for-shot.
As if on cue, The Uke hoists the bottle of vodka and prepares to pour another round. I react quickly to up-end my shot glass. “Thanks, but no thanks. I may not be able to drive back to the City tonight, but if I show up hung-over tomorrow, I may be put on suspension.”
“Fair enough.” With a nod from Gabby, he pours. “Maria Mancinelli seems nothing like Dorothy Manischewitz. But she’s a drinker, which eventually cost her a marriage and her kids. First thing we notice, though, is the nylons around the neck. Similar cause of death. But it’s the tats that really seal the deal. Heart-shaped, can’t miss ‘em. Woman has breasts like melons so the tats—two—really stand out. I point this out to Terry who isn’t such an asshole he can’t see the relevance. Because the tats are identical to those on the left boob of Dorothy Manischewitz.”
Raising a hand, I interrupt. “Okay, Bobby, let me stop you here.”
He tilts his head as if to say: What? I don’t get to finish my story?
“I’m going to give you a detail of our investigation we only discovered yesterday. It hasn’t been made public, or even been disclosed to our own investigating team. But it’s why we’re here. You can’t talk about this. If you do, it could jeopardize the investigation and totally screw the prosecution.”
“If you catch the guy. We didn’t.”
“Do you agree to keep it between us?”
The Uke surveys his domain. “Who am I gonna’ tell?”
“Okay. Is there any chance the heart-shape tattoos on the victims’ breasts were not real tattoos at all, but were made by the perp using a marker of some kind? Like a signature, maybe? That you, your partner, and the pathologist missed it and that’s why it’s not in any of the reports?”
“That what your guy does?”
“Can’t say.”
The Uke chuckles. “You just did.”
“Well?” Gabby says.
“Sure,” the Uke says.
Beside me, I hear Gabby exhale. Confirmed, we have what we came for: four murders with an identifiable and undeniable link connecting The Chatterbox Killer to four of our five victims, the inked-on, heart-shaped tattoos on the left breast of each woman applied by the hand of our perp with a semi-permanent marker.
“But we didn’t, did we?” says The Uke, relaxing back into his chair, stretching his long legs.
“Didn’t what?” Gabby says.
“Miss it.”
“Miss what?” Gabby says now as bewildered as me.
“The tats. It’s how we confirmed a connection between victims in the first place, the artwork you know? How we built a list of preliminary suspects, from the tattoo parlor on Liberty Avenue where both women had their work done. Same location, same artist.”
“Bobby,” I say, “I went through the file three times, and I don’t recall any reference to a tattoo parlor, let alone a link to potential suspects.”
“You wouldn’t, would you? It was Terry decided to speak to the staff that afternoon. I was working to clean up odds and ends. Next thing I know, Terry puts a bullet through his head, doesn’t even take the time to put it in the report, inconsiderate bastard. Things get hinky after that, as you can imagine. They chain me to a desk. Spent the next two months answering to Internal Affairs. After they closed the investigation into Terry’s death, the consensus was it would be best for me to retire. Manischewitz and Mancinelli? After that, I don’t hear anything of them, or think anything of them. Then you call.”