WE ARRIVE back at the precinct in Manhattan before two. While driving, we conference-call with Upton and O’Neill to update them on our conversation with The Uke. We catch hell for the overnight stay but explain The Uke was holding us hostage, metaphorically speaking. Based on what we discover, Upton decides to delay any public announcement or to make changes to the murder team assignments. Not until we meet with the Chief of Ds, whose three-star insignia outranks Upton’s screaming eagle by a full two grades. Like Upton, McGowan aspires to someday be New York City PC, barring the superior optics of the Mayor appointing a man of color in his stead.
Upton, O’Neill, Gabby, and I are scheduled to meet with McGowan at four o’clock in his office at One Police Plaza, which for me is as intimidating as it is unusual.
One Police Plaza is the headquarters of the New York City Police Department. The building is located on Park Row in Civic Center, Manhattan, near the City Hall at the terminus of the Brooklyn Bridge. It is fourteen floors of Brutalist architecture built in the seventies. (To imagine what this looks like think Soviet-era apartment-block building.)
On the eighth floor is the Real Time Crime Center, an anti-crime computer network which is essentially a large search engine and data warehouse operated by detectives to assist officers in the field with their investigations. There is a room on the second floor known as The Shack, the police bureau office for local press outlets including the Associated Press, the Daily News, New York Post, The New York Times, Newsday, Staten Island Advance, El Diario La Prensa, NY1 News, and WINS Radio. NYPD media relations is on the thirteenth floor, close to The Police Commissioner’s office on the fourteenth, just like on the TV show Blue Bloods.
On the seventh level is a small boardroom where we meet with McGowan. We sit at a veneer-topped table, Gabby and I to one side, Upton and O’Neill seated opposite. Fingering a three-inch-tall stack of paper print-outs, McGowan rides herd at the head of the table. Refreshment is offered and accepted. Between Gabby and I, we down a jug jar of ice water.
McGowan opens by saying: “I need to make a statement to the press for the six o’clock newscast.” He doesn’t add he’s likely under pressure to do so by the PC, himself. “So, tell me what we know.”
McGowan and Upton may be political and ambitious, but it doesn’t mean they’re stupid cops. (Though in my experience political and ambitious makes for stupid decisions every time.) Having already reviewed the three-inch-tall stack of paper print-outs, McGowan is courteous enough to let us have our say.
When we finish, he says, “Too soon to go on record calling it a serial killing unless you’re prepared to commit to the divorced mother theory as the common denominator. From what I understand, Annie Taylor (the fifth victim) is unmarried with no children. Total outlier. And forget the tats. From what you say, it could as easily be a copycat, or a person with knowledge of the first two crimes screwing with Fortune’s head.”
“Based on what Detectives Fortune and Fernandez have discovered, I agree,” says Upton. “What does this mean for deployment and resources?”
The sixty-four thousand dollar questions: Money and time.
McGowan rubs a palm over the whiskers of a chin dark with five o’clock shadow. Except for Gabby, we can all use a shave. Though not yet teasing the edge of delerium, after a sleepless night, I’m fading fast.
“That was quite a performance we put on in the park the other night, Inspector.”
“Couldn’t be helped.” Upton bristles at the formal use of the title. Often, with cops, when referring to a subordinate it can be interpreted loosely as a rebuke.
“Not saying it could or should have been. But in The Shack, they’re drawing all sorts of conclusions. Has anyone seen the Times? The Post? And don’t get me started on the internet.”
The question is rhetorical: Of course, we have. The Media is in hyper-drive agitating the masse; it’s like a Donald Trump rally. I’ve set my Google alerts to warn me every time a new article is posted referring to the crimes or to me; twelve alerts so far today and counting.
Upton shrugs. “I could speak to the media, reaffirm that it’s part of an investigation where the victims may or may not be connected, that NYPD is being cautious. Basically, tell them nothing.”
As if weighing the risk of allowing Upton a public platform, McGowan says, “No. PC wants it to be me. (Which may or may not be true.) He needs the public to know we’re taking this seriously—whatever the fuck this is. But I don’t want to appear to be over-reacting. You know, if these women were Latino, Asian, or black, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
After a moment, McGowan continues. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. We proceed as if each of these crimes is unrelated.
“Set aside preconceived notions. We’re not dealing with a serial killer. The crimes are not connected. Find out who wanted each of these women dead. Assume it’s either family, friend, or acquaintance, because usually it is. Why has this caller created this narrative in the first place? One where he claims responsibility. And where in hell is he getting his information?
“Maybe it’s the same perp in all cases, and maybe it’s not. Let’s not confuse instinct or wishful-thinking with evidence. With no conviction, there is no crime.”
My instinct is screaming No! while my head says this is a reasonable approach. As it stands now, only Manischewitz and Mancinelli have a confirmed connection between them by virtue of the identical ink-work. Still, I’m conflicted. But as I have as much influence here as a fart in a hurricane, I keep my mouth shut.
“Tommy,” McGowan says, authority over his subordinate comfortably reinforced, magnanimity and rank allowing him to address Upton by his given name. “I want fresh eyes here. I’ll speak with the Assistant Chief Staten Island and have him assign a team to take over the Manischewitz and Mancinelli investigation. That was an epic fuck-up from the get-go. We all know the history with Terry Lattimer. I don’t want them contaminated by Manhattan North or Queens Bureau either. Not by the evidence, the team, or by pre-existing theories and prejudice.”
As he speaks, I sink lower into my seat.
“If the evidence to link is solid, make the call,” he says. “I don’t want a Detective Second-Grade defining this investigation through assumption or gut-work. No offense, Detectives.”
None taken as I am a Detective First-Grade.
“The woman in the park,” McGowan continues, “we toss back to Bureau Queens. Let them handle it. Is it a mugging, a random assault, a boyfriend, acquaintance? Treat it as a stand-alone, unrelated. I’m not pulling resources, just realigning and re-imagining how the investigation should unfold. We’re a week into this thing, and already we’re calling this cracker-jack The Chatterbox, for Chris’ sake. Let’s not be too eager to anoint him the next Son of Sam.”
McGowan is referring to David Richard Berkowitz known as the Son of Sam, or the .44 Caliber Killer. Berkowitz was convicted in a series of shooting attacks that began in New York City in the summer of nineteen seventy-six using a .44 caliber Bulldog revolver. By July of seventy-seven, he’d killed six, and wounded seven others.
As the toll mounted, Berkowitz eluded a massive police manhunt while leaving brazen letters that mocked the police and promised further crimes, highly publicized in the press. He terrorized New York City and achieved worldwide notoriety.
Berkowitz was arrested by NYPD homicide detectives in August seventy-seven and was indicted for eight shooting incidents. He confessed to all of them, claiming to have been obeying orders from a demon manifested in the form of a dog, Harvey, belonging to his neighbor, Sam. Despite this, Berkowitz was found mentally competent to stand trial and convicted of murder.
Before I can think, I say, “He prefers the Boston Strangler, sir.”
All eyes turn on me.
“Excuse me, Detective?” McGowan says, color rising.
“The caller, sir, he fancies himself more the Boston Strangler than the Son of Sam.”
Swallowing down his anger, McGowan says, “I don’t care if he calls himself late for dinner, Fortune. Here on, you and your partner are on Livingstone and Plett, exclusively. Find out who killed one, you find out who killed the other. Didn’t The Chatterbox tell you so?”
“And if he calls me again, sir?”
McGowan is silent for a full half minute. We all are. On the table, coffee has turned cold. McGowan is pushing up hard against his six o’clock deadline. Finally, he says, “You hang up.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“That’s it, hang up.”
“The team decided it would be better if I take the call, sir, try to provoke him.”
I mean no disrespect, but after my wisecrack, McGowan is not amused.
“You’ve never worked a repeater, Fortune.” I imagine a copy of my personnel file is among that three-inch-tall stack of paper. “Through you, he’s manipulating the investigation. You’re reacting to everything he says. You’ve given him a voice. Rather than following the evidence, he’s leading you around by a ring through your nose. He’ll continue doing it until you stop talking to him.”
“And if he kills again?”
“We’ll discover the body soon enough. From what we know, he’s meticulous about clean-up, so it’s not as if we’ll miss any time-sensitive evidence. Aside from location, his calls have given you no leads whatsoever, have they?”
“And if he wants to tell me who he’s planning to kill next instead of who he already has? Am I not putting lives at risk?”
“The perp has never stayed on the phone long enough for us to triangulate his location. All we know for certain is he’s placed calls from Manhattan, Queens, and the Bronx. It might as well be Timbuktu, Casablanca, and Kathmandu. Has it never occurred to you, Detective, that by not talking to this whack-job you may actually remove his motivation to kill?”
It hasn’t.
“Anyone think this is a mistake?”
We take a half hour to argue the pros and cons of intelligence gained and public safety versus the manipulation of evidence; my value as a witness versus the compromise of my objectivity as a cop; the killer’s possible motivations; jurisdictional overlap; jurisdictional and personality conflict; cooperation and sharing of evidence and leads; competition and professional jealousy, the kind between the CIA and FBI that led directly to 9-11.
It’s going on five thirty, and McGowan calls the meeting to a close. He asks Upton and O’Neill to remain behind.
Upton advises Gabby and me to make our own way home.
“Don’t return to the Precinct. Too many questions.” We all know the station house is abuzz. “I’ll deal with it in the morning. The Chief is right, though; you’re getting nowhere.” Said as if he’s apportioning blame. “Don’t be distracted by the bigger picture.”
Gabby says, “And if the bigger picture is all there is?”
“Leave it for us to decide.”
Gabby and I exit 1PP onto Pearl Street. “Hungry?” I say.
“You know me, partner, I can always eat.”
“Good. Your turn to buy.”
Gabby gives me the stink eye. “You set me up.”
We make our way on foot along Pearl to Madison, follow Madison beneath the Manhattan-side terminus of the Brooklyn Bridge until it transforms into Gold Street. At the corner of William Street and Fulton are a cluster of restaurants and fast-food joints where we can grab a bite. Afterward, we’ll board the MTA home.
Gabby tells me her building is slated to undergo a demo-reno next month. Faced with renoviction, she doesn’t know where she’ll go next only that she won’t be back because her rent is likely to triple. She has a sister in Jersey but considers such a move a severe backward step on her path to cultural evolution. To Gabby, living in Manhattan is a big part.
When I suggest Brooklyn, she says, “Brooklyn? Just shoot me, why don’ tcha’.”
To make it easy, we choose a Chipotle Mexican Grill located kitty-corner from the stairwell leading down to the train. Walking along Fulton, One World Trade Center is framed in the distance like a stairway to heaven against a clear blue sky.
In the force, we no longer talk much about 9-11 anymore, just trot it out when it serves a purpose. It’s been seventeen years, and most everyone’s moved on to a life of stagnant careers, wrecked marriages, intractable teenagers, thirty-something children back living at home, alcoholism, mental illness, retirement, and elderly parents with dementia.
Against the immediacy of personal misery, 9-11 seems trite.
Inside, we order a Burrito Bowl for Gabby, Crispy Corn Tacos for me plus the obligatory Diet Pepsi and Dr. Pepper.
“You’ve been quiet since we left 1PP, partner,” Gabby says as she fiddles with her meal.
“Still hung-over. I need a shower and a bed.”
“Ditto, that. You think McGowan is off-base?”
“Probably not. Got caught up in the excitement is all.”
“You won’t be writing that best-seller after all.” She grins. Fearing it’s a mistake, she backtracks. “Not pissed about being bumped, are you?”
More abruptly than I intend, I say loud enough for other customers to overhear: “I told you I agree with McGowan, didn’t I?”
Gabby sets down her fork, moves her Burrito Bowl to the side. “What’s up, partner? You’ve been sulking like a teenage schoolboy since we left the lake.”
Without finishing my meal, I crush my own Crispy Corn Tacos in the wrapper. “Suppose you tell me, partner?”
Abruptly, Gabby stands. “You know, Dex, if you can’t hold your liquor, maybe you should quit drinking altogether.”
Gabby turns and in three giant strides, she’s out the door. I don’t follow her, but watch from the window as she crosses over Fulton to a stairwell leading to the trains.
In less than two minutes, she disappears below street level out of sight.