AT THE PRECINCT, the AC is cranked to full-throttle. Upton and I sit in Jimmy’s office, door closed. More coffee, more Zantac, more painkillers. Chief of Ds Malachi McGowan has joined us by phone.
Straight-off he says, “Like I say. Double-homicide, and it’s good old-fashion police work gets the job done. That’s how you clear a case, Fortune.”
But he wants more from me before he’s willing to discuss Manischewitz and Mancinelli.
“The New York-Presbyterian Hospital angle is interesting, of course,” he continues. “But a hundred or more people had access to the Manischewitz and Mancinelli files over the years; medical and police personnel. Proving Livingstone used those files as a source for information will be difficult; the evidence would be shredded in court. It’s a chain of custody nightmare. I guarantee you, Fortune, bring Livingstone up on charges for killing his ex-wife only, and he’ll squeal like an alley cat for a reduced sentence and preferential treatment.”
Understandably, the Chief has concerns. “How credible a witness is this Denieca Brown? She’s not a drug addict or a prostitute, is she?”
Drug addicts and prostitutes are known to be unreliable and—despite what you see on TV—are rarely called to give testimony in court. “No sir, none of the above.”
“What else have you got that looks promising?”
“Miranda’s parents, Jonathan and Stella Walker. The father admits to lying about being in contact with the victim. According to Walker, his daughter was attempting to reconnect with her kids. According to the ex, he would not be pleased for this to happen. He admitted to my partner, Fernandez, that for Miranda to seek custody of the children would be reason enough for him to want her dead.”
“We all threaten to kill someone at some time, don’t we? It’s not an admission of guilt but...”
“I also believe the mother, Stella, is hiding something. I’ve spoken with her twice now. I get the sense, she’s either wracked with guilt or frightened.”
“Of the doctor?”
“Yes.”
For the next hour, we discuss operational practicalities and realities. McGowan refuses to label our effort a serial killer investigation. Manpower and resources are to be reallocated and reduced accordingly.
“We can’t keep burning taxpayers’ dollars at the rate of a thousand bucks an hour.”
The Manischewitz-Mancinelli investigation has reverted to Borough Queens, where the double-homicide initially occurred, meaning a fourth set of fresh eyes. Poor souls. The victims, not the cops.
In what comes to me as a total shock, McGowan says an arrest in the death of Annie Taylor has been made, the jogger in Prospect Park. A derelict, who is reported by witnesses to have been stalking Annie through the park? (Question mark mine, because how does a derelict keep up with, let alone stalk, a woman like Annie Taylor who runs like a gazelle?)
Pending the arrival of an as-yet-to-be-named CO to replace Jimmy O’Neill, Thomas Upton will remain in charge.
McGowan is set to scold the media who recklessly persist in fomenting fear among the citizenry by treating rumor as fact, innuendo as truth, spurting the name Chatterbox like a geyser.
In closing, The Chief says, “Good job.”
By the time I return to my desk, Gabby has ordered-in Chinese from Ollie’s Sichuan.
“Where’s Melissa?”
“The Smurf?” Tony says. “Tossing her cookies in the john. Evidently, the Ma Po Tofu was too much for her to handle.”
Ignoring Tony, I turn to Gabby.
“Hangover. Monday is two-for-one night at Bumpers; she couldn’t resist.”
“Melissa? Drunk in a bar? I have trouble squaring the image with reality.”
“It’s the innocent-looking ones you need to watch out for.” Tony eyes Gabby from across the desk.
“Fuck-off, Tony.”
“You saying you never read Fifty Shades of Grey? C’mon, Gab, a hundred million women can’t be wrong.”
“Has Tony been misbehaving?”
“A perfect angel up until now.”
Melissa returns from the restroom looking pale.
“Are you up to this?” I say.
“Affirmative,” she says with a nod.
Though skeptical, I give her a been-there-done-that benefit of the doubt.
Helping myself to cold Chinese, I summarize the call with McGowan. Knowing better than to confuse policing with politics, they are resigned.
“Knowing Livingstone did it and proving it in court are two different things. If the traffic-cam footage or toll data show him entering and exiting Manhattan on the day Miranda died, we have a better chance of placing him at the scene-of-the-crime. We have his license plate and registration; his vehicle is unique. Let’s check for parking violations in a twelve block radius to where Miranda worked and lived. Go back at least ninety days to the time we think she’d been trying to reform. Rentals, too. It’s a long-shot, but we know it happens.”
In fact, David Berkowitz—The Son of Sam killer—who had so cleverly eluded police for so long, used his own properly registered Ford Galaxie sedan as his getaway car for each attack. When New York PD checked parking tickets for the night of a Gravesend neighborhood murder, they found a ticket issued to Berkowitz, which led to his Yonkers address. What was a Yonkers resident doing twenty-five miles away in Brooklyn at two thirty a.m.? they wondered.
“And if he drove a rental, which he might have done because who commits murder driving a vanity-plated Bentley, what then?” Melissa says.
“Bank accounts, credit cards, electronic transfers, ATM withdrawals,” Gabby says. “If he rented, we’ll know it soon enough.”
“Let’s badger him until he cries uncle,” I say. “Tomorrow, I’ll have another go at the Walkers. Stella has something to confess, and Jonathan will roll like a French pastry. They know something and are feeling guilty, frightened, or both.”
“I’m scheduled to head upstate,” Gabby says, referring to Livingstone’s Alma mater.
“Melissa, you need to track down Miranda’s AA sponsor. Someone in her meeting group who can identify Marcus Livingstone. Someone in the neighborhood who saw him hanging around. With no security cameras along the block where those meetings take place, secure footage from the walking routes leading to the location. Miranda was a drug user. People like her don’t exist in a vacuum. There must be people in her circle we haven’t talked to yet.”
“And me?” Tony says.
“You, Tony? I have a task that requires just your special talent for deceit and douchebaggery.”
Tony wrings his hands and arches his brows like a villain. “Sounds delicious.”
After which I invite him to join me in the men’s room to tell him what I need.