DR. MARCUS LIVINGSTONE hangs from the wall behind his walnut-top office desk crucified and naked, arms and legs akimbo, looking like a cut of butchered beef. In the feeble light, the image resembles an Italian Renaissance painting—The Crucifixion of Christ.
Livingstone is bloodied. Four-inch spikes penetrate the palms of his hands and the base of his ankles keeping him fastened securely to the wall. His throat is slashed ear-to-ear in a macabre grin. The blood flows like a waterfall from the wound down over his hairless chest and over his taut belly, leaching into the pubic hair smothering his groin, traveling from there in rivulets over his thighs and between his open legs to fall in droplets to the carpet below. Here, it puddles in the form of a Kidney-shaped pool.
Livingstone didn’t do this to himself, so I know I’ve been wrong about The Chatterbox all along.
Shifting my eyes from the grisly scene of horror, I scan the room quickly to ensure whoever did this to him is not lurking in the shadows waiting to do the same to me. Satisfied, I return my service weapon to its holster. Using a tissue, I flip a switch to turn on the overhead lights. Illuminated, Livingstone looks worse. Next, I retrieve my mobile phone and dial my CO, Thomas Upton.
✽ ✽ ✽
Upton answers on the third ring. He says, “What the hell, Fortune, it’s four thirty in the morning.”
“Sorry sir, but I think I’ve stepped in it.”
In less than five minutes, I explain my predicament.
Upton tells me to call no one. He’ll phone it into the local authorities and be on the scene as quickly as he can. When local PD arrive, speak to no one, Upton warns, say nothing. He won’t be more than ninety minutes; he’ll make the trip from Manhattan with lights flashing, siren wailing.
Exiting Livingstone’s inner-office, I retreat to the reception area, close the door behind me. I find and switch on the overhead lights and sit in a comfortable lounge chair. To slow my heart-rate, I breathe deeply. I sweat, yet I tremble. The implications of what I’ve witnessed overwhelm me. I am lost at sea. Or, more apt, up shit-creek without a paddle.
The first unit to arrive is a pair of New Jersey State Troopers. I introduce myself via my identification and my badge. After a very brief explanation from me, they check Livingstone’s office for themselves. After a couple of “Jesus Christs,” “Holy shits,” and “Mary, Mother of Gods,” they go silent
They close the door after less than a minute. They settle in together on a two-person settee opposite me to await the arrival of authority.
This happens ten minutes later when the Chief of the Ho Ho Kus Police Department, Sarah DeSanto, arrives. Unknown to me, Livingstone’s office falls officially within the jurisdiction of Ho Ho Kus, New Jersey, PD. Ho Ho Kus is a wealthy borough incorporated within Bergen County. Like the Troopers, DeSanto takes only a moment to survey the bloody scene.
Closing the door, she turns to me. “We have one of the lowest crime rates in the State. And now this. People move here to get away from this sort of shit, Detective.”
Tempted to apologize, I follow Upton’s advice and remain silent. Twenty minutes later, two detectives from the New Jersey State Police Major Crime Unit arrive. The MCU is part of the State Police Forensic Investigations Bureau, which provides investigative, technical, and specialized expert assistance to state and local law enforcement agencies, including homicides.
These guys are my equal in status and rank. With me waiting outside, they take time to review the crime scene. They sense a shit-storm brewing. They don’t want to be splattered with excrement by sharing what they think, with a potential suspect, especially a fellow cop. Still, after twenty minutes they return to offer me a set of lace-up protective booties and a pair of latex gloves.
Returning to the crime scene a second time is less distressing than the first. Hanging there, Livingstone looks less symbolic. I’ve recovered my equilibrium.
I say, “Before I answer any questions, should I be waiting on my Union rep and my CO?”
Looking disinterested, the older of the two detectives says, “We’re not going to be reading you your rights, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“As long as we understand each other. I have no problem being helpful.”
The younger of the two says, “What brought you here?”
“Dr. Marcus Livingstone is—was—a suspect in a double-homicide investigation. He called me early this morning, asked if we could meet.”
They both raise a brow. “You in the habit of making house calls, Detective?” the older one says. “Chit-chatting with suspects?”
You have no idea. Instead, I say, “It’s a complicated investigation.”
“No doubt. Still, you have to admit, the circumstances are unusual.”
With a lift of my chin, I concur.
“So, now that your prime suspect is no longer your prime suspect, who do you think did this?”
“Truthfully? I couldn’t say.”
“Not even a guess?” It’s the older guy doing most of the talking.
“Someone who knows we have—had—Livingstone in the frame for the murders.”
“Someone close to the investigation? That shouldn’t be too hard.”
“There are a hundred people close to the investigation.”
The detectives share a look. “On a double homicide?” the younger one says.
“Like I say, it’s complicated.”
“You think it could be personal?”
“Only if it’s to send a message to me.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” the younger guy says.
The older guy grins. It makes his eyes light up like Kris Kringle. Because we all know, Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Clause. “I’ll be damned. You’re the one investigating The Chatterbox killings.”
Guilty, I nod.
“And you think this guy is him?”
I’m saved the trouble of a response by the arrival of a State Crime Scene Unit, after which I’m hustled to the lobby on the ground floor. The first Troopers on the scene are instructed to accompany me. I’m not a prisoner, but I’m not free to go, either.
A couple of local cops from the Ho Ho Kus department arrive on scene. They shoot the shit with their Chief. DeSanto is an attractive blonde with dark roots, mid-forties, casually dressed, undoubtedly summoned from home.
She wears a Glock nine millimeter in a holster strapped to her shoulders. Her badge dangles from a clip at her waist. She looks fit and trim. She turns my way, and I drop my eyes hoping to remain inconspicuous.
Dismissing her officers, she crosses the floor over to me.
Not inconspicuous, after all.
“Sorry I snapped at you earlier. You have to admit, it was a shock to see Marcus that way.”
“You know the victim?”
“Lots of people know Marcus Livingstone. Does a lot of good work in the community.”
“Until two hours ago, he was the prime suspect in a double-homicide.” Immediately I regret the remark, if not the tone.
“You don’t say.” DeSanto is much too casual. “First, I’m hearing about it.”
Sitting back, arms crossed over my chest, I refuse to offer details.
“But then maybe you FYI’d the State Police?”
Silent, like a Sphinx.
“Didn’t think so.” DeSanto runs her hands over her thighs like a masseuse. “I assume your CO is on his or her way to bail you out?”
From me only silence, like a Sphinx.
“I see from your ID you work out of Midtown North.” When I don’t respond, she says, “That douche-bag Tony Giardano still there?”
Curious enough to ask, I break my vow. “You know Tony?”
“I’m ex-NYPD. Commanding Officer, S.A.T.COM (Strategic and Tactical Command), Queens North. Retired with two gold stars on my shoulder. Moved here with my husband in oh-nine. Plan was to live the good life and grow old together.”
“Was?”
“Didn’t work out that way. Left me for a twenty-something bimbo less than a year later.”
“Sorry.”
“That my husband left me, or for you being such a dickhead?” DeSanto grins. “Just busting your balls, Fortune.”
DeSanto lays a hand on my thigh, at a place just above the knee. For a moment, I think she’s coming on to me. Then the pressure builds with a force so contrary to her slim physique for a moment I think I only imagine the pain.
She’s still smiling when she says, through closed teeth, “You may be a celebrity in New York, Fortune, but here you’re just another asshole with a badge. Don’t shit in my backyard. Next time you cross the river into Bergen County packing a service weapon and carrying a badge, you better have my permission. Are we clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
DeSanto releases her grip. She pats my thigh. “Good. I’ll be sure to have dinner and a nice bottle of Chianti waiting.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Limping across the foyer, I’m relieved to welcome Upton. The first trace of dawn cracks the horizon by the time he arrives. I’m tempted to ask what took him so long, but am so grateful to see him, I resist.
The first thing he says to me is, “I have to say, Fortune, I didn’t see that coming.”
Upton has communicated with the State Police and arranged for me to be escorted in a State Police cruiser to the nearest detachment at Totowa, a thirty-minute drive from Ho Ho Kus. If my situation weren’t so dire, I’d laugh out loud. A second trooper will follow behind in my personal vehicle.
“Why can’t I ride with you?” I ask Upton, sounding like a petulant child.
“You know the drill. I’ll be there to answer any questions you shouldn’t, or you can’t. But as to authority, I have no standing here. Let’s get through this and out of the State as quickly as possible, Fortune, with a minimum of fuss.”
“Too late for that, Chief.”
Upton gives me the evil eye. “Yeah, you might say.”
At the detachment, a female Major Crime Unit detective sits me in an interview room alongside Upton. She confirms the reason for my being at Livingstone’s office and the time I arrived. What did I see?—Nothing. What did I do?—Nothing. What did I touch?—Nothing.
Mostly, it’s Upton who does the talking.
“Until my Detective is debriefed, I really can’t say much. I’m learning about this at the same time as you.” He gives them surface background on the Livingstone investigation. “Marcus Livingstone was a person of interest in the murder investigation of his wife. Just because he’s dead, doesn’t mean Livingstone didn’t do it.”
To the New Jersey State Police investigator, Upton portrays our investigation as a simple homicide, akin to a domestic. He doesn’t mention serial killers or The Chatterbox, says an anonymous call prompted Detective Fortune to travel to New Jersey alone. Fortune doesn’t notify the local PD, unsure of the caller’s credibility.
“Of course, I knew about it. I thought it was a wild goose chase.” Upton shrugs. “I guess I was wrong.”
Already aware of my reputation, the woman eyes Upton as if he’s senile. “Not according to our investigators at the scene. According to your Detective, there is nothing simple to your investigation into the murder of Dr. Livingstone or his wife. As a matter of fact, he says it’s quite complicated.”
Beside me, Upton does a slow burn.
“Also, according to Detective Fortune, he was on the phone with either the victim or the perp—even he doesn’t know himself—just hours before he arrived on scene. The Detective seems confused.”
The woman stares me down. Turning to Upton, I try to respond. To silence me, he raises a hand.
“Then I guess you know more than I do.”
Standing, he terminates the interview.
At ten a.m., I’m released by the State Police into Upton’s care with an assurance to make myself available for further questioning. I’m not a suspect but designated a material witness.
In the parking lot, I confess to Upton about: the burner phone attached to the front door of my apartment; the late-night call from The Chatterbox, who I believed to be Marcus Livingstone; his suggestion to meet; his threat to bolt if I do not arrive alone; the discovery of Livingstone’s body; what I did and did not say to the New Jersey State Police.
“What part of speak to no one, say nothing do you not understand?”
“One way or another, we’re going to need their cooperation down the line, sir.”
“Jesus Christ, Fortune, you’ve dropped us all into the shit.”
“It’s The Chatterbox who’s dropped us into the shit, sir, not me.”
Upton worries the whiskers on his chin. He has the mug of an ex-boxer, though I’m unsure if he’s ever strapped on a set of gloves. During my days on patrol, I did some club boxing, decided early on my looks could not survive the carnage. Neither could my intellect. I retired with a lifetime record of zero and three.
“It won’t matter to McGowan who put us there.”
“You think I’ll be suspended?”
“Suspended? You should only hope. By the end of the day, McGowan will have you greased in bacon fat and set out on a board for the rats.”
In New York City, the rats are as big as wild pigs.
I shiver.