CHAPTER 5

 

Detective Second-Grade Chris Freitag was Davis’s partner of nearly seven years, and his best friend. He was waiting in an unmarked black Chevrolet Impala in front of the precinct house. In contrast to Matt, the younger Freitag stood six-three, and was built like a refrigerator, with huge shoulders, bulging biceps, and a shock of jet-black hair that revealed his one-quarter Mohawk Indian ancestry. He was forty-one, and hailed from upstate New York near Newburgh, where he had been a standout on his high school football team. Unlike his partner, he had never married, and saw no reason to change the status quo. He was quite at home in the tiny Eastside walkup he called home.

Sitting in the back seat was Captain Foster. Davis opened the front passenger door, nodded at his boss, and climbed in next to Freitag. Chris slapped the magnetic light onto the roof and pulled the car into traffic.

“It doesn’t look good Matt,” said Foster. “It’s just like that woman we found six weeks ago over on Eighth Avenue. Feet tied with her stockings, hands bound with her underpants and bra, sock stuffed in her mouth and,” sighed Foster, “the heart”.

“Shit,” said Davis. They had yet to come up with so much as a weak lead for the previous murder, and he saw no signs for optimism.

“I hear you,” replied Foster, matter-of-factly.

“Who called it in?” asked Matt.

“The husband,” answered Foster. “Comes home early from a business trip. Says he wants to surprise her.”

“I guess the surprise was on him, huh?” Freitag quipped.

Foster shot him a disapproving look.

 

In just over three minutes, the car screeched to a stop in front of the four-story walk-up. Yellow crime scene tape was stretched between the wrought-iron railings lining each side of the concrete stoop. The rain had abated, and the wet sidewalk glistened in the night’s light. Several standard-issue blue and white cruisers sat in front of the nondescript building, lights flashing, their engines running. Behind them was a red and white Emergency Services truck, its high-pitched alternator humming reliably. The call to 911 had come in at nine-thirty five, and the unit in B sector had responded to the scene. A young acne-faced patrol officer stood guard at the entrance to the building. His somber posture bespoke the seriousness of the crime.

Davis, Foster, and Freitag hustled up the few concrete steps to the landing and addressed the man in blue. “Did you see the body?” asked Matt.

The uniformed cop shook his head. “Hanley was the first one in. The asshole puked his guts out.”

Davis studied the young cop’s face. “Wipe that smirk off your face.”

The patrolman blushed in embarrassment, and then said, “I mean, I’m glad it was him and not me,” as if that would clear him with Davis.

Matt frowned in response.

“Sorry, sir,” mumbled the cop.

CSU and the ME are on their way already, sir,” said the patrolman. “I called them myself.” He smiled at his efficiency, hoping Davis would approve.

Matt smiled a tight-lipped smile and acknowledged the remark. Normally it was the responsibility of the detectives to make such a call, but protocol often took a back seat to expediency.

Davis led the way up the stairs to where the second patrol officer stood maintaining a watch outside the apartment. His uniform was soiled, a souvenir of his first experience with a homicide. He grinned uneasily at the detectives. Foster and the two plainclothesmen showed their badges and filed into the apartment. The rookie patrol officer followed them inside.

“The victim’s name is Melina Spiros. Her husband is in the living room,” he said.

The distraught spouse sat hunched over on the couch, sobbing quietly into his damp handkerchief. He looked up as Davis approached and started to stand. Davis put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him.

“Mr. Spiros? I’m Detective Davis. I’m very sorry about your wife, sir.”

The man shook his head in quiet acknowledgment.

Hanley addressed the captain and the two detectives. “The deceased is in the bedroom on the right at the end of the hall,” he said quietly.

“Thanks,” replied Freitag. The three men started down the corridor. Matt scanned the naked walls, noting the lack of pictures or other meaningful adornments.

The detectives entered the bedroom as young people might enter a funeral home for the first time—with respect and trepidation. Both emotions were appropriate.

“Jesus Christ,” whispered Chris. The specter before them was not a pretty one, and Davis inhaled deeply through clenched teeth. Freitag tried not to breathe at all. His heart started pounding as it always did at the sight of a murder victim. Melina Spiros’s right eye was black and blue, and swollen shut; the left bulged grotesquely, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Her face was distorted by extensive swelling, a mass of bruises and abrasions. Blood matted her hair, and red welts covered most of her body.

As the two detectives stood solemnly by the bed, each was aware of the other’s discomfort. Sex crimes were never easy. Freitag’s present-day girlfriend had been a rape victim as a teenager. Davis’s first wife had also very nearly suffered a similar misfortune while doing wash at a coin-operated laundry. Only her martial arts training and the quick-witted actions of a fellow customer had prevented her attacker from succeeding.

A noise at the front door of the apartment caught the attention of the two men. Several seconds later, two crime scene technicians padded into the room, coughing noisily to announce their presence, before positioning themselves alongside Freitag and Davis. Foster stood at the opposite side of the bed.

“I want this place gone over with a fine-toothed comb,” ordered Matt. “Phones, door knobs, toilet bowl handle, everything.” His orders were not necessary, but he gave them anyway, fulfilling an unspoken promise to the deceased. Routine procedure mandated that every possible effort be made to gather all physical evidence at a crime scene. Included would be the collection of any blood, hair, and fiber evidence, as well as semen, if there were any. The evidence would be placed in plastic bags, sealed, and labeled.

There would be extensive dusting for fingerprints. Every possible point of entry would be tested, in addition to telephones, counter tops, the victim’s own skin (with Polaroid film used to lift any marks), and any other items or surfaces that could possibly yield fingerprints. They would take measurements, collect fingernail scrapings, and note temperature readings. In addition, the scene would be photographed from every conceivable angle.

Along with the bruises and cuts, there were extensive abrasions on her wrists and ankles, a result of her fierce struggle against her bonds. Each mark was photographed and noted. There was some swelling around the vaginal area, and also bruising and swelling on the victim’s neck. Strangulation appeared to be the obvious cause of death, but only an autopsy could confirm that as fact.

While the crime scene men gathered physical evidence, detective Freitag was busying himself elsewhere in the apartment building. The tall detective canvassed neighbors, copying down anything they said that might give the slightest hint of what had happened. Then he moved outside, and wrote down license plate numbers from the cars parked on the block.

But, the most unique evidence was plainly visible for even the most casual observer to see—two clues that were so compelling and unusual that no one had even dared to mention them. It was as if by not acknowledging the clues, the horror of the crime could be denied.

Now, their presence could no longer be ignored.

The young medical examiner, Cathy Ahearn, had arrived, and was bent over the corpse, examining it from every angle. Finally, she began speaking slowly and deliberately into her small, portable tape recorder. Her words grimly and matter-of-factly described the dreaded evidence in its grotesque detail.

“There is a small heart-shaped incision on the victim’s left breast,” she noted. “The incision appears to have been made either by a scalpel or other similarly sharp cutting instrument.” She coughed and then continued, “The heart is approximately seven and one-half centimeters long by five centimeters wide. There are located directly within the heart what appear to be two pairs of initials, one set positioned precisely above the other….”

It was impossible, of course, for words to describe the brutality of the senseless disfigurement. But, there might be added significance to what they saw. One set of initials was the same as one of those found on the body of Ida Simpson: J.C.

Jesus Christ? Can this be real? The medical examiner already knew the answer.