Detective Julian Hay held up the recording device and pushed a button. An ugly crackle of sound emerged, and he adjusted the volume. The call had obviously been placed using a cell phone. All three of them leaned in toward the tape recorder to make out the words through the cacophony of bad sound quality.
“Nine-one-one Dispatch. What is your emergency?” a woman barked.
More static, and what sounded like ragged breathing.
“What is your emergency, please?”
“I’m in Central Park. Something terrible happened.” The man spoke through panting breaths. He sounded as if he’d been running like hell and was now about to burst into tears.
“Sir?” the dispatcher prompted after a moment.
“I heard a woman screaming. She was being attacked. I think she’s dead. Jesus, she must be dead.”
“A woman was attacked?”
“Yes, I saw the whole thing. Just before.” His breath caught in a suppressed sob.
“Did you witness this attack, sir?”
“Yes, but it was dark. I saw…I saw figures. He had a knife. He was stabbing her. Oh my God, oh my God!”
“Where in Central Park, sir?”
“It happened in the Ramble, near the lake. About five minutes ago.”
“And what is your name, sir?”
“What?”
“I’m going to dispatch a cruiser immediately. What is your name?”
A loud click sounded.
“Sir? Hello?…Shit, he hung up. Male Caucasian, I think.”
Julian clicked off the recorder. “That’s it,” he said. “Dispatch informs that the call came in at eight forty-six P.M. tonight.”
“Placing the murder at approximately eight forty-one, if you believe what the caller said about timing,” Dan said.
“The caller sounds like an eyewitness, not the killer,” Melanie said.
“I agree. He’s scared shitless,” Dan agreed.
“Any leads on him?” she asked.
“We got the cell number from the 911 dispatcher. It’s a Verizon prefix, but their subpoena compliance department is officially closed till nine A.M. tomorrow,” Julian said.
“We can’t wait that long. They must have people on staff overnight. Maybe you should send somebody there in person,” Melanie said. She was starting to get caught up in the urgency of the situation, forgetting herself and her personal concerns, thinking instead of Suzanne Shepard’s stomach, its chilling hieroglyphs, their maker lurking out there somewhere in the bottomless night.
Dan nodded. “I already called my squad. We’re sending a guy over to Verizon right now with a subpoena and orders to beat the fucking door down if he has to. The second we have a subscriber name, we’re all over the guy.”
“Okay, good. Any progress on identifying additional eyewitnesses?” Melanie asked.
“My lieutenant had uniforms fanned out in every direction from the Ramble within twenty minutes of receiving the 911 call,” Julian said. “But it’s not like when somebody gets whacked in an apartment building and you just go push the neighbors’ doorbells. People don’t stay put in Central Park. So far, nobody we talked to saw or heard a thing.”
“Are we putting out a call for tips?” Melanie asked. “You know, like on television and radio?”
“Yeah, we’re doing Crimestoppers. And the family’s offering a reward. Fifty large. That should get people’s attention,” Julian said.
“Great,” Melanie said.
Julian snapped his fingers. “Wait a minute. Television. You just reminded me of something. My lieutenant wants to hold a press conference, the sooner the better. And he wants the U.S. Attorney’s Office doing the talking, so that means you. Hold on a second.”
Julian cupped his hands and shouted, “Yo, boss!”
A heavyset man wearing a rumpled raincoat and a brown corduroy cap turned and waved brusquely.
“Prosecutor,” Julian called, pointing at Melanie.
Lieutenant Jack Deaver immediately marched over and introduced himself. “Somebody needs to give a statement to get the reporters off my back,” he insisted. “We set up a perimeter as best we could, but you saw them out there. There hasn’t been a murder in the park in three years. They heard about the hunting knife, so now they’re calling this guy the Central Park Butcher. Once your perp gets nicknamed, forget about it, the reporters are like dogs smelling meat. They’re starting to bypass the barricades, just walkin’ right over the fuckin’ things.”
“Freedom of the press,” Melanie said. “You can’t keep them out forever.”
“They’re undermining the crime-scene investigation,” Deaver said. “You want these bozos trampling evidence? Or worse yet, finding it before Brennan’s boys do, so there’s no chain of custody for trial?”
“Park’s officially closed, right? Frickin’ arrest ’em for trespassing,” Dan suggested.
“We can’t arrest reporters. Not a good idea,” Melanie said with a nervous laugh. This case was potentially explosive, she was possibly stepping on the toes of the D.A.’s office, and her boss didn’t even know she was out here.
“Nope, I’m making an executive decision,” Deaver proclaimed, “just like they taught me in leadership training. We’re holding a press conference. Throw the dogs a bone. It’s the only way to corral ’em in one place while we finish up here. Pierre, come with me. We’ll tell ’em to set up their cameras, and that Vargas here’ll be at the park gate in half an hour to give an update.” Deaver strode away, with Julian following.