Eight
​ Inspector John Newman, the station chief, was watering his bonsai on his windowsill overlooking Story Avenue when we knocked and went in. He looked carefully over his shoulder and smiled.
​ “Ah, John, Carmen, come in.” He finished watering and said, “Sit down. You have news for me? Are you making progress?”
​ We sat and he eased himself into his chair behind the desk.
​ “Possibly. At the moment we have a couple of witnesses who saw somebody leaving Claire Carter’s house at noon. The descriptions agree, but unfortunately they describe him as nondescript. He got into a white Ford Kuga and drove away. It’s not a lot to go on, not enough for a BOLO, and forensics has so far given us very little.
​ “So meantime we’re looking at a couple of different angles on the leads Alvarez already had. They are a little more hopeful.”
​ He laid his fingertips along the edge of his desk and nodded at them, like he was comforted they were all still there.
​ “Such as?”
​ Dehan answered. “So far we’ve spoken to James Campbell, Mary Campbell’s son. He has a serious issue with women. He believes women are the original sin, created by Satan, and he has built his whole ministry on that premise. His alibi for where he was the night his mother died sounds shaky and we plan to look into that in more depth, and we need to check his alibis for the times and dates of the other killings.”
​ “That’s a lot of work.”
​ I answered. “Yes, sir. We’ve also been talking to Nelson Vargas. He seems to have risen through the ranks of the Cabras since Alvarez had the case. He now runs the Mescal Club, on Park Avenue, and he had four guys riding shotgun. His alibi for Maria Ortiz’s murder and for Claire Carter’s is the same. He was at the club with his boys. It’s a pretty weak alibi...”
​ He cleared his throat. “It’s only weak if you have some compelling evidence to counter it, John.”
​ I nodded. “I agree. We managed to persuade one of his boys to come with us. We have him in protective custody right now and he’s considering offering the DA a deal. We would recommend she takes it. He also needs to talk to the Feds about witness protection. Vargas could lead them a long way down the chain to Nogales and Ciudad Juarez, and maybe beyond.”
​ “All right, I’ll talk to the DA and to the Bureau, but let’s stay on task. The fact that Vargas hasn’t got rock-solid alibis for those two killings does not of itself mean he is guilty of them. We need real evidence, witnesses and forensics. What else have you got?”
​ I grunted. “At the moment it’s more a case of what we need than what we’ve got. We need a couple of guys to work through Campbell and Vargas’s alibis and check them out. With Vargas it’s going to be pretty much all the same: he was with his boys at the club, but canvassing the victims’ neighborhoods might throw up witnesses. It’s worth a try.
​ “Campbell has different kinds of alibis, and each one will have to be checked. If we can have a couple of uniforms to do that, we’d like to go and talk to the last two of Alvarez’s suspects, George Allen, who is now living in Rochester, and Golam Heitz.”
​ His eyes rose to meet mine. “Golam Heitz?”
​ “Yes sir, he was an orderly at the hospital where Sharon Lipschitz worked.”
​ “Very well. You have learned nothing more from this latest killing?”
​ “Well, sir, we have learned that the perp seems to know a lot about how the police operate and think. He tries to be a couple of steps ahead. Which leads me to one more request. I think we need an FBI profiler to give us a clearer picture of just who this man is. He seems to be smart, unlike most serial killers. He seems to have issues with his mother. But this is all surmise on my part and Dehan’s, and also Joe at the lab and Frank...”
​ “That is no mean surmise.”
​ “Thank you, sir, but we really need an expert to tell us where this character is coming from.”
​ He made a note in his pad and spoke as he was writing.
​ “Very well, I’ll put in a request. Meantime, set your team to work and see what you can get from this...um...”
​ “Jose Budia.”
​ “Jose Budia, whom you have in protective custody. Anything else?”
​ We told him there wasn’t and left. On our way down the stairs I asked Dehan, “What the hell did Vargas say that made you kick that guy in the head? You could have killed him.”
​ She didn’t answer till we’d reached the bottom. Then she stopped and turned to face me.
​ “He said, ‘Echenlos. Maten los si hace falta .’ That means, ‘Kick them out. Kill them if you have to.’”
​ I nodded. “Good call.”
​ “Thanks.”
​ Ten minutes later O’Brien and Olvera reported to our desk. O’Brien was a redhead with freckles and pretty blue eyes. I dispatched her to find a board where we could stick our photographs and make notes and observations.
​ Olvera was six foot two of willowy darkness with a hooked nose and dark, humorous eyes. Dehan handed him the file and told him to make four separate lists of the alibis of James Campbell, George Allen, Nelson Vargas and Golam Heitz. And then systematically set about testing each one of them.
​ O’Brien returned with the board, markers and erasers and we set her to work with Olvera while we put our pictures up with observations and comments. By the time we were done I was no clearer in my mind than I had been when we started. So I leafed through the file, found George Allen’s number and called him. I was surprised by the answer. It was a woman.
​ “Mr. Allen’s office. How may I help you?”
​ “This is Detective John Stone of the NYPD. I’d like to speak to Mr. Allen, please.”
​ “May I ask what it’s about?”
​ “You can ask, but I won’t tell you.”
​ “Very well, please hold.”
​ I didn’t have to hold long. After thirty seconds a deep, gravelly voice said, “This is George Allen.”
​ “Good afternoon, Mr. Allen. This is Detective John Stone of the New York Police Department.”
​ “My secretary already told me that. What do you want?
​ “I run a cold case unit at the 43rd Precinct and we are taking another look at your wife’s murder.”
​ “Oh...”
​ “I was wondering if you could spare us half an hour to go over...”
​ “There is nothing I can tell you now that I didn’t tell Detective Alvarez back in 2015.”
​ “With all due respect, sir, we have over twenty cold cases under our belts, some of them much more than five years old. And most of them were solved by taking a fresh look at old evidence. It would be very helpful for us if you would let us come and see you in Rochester and ask you a few questions.”
​ His sigh was almost a groan.
​ “Fine. When do you want to come over?”
​ “If we leave now we can be there by six thirty this evening, if that’s convenient.”
​ “It’s not convenient, Detective. It’s a damned nuisance. But I guess I’ll have to put up with it. It’s the big, redbrick house on the corner of Troup Street and South Washington. I have a dinner appointment, so I will expect you to have finished by seven.”
​ “Thank you, Mr. Allen. We’ll do our best.”
​ I hung up and sat looking at Dehan a moment, with my mind elsewhere.
​ “Grab your coat, Dehan. Let’s go to Rochester.”
​ It was five and a half hours’ drive to Lake Ontario, through some of the most beautiful forest landscapes on Earth. It was no less beautiful in winter than it was in spring, summer or fall, though at times that beauty was concealed by dense mist or heavy rain.
​ We hadn’t time to collect a bag from home, so we stopped at Kmart on the way and got the essentials. A couple of hours later we were in the Catskills cruising at somewhat above the speed limit in comfortable silence.
​ It was as we were skirting the lake at Whitney Point that Dehan broke the silence and asked me, “Stone, if you were going to do any other kind of job, what would it be?”
​ I thought for a moment.
​ “Well, we had already decided that I would retire to somewhere in New England and, like Dr. Watson, write about how you solved all these cases. I could call it the Dead Cold series, featuring Detective Carmen Dehan, the sexiest, most kick-ass detective in the NYPD. How about you?”
​ She smiled. “While you’re writing my memoirs?”
​ “Mm-hm.”
​ “I don’t know. Maybe I could work at an infants’ school or a nursery.”
​ I laughed out loud and was astonished when I glanced at her to see that she looked hurt.
​ “Oh,” I said, without thinking, “You’re serious! OK, here I go, watch me backpedal like a thing possessed.”
​ “You think they’d let me?”
​ “Why not? I think you’d be wonderful. And, joking aside, the kids would always feel safe.”
​ “Don’t, Stone.”
​ “I don’t just mean because of your skills, but, you know, you are very capable, cool in a crisis, levelheaded...”
​ “You mean it?”
​ “Absolutely. Hey! If I feel safe with you in a situation like we saw today, how are two dozen kids going to feel? The girls would all want to be you and the boys would all want to marry you.” I did a fair imitation of a four-year-old: “When I gwow up, I wanna mawwy Mrs. Thtone!”
​ That made her laugh a little more than I expected.
​ “You don’t like this case, do you?”
​ She shook her head. “No. Those poor women. I try not to think about it, but what they must have gone through, Stone. It’s inconceivable.”
​ I glanced at her. Ahead the road coiled darkly among trees into mist.
​ “You thinking of handing in your badge?”
​ She didn’t answer straight away. She gazed at the road ahead for almost a minute and finally said, “No...”
​ “Doesn’t sound very convincing. If I was interrogating you I’d think you were lying.”
​ She reached out and put her hand on my knee. “I’m not lying, but I’m not telling the whole truth, either. What if I was pregnant, Stone?”
​ A jolt high up in my chest and a hot burn in my belly made me look at her.
​ “Are you?”
​ “I mean, what if I got pregnant? Imagine, a situation like today. Or what this freak does to women with that knife. If I was pregnant...”
​ I waited, glancing at her occasionally. I switched on the fog lights and slowed as we entered a bank of mist, and repeated, “Are you?”
​ She looked away, at the steep banks that flanked the road, where the dense pines stood shrouded in gray fog.
​ “That’s not really the point.”
​ “It’s not?”
​ She shook her head and after a moment said, “No, not really.”
​ I gave her a minute. Then started to talk quietly.
​ “I’m feeling a little lost here, Dehan. I want to understand, and I can tell you’re feeling distressed. I want to be there for you, but I’m not quite sure what point you’re trying to make.”
​ She turned to face me and smiled suddenly. Next minute there was a tear in her eye and she gave a small, wet laugh.
​ “Ignore me, I’m just being stupid. I didn’t expect the sight of Claire...” She bit her lip, swallowed and took a deep breath. “I didn’t expect it to affect me so much. You know, you expect to get sick, throw up, feel queasy. You don’t expect the emotional shit. Empathy, pity, compassion...”
​ I frowned. “I would always expect those things from you.”
​ She bit her lip. The tears spilled from her eyes and she looked away with her hand over her mouth.
​ “I’m sorry.”
​ “You’re OK, Dehan. Sometimes you need to cry, let it out.”
​ She looked at me and nodded, swallowing and sniffing. I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and handed it to her. She smiled, gave a weak laugh and blew her nose. I twitched my head and shrugged.
​ “Of course, it’s different with men. We don’t need to cry. But, you know, girls need that kind of thing.”
​ She thumped my shoulder and then my knee. “Idiot!” But she was still smiling.
​ “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
​ I knew it wasn’t, but I asked anyway. “Is it that time of the month?”
​ “You know it’s not. You keep better track of it than I do. Besides, I don’t get PMS.”
​ “Let me ask you something.”
​ “What?”
​ “You have faced death in the past.”
​ “That’s not a question.”
​ “Bear with me. You have faced death, and you have even had to take a life.”
​ “Yes.”
​ “We have both faced pretty gruesome sights in the past, and it has been stressful and difficult to deal with.”
​ “Yes.”
​ “What is different about this particular murder?”
​ She took a deep breath. “You and your focused, closed questions.”
​ “What is different, Dehan? I think it’s an important question.”
​ “I can’t put my finger on it.”
​ “I think you can, but you don’t really want to.”
​ “You’re being mean.”
​ “Not at all. Shall I say it?”
​ “What’s different about this case is that it is all about mothers.”
​ She studied me for a moment, dabbed her nose and said, “Explain.”
​ “For a start all the victims were mothers. Then, you were the one who spotted the fact that every one of them had at least one son. The first suspect we spoke to railed against women and in particular his mother. All of the women are...,” I hesitated, “‘Earth Mother’ types. They were all on the plump side, generously built, with large breasts. And of course, the key feature of the murders is the killer’s cutting off those breasts. The theme that runs through this gruesome case is the mother.”
​ “You think that’s why it’s affecting me so much?”
​ “I think that’s part of the reason, Dehan.”
​ She didn’t look at me when she asked, “Only part?”
​ We were climbing now and the mist was clearing. The tall pines crowding the hillsides stood stark green against a heavy, leaden sky. I waited a moment, then said, “You’re questioning your commitment to your job, because this case has made you more aware of your own identity as a woman, and as a potential mother. Maternal instincts are very powerful drives. It’s natural that you would not want to put a baby at risk. Especially if it were your own.”
​ “I guess...”
​ “Nor would you want to put yourself at risk, if you knew you were necessary for your baby’s survival.”
​ I turned my head and looked at her. She was staring back at me with moist eyes.
​ “Dehan,” I said. “Are you pregnant?”
​ She opened her mouth and licked her lips.
​ “I don’t know, Stone,” she said, “I don’t know.”