Final Exit,
the suicide manual, andbangtheres your motive and method before you even see the body. Instead, there was
Angelas Ashes.
Pride and Prejudice.
The Human Stain. Atonement. The Dispossessed.
Every other title seemed freighted with extra meaning these days.
The God of Small Things.
He paused on the last one, intrigued. What every homicide detective needs watching over him. The God of unreliable witnesses, mitochondria testing, spatter patterns, cell phone dumps, tox screens, DNA swabs, polygraphs, fingerprint kits, trace metals, ecchymotic suck marks, and stray carpet fibers. There ought to be a shrine to the God of Small Things in Homicide. Just before he turned away, he noticed the book on one side of it was the
Physicians Desk Reference;
on the other side was a tattered paperback called
The Illustrated Man
.
He glanced back at the teddy bear in the nurses uniform, and the light in the room seemed to dim. He shrugged it off and kept looking, seeing no obvious signs of violent struggle. The cable box was still perched atop a small Sony TV in the corner, and a slender bud vase with a red tulip remained undisturbed on an antique end table.
He turned left, the Geiger counter inside him clicking more rapidly as he sensed himself coming closer to the body. Somehow he knew before he saw it that a kitchen pass-through would be in front of him. Had he been in this building before? Through the window he saw, first, boxes of high-fiber cereal and then a little bear-shaped honey jar. Didnt mean anything, he told himself. Lots of people had them. His eye moved to a dense mosaic of Polaroids on the front of the refrigerator. Again watching where he stepped, he went around the side entrance and squeezed into the tiny kitchen to get a better look.
Kids.
About three dozen pictures of fucking kids. With gaps in their teeth, scabs on their mouths, IV needles in their arms, cleft palates, neck braces, butterfly stitches, and gauze pads on their ears.
No, the victim couldnt just be any kind of nurse or doctor. Of course not. It just had to be one who worked with kids.
Thump.
He stared at the dripping faucet, resisting the urge to turn it off before itd been dusted for prints.
He heard the furtive mutter of male voices nearby, the sound of men working in a womans apartment. They couldve been fixing an air conditioner or replacing a light switch. He left the kitchen and went around into the bedroom.
The shades were down, but the bed was made, its soft pillows fluffed and piled, a thick downy quilt folded in half. He turned toward the maple dresser and felt his heart jump when he saw a picture of a mustachioed player in a Mets cap. But then he realized it was just Mike Piazza, the current catcher, not Keith Hernandez, who played first base twenty years ago. Still didnt mean anything, he cautioned himself. Plenty of girls watched sports nowadays. He checked out the other pictures on the dresser. The common element in each one was a smallish doe-eyed girl with straw-colored hair. Something of a jock herself, maybe. In one of the photos, she was golfing with an older couple, grandparents perhaps. In another, she was pirouetting on ice skates before a cheering crowd. The victim, of course. There was something proper and a little Victorian about her face that made Francis think of a dusty old locket found in the back of a dead relatives drawer. But there was a sort of scrappiness there that kept her from seeming too pure and virginal, a determined set to her mouth, a competitive way she thrust out her chin.
The red light of an answering machine blinked frantically on the night table.
Francis X.! A voice cried out from the bathroom. No justice, no peace, baby!
Jimmy Ryan, word up. He moved into the doorway.
His old partner, now in Crime Scene, was kneeling over the rim of an ancient claw-foot bathtub, a steel-headed gerbil in a tweed sports jacket burrowing for clues. Thirty-five years on the Job, but
he
wasnt having to slow down because of some goddamn infirmity. Even after he won 6 million dollars playing Lotto ten years ago, Ryan wouldnt even let the word
retirement
be spoken in his presence. He was too used to the ringing phones, the late-night takeout, the ID flip-books, the moment in the lineup room when the witness began to chew his lip in nervous recognition. He knew that he couldnt trust himself at rest. Men like him had their going-away racket on a Saturday and started forgetting their grandchildrens names by Thursday.
A ropy black guy in a navy suit stood over him, black tie tucked elegantly into his shirt, snapping Polaroids.
Rashid Ali, meet your new best friend, said Jimmy. Mr. Francis X. Loughlin. Second-sharpest detective in the Manhattan North Task Force. Id say hes number one if I wasnt thinking of coming back myself.
The black guy lowered his camera to give him the once-over, disdain dripping off him like Spanish moss.
Oh, here we fucking go,
thought Francis.
Let the butt-sniffing begin.
Rashids eyes lingering a beat too long on the American flag and Deadhead pin on the lapel of Franciss coat. He took his time evaluating the package, knowing Francis would be supervising him on the case.
How you doing? said Francis. You from the one-nine squad?
Thats how Im living.
My old stomping grounds.
Now it was his chance to check out his blind date. Black guy in his mid-thirties, all gym-buffed and hard-angled. A trim dagger of a beard, deep sculpted cheekbones, V-shaped torso. Even his shaved head had angles, or were they just dents?
How you get along with my main man Gary Wahl? Francis asked after his old sergeant.
The captain? Rashid wrinkled his nose, as if hed just caught a whiff of kitty litter. A little friction here and there. We smoothed it out.
Figures this is what Id get.
Francis shook his head. Harry Hard-On. With a Muslim name, no less.
So, what do we got?
Rashid moved aside, giving Francis a full-on view.
Damn.
He needed a step back to take in the whole thing. An angry red fireball had exploded on the tiles above the bathtub, spindly veins of blood dripping down into the grout.
Even after twenty-five years on the job and maybe close to five hundred bodies, murder had not completely lost its savage power, its ability to make him feel personally affronted, told to step up or get out of the way. He forced himself to slow down again, to recompose, inhale, exhale, concentrate.
Everything rippled out in circles from there. The girl in the curly-rimmed tub looked a little smaller and darker than she did in her pictures. There were conspicuous henna streaks lending a touch of red to her hair. One arm was hanging languidly over the side, fingertips lightly brushing the talons of the claw-foot. She could have been relaxing after a long hard day at work, except the tub was empty and she was wearing only a black bra with no underwear. Her left knee was crooked up in front of her, exposing and spreading her labia as if she were posing for a lewd truck-stop calendar.
He hissed as he went into a half-squat to assess the damage more carefully. Blood still wet in her nostrils said she hadnt been dead long, and a crack in her lower lip said shed been punched full in the mouth at least once. Her throat had been slashed twice. Once ineptly, as if the knife had gotten stuck, and then again more deeply on the second try, sending a fine misting spray all the way up onto the ceiling. Thicker blood puddled around her collarbone.
So, what do you think? Jimmy Ryan asked. He started off hitting her in the face and then he cut her throat?
I dont know. Francis slowly raised his eyes and saw a bloody clump of hair and brain matter on the towel hook. Im thinking maybe he stunned her first, by knocking her head against the wall. If she was conscious while he was punching her, her hands mightve been more up in front of her face. Who called it in?
The attending on her shift at Mount Sinai, said Rashid. She was supposed to be covering for one of the other doctors at six last night. Never showed. Shes one of those never-late types. So they knew something was up right away. Left about a dozen messages on her machine here and beeped her about a hundred times. This morning they called the building, and the landlord let himself in.
Francis stood up slowly, a diver trying not to get the bends. Whats her name?
Christine Rogers, said Jimmy.
Okay, said Francis.
He decided he had to treat this like any other new case for the moment, no jumping to conclusions.
Tabula rasa. All I know is what I dont know.
He gave the newbie a sidelong glance. Ever handle a big press case before?
Why? asked Rashid. You think this is going to get more play than if it was at the Edenwald Houses up in the Bronx?
Is that a note of sarcasm I detect?
Rashid smirked.
Yeah, you know better, brother. You know that no matter what I say, it
does
count.
A black girl probably wont have the mayor and the police commissioner giving press conferences about her homicide. A black girl wont lead all the local newscasts tonight and get the headlines in all three tabloids tomorrow morning. A black girl wont have six detectives squabbling over her case, where for once the victim looks like somebody who couldve lived in their neighborhood, been in school with their kids, maybe even gone to their parish.
Detective Ali just got his gold shield in January, Jimmy said meaningfully as he ducked out into the bedroom.
And what were you doing before? asked Francis.
Brooklyn North Narcotics. Rashid drew himself up. We did a lot of buy-and-busts. A few of our cases hit the paper. We did the Blood Money Sex gang over in Brownsville. Top story on
Live at Five
with Sue Simmons, front page of the
Daily News
the next day. So, yeah. I know how to handle the media.
Fine, I just want to make sure were on the same page about leaks, said Francis.
I wont be talking to anybody.
Good. Francis glanced again at the girls hands, the nails short and unpainted. So you want to get some bags on those?
What?
I said you wanna put some bags on her hands. Exchange and transfer. She may have the perps blood or skin under her nails.
Rashid pulled a couple of Ziploc bags out of his pocket.
Not plastic, come on. Francis frowned. Paper. Use the brown paper bags.
Rashid glared at him. Why you gotta talk to me like that?
Like what?
Like Im bagging your groceries.
Francis looked up, his eyes eventually finding a stress fracture in the ceiling.
Listen, he said. No disrespect. But you gotta give the skin a chance to breathe. Otherwise, the evidence can degrade.
I know
that.
You dont have to lecture me.
Well, excuse me, but just because you got balls the size of grapefruit and can walk into a crack house full of Tec 9s wearing five thousand dollars worth of gold, that doesnt mean you know everything there is to know about running a homicide investigation. All right?
Rashid crossed his arms in front of his chest, like a rapper posing for a magazine cover, defensive and unapproachable. So I got to be the bitch. Right?
Oh, for the love of Christ . . .
Francis sighed and looked back at the girl, the old tub seeming to grow larger as it held her. Now that he was focusing, he could see there were definitely traces of sticky-looking blood under the nails and what appeared to be a reddish strand of hair wrapped around a finger joint, possibly pulled from her attackers head. So she
had
fought back, after all.
All right,
he thought.
I got you now. I know where you were coming from.
So, what else you-all want me to do? Rashid fidgeted with his camera.
Just follow the steps. Check the drains and traps in here and the kitchen for blood and hair. Jimmy will bag the brush on the sink, see what we can find in the bristles. Get the answering machine tape and call TARU about helping you get her phone records. See if shes got a cell phone. Check out her e-mails. Then run this address on the system to see if theres any parolees living in the building or complaints from any of the neighbors.
Got any dry cleaning you want me to pick up while Im at it?
What?
Nothing. Just wondering what youre going to be doing while Im running around.
Im going to call in to the Chief of D. so he doesnt start driving us crazy, asking for updates every five minutes, and then Im going to check to see if theres any film in that security camera I saw in the elevator.
There isnt. Rashid shook his head. Its empty. Placebo cam. I already checked it out. That wouldve been too damn easy.
Hey, hey, my man Rashid. Youre way ahead of me.
Rashid sucked his cheeks in and raised the camera once more, not ready to play the tension off so easily. What
ever,
man.
All right, lets finish up in here and let the Crime Scene guys handle the rape kit. Francis took out his steno pad to sketch the bathrooms layout. Remember, keep an open mind. Nothings irrelevant. Anybody could do anything.
Hey, Francis! Jimmy called from the other room. You want me to blow your mind?
Francis followed the sound of his voice, one foot in front of the other, the short path between the two rooms a potential minefield. What up?
He did the four-square search, the fact of not seeing Jimmy right away triggering a spasm of tightness in his chest. Was he that bad already? Gradually his eyes adjusted and found Jimmy across the room with a limp scrap of paper in his hand.
