The Cold Room (2 page)

The victim was lying face down, dressed in a shocking-pink halter and a crimson skirt, both garments of a type commonly associated with prostitutes. The halter was now around her neck, the micro-skirt above her hips. She wore no shoes or underwear, and except for small areas of blanching on her buttocks and shoulders, her torso and legs were a blotchy pink. I knew, now, that she’d been positioned on her back for eight to twelve hours following her death, then moved. Once lividity is fully set, the blood remains in place no matter how the body is turned.

I knew this was a homicide as well, a fact pointed out to me by Officer Murray Bloom when he’d briefed me earlier. ‘All you need to do,’ he told me before speeding off, ‘is take one look. She has a hole in her head, it’s gotta be four inches wide.’

The hole, when I finally squatted down to examine it, was almost exactly in the top of the woman’s skull, a wound very unlikely to have occurred accidentally. But what struck me was the mass of blond hair surrounding the wound. Though I would have expected the victim’s hair to be matted with blood and bits of torn scalp, it was as smooth and glossy as the mane of a runway model.

I left the flies to their dinner and walked back to my makeshift evidence kit, removing the Polaroid camera before tearing off another strip of cardboard off the box. The initial photos I took of the entire scene as viewed from Kent Avenue were adequate. At least the Polaroid was functioning. But I ran into serious trouble when I tried to record the tire impression at the bottom of the pothole. The sun was far too bright, the resulting photograph washed out, the tracks I wanted to record nearly invisible. My first thought was to place my body between the sun and the impression, but I re-considered. My head and hair were dripping sweat and the imprint so faint, no more than a few wavy lines, that a single drop of moisture would mar the pattern. I finally managed to shade the ridges with the piece of cardboard, but the results, although better, were still disappointing.

I briefly considered another appeal to Sgt. Sabado back at the Nine-Two. Maybe if I begged, he’d try to get me a CSU van. The Crime Scene Unit employed a number of techniques designed to enhance faint impressions – from laser sidelighting, to spraying with lacquer, to casting with dental stone – and they used high-end cameras to record the results. Meanwhile, my low-end digital camera was lying on a shelf in my closet where I’d put it years before, its batteries too dead even to illuminate the low-battery indicator.

In the end, I muddled along, knowing that even if Sabado was prepared to reward my humility, I wasn’t prepared to be humiliated. I’d worked in five different precincts over the past nine months, one in each of New York’s five counties. My peers wanted nothing to do with me, my bosses wanted only to be rid of me. As far as I could tell, my transfer out of any given precinct was in the works before I ever reported for duty.

I got several good shots of the cut in the fence, and a pair of shots from the wall of Yang Electrical that revealed the area behind the mound. The initial photos I took of the victim also came out well. Here I was less concerned about dripping sweat and I hovered over the body when I recorded the head wound. Finally, I put the camera and the photos to one side before reaching for a pair of latex gloves in my back pocket. I found them slick with sweat, the powder inside now the consistency of wet plaster, but I struggled into the gloves anyway. Then I squatted down to slide my hands under the victim’s right shoulder and hip. Her unyielding flesh was as hard as wood.

Intrigued, I withdrew my hands and manipulated the woman’s fingers and wrists, finding both supple. Rigor mortis first becomes apparent in the smaller muscles of the jaw and the extremities, then in the larger muscles of the torso. It recedes in the same order, first the extremities, then the denser parts of the body. In this case, the victim’s arms were supple, while her torso was hard, a state consistent with the end of the process and with my initial estimate of how long she’d been dead.

Again, I squatted next to the victim. I was feeling pretty good about myself as I considered my next move, as I again slid my hand beneath the victim’s shoulders and hips, as I casually rolled her onto her back. Maybe, I thought, I wouldn’t need the Crime Scene Unit after all.

TWO

I
can’t say exactly how long it took before I realized that the hissing in my ears was coming from the back of my throat, and that I was standing absolutely still, as if any movement would unleash some unspecified demon. Or how long before I accepted the simple – and obvious – fact that somebody had run a knife along the victim’s abdomen, pulled the flaps aside, then gutted her.

I once knew a Homicide dick named McCann who claimed that all victims were the same to him. ‘I speak for the dead,’ he’d insisted, ‘no matter what they were in life.’

I didn’t believe him, even then. I didn’t believe that all cries for justice were equal. I’d seen more than my share of bodies and knew that the abrupt departure of some victims was an absolute blessing. The world was better off without them. And while I worked their murders diligently, I never felt a moment’s sympathy. I spoke, not for the dead, but for the state.

That was not the case here. No, in this particular case, my victim’s cry for justice was closer to the howl of a January blizzard.

Eventually, my stomach calmed and my heart slowed, until I was finally able to remind myself that there was a job to be done and no one else to do it. Like it or not, if I wanted to give this woman a name, if I wanted to make her killer pay, I had to get to work.

I began by examining the victim’s abdomen, standing over her for a moment before dropping to one knee. Though it appeared that all of her internal organs had been removed, there was no blood on the upper parts of her body and it was now even more obvious that she’d been carefully prepped for her date with the river.

Satisfied for the moment, I allowed myself to look directly into her eyes. Her corneas were clouded, as expected, but I could see, beneath the film on the surface, two pale blue circles, delicate as the petals of a flower. I raised the camera and took several quick shots, catching the photos as they were ejected. In her early twenties, the woman’s appearance was consistent with the first stages of decomposition. Purge fluid, dark as blood, had drained from her nose to form a two-dimensional mustache above her mouth. There was minor bloating evident in her cheeks as well, and some slippage of the flesh along her jaw line. My hope was that, later on, I could use the photos and my computer to create a recognizable likeness of the victim. Unless I got lucky with her fingerprints – assuming they could be taken – I would need something to show around and I didn’t intend to wait for a police artist to produce a sketch.

I continued to photograph the body, to record the victim’s injuries, including deep abrasions on the point of her chin and the tip of her nose. The abrasions were fresh and flecked with bits of dirt and particles of vegetation. I collected samples of each, placing them in evidence bags, then took more samples from the area surrounding the body. As I continued, the process became mechanical and my thoughts began to focus on an obvious question. Why was the victim . . .?

I considered this much for a moment before settling on the word eviscerated. I liked the clinical sound of its five syllables. I liked the distance it placed between me and the event.

So, why was the victim eviscerated? The first explanation that sprang to mind, the most obvious, was that she was a dope mule, that she’d swallowed condoms filled with heroin or cocaine, and that her killer had refused to wait for nature to take its course. Perhaps she’d been the target of a drug rip-off, or perhaps she’d been unable to pass the condoms through some abnormality in her bowels. Either way, the product was retrieved.

But that led to another question. If you were only after a few stuffed condoms, why would you remove all her organs, including the lungs and the heart which are tucked up under the rib-cage? To throw me off?

I tried to imagine the dope dealers I’d busted having the imagination or the knowledge to attempt that kind of deception. Most of them, I was sure, would have dumped her in some alley, or tossed her from a roof into a garbage-strewn backyard. Proud as battle-scarred pitbulls, they would have displayed her as evidence of their ferocity.

Of course, there was also a Jack the Ripper scenario out there. But the blunt-force trauma to her head didn’t fit. Slow strangulation would have been far more appropriate to a sadistic murderer. Plus, the killer hadn’t been fishing for souvenirs like Jack the Ripper. He’d taken everything.

That last word – everything – triggered another thought. Some ten years before, a homeless man had turned up with a missing kidney and a fresh surgical incision. The man remembered nothing of the experience and the case was never cleared, but except for the obvious, there didn’t seem to be any other explanation for his injuries. Somebody had needed that kidney.

There’s no lack of human beings who need organs. A kidney, a liver, a lung, a heart, a pancreas; recipients far outnumber donors. But gall bladders, colons, spleens? And what about her pink lividity? Where did that fit in? If she’d inhaled enough carbon monoxide to change the chemistry of her blood, why was she struck on the head?

I walked back to the Crown Vic, retrieved a pad and a jug of water from the trunk. A moment later, I was seated in a patch of shade, with my back to the wall, simply enjoying the contrast between shade and sun as I raised the water jug to my lips. The water inside wasn’t more than a degree lower than my internal body temperature. Nevertheless, it might have been drawn from an icy stream in the Rocky Mountains. I felt instantly revived.

I had a number of tasks ahead of me, but I was in no hurry. The ME would be a long time coming. I sat where I was for a good fifteen minutes, until I finally stopped sweating, and I might have stayed longer if Clyde Kelly hadn’t chosen that moment to make his presence felt. I didn’t see him at first, but I heard him coming, heard a steady clunk, clunk, clunk, despite the din up on the bridge. The clunking was due to a prosthesis attached to the stump of his right leg, a fact made apparent by his short pants when he finally appeared. Almost the color of tea, the prosthesis was twice as thick as his left leg, which happened to be fish-belly white.

Short and thin, and well past middle-age, Kelly limped to the center of the intersection, then peered over the crime scene tape at the dirt mound and the body behind it. After a moment, he moved on, crossing to the north side of South Fifth Street where he hesitated before making his way back to where he’d originally stopped. Finally, he shaded his eyes before again looking out toward the body and the water beyond.

At no time, despite the sirens and the choppers and the saw blades, did he so much as glance at the activity on the bridge. I got to my feet, imagining the effect my unkempt self would have on the little man standing on the far side of Kent Avenue. My shirt was out, my hair plastered across my forehead, my pants drawn skin-tight across my thighs. Worst of all, from his point of view, at six-three, I towered over him.

The cop from hell. An amusing image, no doubt, but not the one I wanted to project. When he finally became aware of my approach, pivoting on his artificial leg, I displayed my badge, shot him my friendliest smile and gave a little salute. A pure waste of time. His eyes widened in panic and he turned to run.

‘Wait a second,’ I said, ‘I’m not gonna hurt you.’

Clunk, clunk, clunk, clunk.

I caught up with him before he reached the sidewalk, then gently took his arm. ‘Slow down, partner. I just want to talk to you.’

He raised a hand as if to shield his head, revealing a prison tattoo on the web between his thumb and forefinger, an uneven black cross. For a moment, I was tempted to excuse his paranoia as the natural reflex of an ex-con, but I finally decided that no matter how many years he’d spent in the joint, his reaction to my appearance was extreme. I took a moment to examine the man before breaking the silence that followed. His shorts and t-shirt were well worn, though clean, his hair recently cut, his face recently shaved. Deep grooves marked the side of his face, running from the inside corners of his eyes down into the soft flesh of his throat. They made his long face seem even longer, an effect enhanced by the sagging skin at his jaw line. His broad nose was also long, while his dark eyes, beneath a pair of brows shaggy enough to cast a veil over his upper lids, betrayed his fear.

‘What’s your name, partner?’ I asked.

‘Clyde Kelly,’ he responded, his tone hoarse. ‘I ain’t done nothin’.’

‘I’m Detective Corbin. You have to excuse my appearance. I been workin’ out in the sun.’ I put my shield away. ‘You got ID, Clyde?’

He looked up at me, his expression tracing a line midway between pleading and resigned. Returning his gaze, I realized that however bad he might have been in years gone by, whatever awful deeds he may have performed, time had taken its toll. He was an old man now, living an old man’s fearful life.

‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I got a card.’

He retrieved that card without my asking, pulling a photo ID issued by the Human Resources Administration from a leather wallet as creased and wrinkled as the skin beneath his arms. The HRA card revealed an address on Wythe Avenue, one block east of Kent, and his date of birth. Clyde Kelly was seventy-three.

‘You live by yourself?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘Senior housing,’ he explained. ‘Everything’s like shared. The bathrooms, the kitchen, like that.’

I think he was proud to have a fixed address, not to be among New York’s large population of homeless ex-cons. For my part, I was content to know that I could find him again if I needed him.

‘Look, Clyde,’ I said after a moment, ‘I got a little problem and I think you can help me.’ I took out my wallet, withdrew a clammy ten-dollar bill, and pushed it into his hand. ‘I don’t expect you to work for nothing, of course.’

He stared down at the bill without closing his fingers. ‘What do I gotta do?’