by Owen Parr
Usually, the SVD, or Special Victims Division, would handle a sex crime, but since this was a hushed investigation, it got handed over to Homicide. I was assigned to work with Detectives Farnsworth and Charles. In my world, I had specific “terms of endearment” for these two macho dicks, Cagney and Lacey—like from the television series about two lady detectives back in the 1980s. Farnsworth and Charles were neither excited to see me, nor appreciative of my sense of humor.
Detective Farnsworth is an old-timer with a thick, rough Brooklyn accent. In his late fifties, he’s tall—maybe six-two, broad shoulders, thinning blonde hair. While he stays in shape, his girth was beginning to sprout, perhaps from too many beers at the Hudson Station Bar and Grill across the precinct. He was also an asshole, in my respectful opinion.
Detective Charles had been a partner of mine for a time. At forty, just a few years older than me, he comes in at about five feet ten inches. Aside from the short cropped black hair and large ears that stick out like two cable TV reception dishes on either side of his head, he was developing a beer belly like Farns. When not with Farns, Charles could be a nice guy. But, for some reason when they paired up, he’d turn into asshole numero dos.
Farnsworth walked into the meagerly decorated conference room; the only embellishments were two pictures hanging on the wall—the Mayors and one of Police Commissioner O’Malley. I was reviewing the murder book when Farns welcomed me back to the precinct.
“So, Mancuso, here you are, again. Isn’t that … special?” His raspy smoker’s voice couldn’t mask his plastic excitement. It was a question that he didn’t want me to answer.
“Happy to see you, too, Detective,” returning the gesture without looking up.
“Have you solved the case yet?” His question laced with sarcasm.
I could see this was headed in the wrong direction, and I had only been here thirty minutes.
“Listen, we can do this in two ways: either we collide at every turn and fuck each other up, or we work together and try to solve this case before any of us get killed in the process. Have it your way; just let me know which way to go.”
Farnsworth moved closer to me; too close, unfortunately. Close enough that I could tell he had inhaled an onion bagel before walking into the conference room. My Dad had a phrase for breath like that: alito puzzolente, bad breath.”
“As long as you know who is lead in this investigation and who calls the shots, then we should not, quote, unquote, collide as you say, Mancuso.”
Yep. Good ole asshole Farns. I let that go, I didn’t want to battle with this guy now. “Tell me about the case,” I ignored his little tirade and I turned my face, to locate and inhale fresh air.
Farns panned the room as if he was looking for someone. He was. “So, … is your brother, the priest, joining us today?”
I didn’t know if he was mocking Dom, or not. “My brother, Father Dominic, works with me as much as he can. His church duties are a priority. I’ll fill him in later.”
“Very well, I suppose you want to start with victim number one. Hand me the book,” It must have felt good to command me about as he pointed to the murder book. He promptly sat down. “You mind if I smoke?”
What an Idiot! Smoking is not allowed inside these buildings. “You mind if I fart?” I replied.
“What’s with the attitude, just tell me if it bothers you,” he retorted.
“Knock yourself out, sport. Can you start with victim one?”
“Odette Romano, Italian, like yourself. Twenty-nine years old. Associate attorney at Mars and Samson—a law firm in Midtown. Single. No record of any kind.”
“What did she look like?”
“Like shit when we first saw her,” He was trying to be funny as he lit a filtered cigarette. He’s trying, all right, like trying my patience.
Seeing my deadpan expression, he frowned and looked down at the book again. “Cute young lady, about five-six, long brown hair, hazel eyes, perfect figure. You can see for yourself here. What else can I tell you about her?”
“How was she found?” I was loaded with questions.
“Her neighbor, another lady attorney, knocked on her door in the morning, ten days ago. It seems they ride the subway together. Hearing no response, she called her on the cell. After numerous attempts, she called the police.”
Notice, I had asked Farnsworth “how” not “who.” The biggest problem we have in the world today is poor communication. We might avoid wars if we could only understand each other. I inconspicuously rolled my eyes before I went on, “Then what?”
He let out a big cloud of gray smoke that just hung there in front of his face. “The uniforms on the scene called the building super, and he opened the door. She was dead on her bed; naked and faced down. Her legs extended over and down the end of the bed. You get the picture?”
I ignored his question, but yes, I got the picture. “What was the cause of death?”
“The medical examiner determined COD as strangulation with a satin ribbon, like the ones used to wrap a gift package. No ribbon was found though, but there were small threads of red satin material detected around her neck.”
“Was the ME Doctor Frankie?”
“Yeah, Doctor Death,”
“What else did he conclude?”
“The rape kit showed only anal sex, no semen found. Doctor Frankie assumes the killer was standing behind her. She was facing down—” Farns paused, “when he entered her from behind, and—”
I interrupted, “You said he. Do we know that to be a fact?”
Farnsworth gave me a hard stare and let out one of those hesitated sighs—the kind that comes with the “how dare you question my abilities” type of look. “No, that was my conclusion.”
Incredible, he’s reaching conclusions now. “Go on.”
“Okay, so she’s faced down, the killer is behind her, like this,” he says, standing in front of the conference table, mimicking the act.
I interrupted his demonstration, “You don’t have to act it out. Save that for show-and-tell later when the rest of the class shows up. Go on.”
Taking the cigarette out of his mouth, he added, “Okay. So, then the killer takes the ribbon, about half an inch thick—according to the contusions found on her neck—and begins the choking process…. ” He stopped to look at me. “You know, they say that many do this.”
“What, using a ribbon?” I knew where he was going with this. I decided to play along but refused to make eye contact.
“No, choking the female partner during sex with a ribbon, or a belt, whatever you can find. Supposedly, the lack of oxygen makes the female reach orgasm quicker. Did you know that, Mancuso?”
“Yes, it’s called erotic asphyxiation. It also works for men. You should try it next time, Farnsworth.” Maybe his wife might pull too tight and rid me of this guy.
“Don’t want anyone squeezing my neck during sex, fuck no, thank you. Do you do this shit?”
Another one of his asinine questions I chose to ignore. “Go on.”
“This ratchet lady probably thought this was just part of the sex; however, the perp proceeds to strangle her while still in her.”
“Any defensive wounds?” I inquired.
“None. That’s why we think the sex was consensual, until the end, of course.”
“So, then what, the killer leaves?”
“It seems that way. The apartment was cleaned, nothing found,” he said, putting out the cigarette in a paper coffee cup he brought with him.
“Did you say clean or cleaned?”
“You love little fucking details, don’t you, Mancuso?”
“I find them important. So?”
“Frankly, it looked as if a maid had gone through the place, except for the signature triangle on the toilet paper that maids leave to make sure you know they were there. You know what I’m talking about, Mancuso?”
“Yes, I’ve stayed in hotels. Do we know if the killer rapes them post-mortem?”
“N
o, but, maybe ask the ME that question.”
“What about prints? DNA? Anything?”
“Nothing. The killer was meticulous not to leave anything behind. He wiped everything clean.”
“No hairs on the bed? Saliva? Anything?”
“Nothing, man. This guy must be suffering from an obsessive-compulsive personality disorder,” Farnsworth added. “He cleaned everything. Nothing seemed touched or moved.”
Seriously, Farns? I didn’t know you could handle big words like that.
I bit my lip hard before asking my next question. “Let me see the photo of her.” I wanted to see the position she was left in.
Farnsworth slid the book over.
I glanced at the picture of Odette, victim number one. The first picture was from behind; she was facing down in bed, her legs spread and dangling from the end of the bed, totally naked. With no ligament marks on her ankles or wrists, I assumed they were not tied to the corners of the bed. Then, I looked at the side view photos. She faced to her right with eyes wide opened. If I removed her bug eye expression, I could see that she had been a very nice looking young lady.
“So, there is no trace of the killer anywhere. What about her anal cavity?”
“Some jell and feces, which we know is hers,” Farns replied.
“Anything in the bathrooms?”
“Like I said, nothing. Wiped clean.”
“Then, he’s done this before. To be so meticulous and leave nothing behind, he takes his time after he kills them. Very deliberate.”
“I agree.” Farnsworth turned toward, nodding affirmatively.
I had his attention. “Did you canvas the other apartments? Anybody see or hear anything?”
“We did, Mancuso. It’s all there in the murder book. Her neighbor and friend, the one who called it in, was out that night. One older lady says she knocked on our vic's door at around nine in the evening, but no one answered.”
“What did she want?”
“She was bringing her a homemade apple pie.”
“And?”
“And, … nothing. She knocked. No one responded so she left.”
“Did she leave the pie by the door?”
“No, she took it back to her place. But, she says she came back at eleven that night and knocked again, but no one was home.”
“What was the TOD?”
“The ME estimated time of death to be between ten in the evening and one in the morning. Estimation was difficult since she wasn’t found until the next day.”
“Was the apartment cold. I mean, was the air conditioner turned on?”
“I don’t remember that detail. It’s winter outside, Mancuso. Why would anyone want to have the air on? That makes no sense.”
I didn’t reply. These details are what set me apart from other dingbat detectives. Reading stories from Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes taught me to think outside the box and look beyond the obvious. I decided that I would pose my question to the ME since a cold apartment would keep the body from decomposing with little or no detection of smell until many hours later. This tactic would delay the police from finding out about the murder. That said, it was a good thing the neighbor called it in. Detectives Charles and my old partner, detective Lucy Roberts, walked into the conference room.
Charles sniffed the room as he walked in. He glanced at Farns and shook his head. I don’t know if he was showing disapproval for the scent of cigarette smoke, or he had detected the aroma of the onion bagel his partner smelled like.
“Well, good morning, ladies. Glad you could join us,” I said, smiling and moving in to hug Lucy.
“Welcome back, Mancuso,” Charles said in a modulated singsongy fashion, as was his custom.
“Thank you,” I replied, letting go of Lucy and extending a hand to Charles. Lucy, who was in her late fifties, never looks her age. She has a fresh face, not to mention her beautiful smile and sparkling white teeth. She must have been a real hottie in her earlier years; African-American and born in the South, she was very proud of her ancestry. I always got a smile from her every time I said, “I love Lucy.” She was like my second Mom. I have always had the highest respect for her.
“How is Mr. Roberts,” I asked, glancing back at Lucy.
“Sweetie, he is just fine. Said to give you his best,” Lucy replied with her silvery sound. “How about Marcy, how is she doing?”
This was not the time to talk about Marcy. I kept it short and to the point. “She’s fine, just fine.”
Lucy got the message and probed no further.
Captain Johnson walked in, raised his nose in the air, and pulled in a few sniffs, then said in his crotchety fashion, “No time for a reunion party, we have another body. Same MO. Get going.”
2
We walked out of the precinct, and I jumped in the car with Lucy. She was still driving a brown Crown Victoria, the same one we had shared, back when we were partners. Since parking was limited, I couldn’t believe where she had decided to park her vehicle, right in front of the precinct on the sidewalk next to the fire hydrant—a spot reserved for police cars. Like it was her usual routine, she pulled back and off, and making a left turn on West 9th Avenue we made our way to the crime scene.
I was itching to research the murder book for information on the other two ladies. But since there was a fresh murder scene waiting for us, I had to hold off.
“Just like old times, Joey.”
“Yeah, other than the fact we have three dead ladies, it feels good, Lucy. How are your three boys?”
“Growing fast. Soon, they will all be on their own. No more allowances, baby, no more college tuitions. Then Harry and I can relax. I’ll hang my shield in one year and become a pensioner.”
“Moving to Florida?” I added.
“Flo-ri-da? No way, honey! We want to be close to the guys. Plus, we’re too young to be snowbirds. We’ll see where the boys end up, then we’ll decide.”
“If you stay in the area, you’re welcome to join us.” I couldn’t pass up on the invitation. “We could always use a dedicated detective, such as yourself.”
“Hmm … that actually could be fun, Joey. I’ll keep that in mind. She paused for a moment. I had a feeling I knew what was coming up next.
“So, you going to tell me what’s up with Marcy? I noticed you didn’t want to go into details before.”
“Marcy, Marcy. My very special FBI Special Agent. We’ve been together for two years. Twice we talked about marriage. Then, I got shot, as you know.”
“Oh, I won’t forget that. We answered the call on that one. Go on.”
“Well, the whole situation made her think twice about marriage, kind of like the same way I look at dessert with whip cream.” Lucy gave me a strange look. Ok, it wasn’t the best analogy, I admit. It was the only thing I could come up with at the moment. “Anyway, … you know that she lost her dad in Nam. Then her brother was deployed in Iraq. Marcy and her mom worried non-stop until he came back. Long story short, she has this fear of me not coming home one day.”
Lucy was quietly listening. I could tell that she was processing all the information. I continued. “Well, there’s more. Marcy got shot in the arm last month while on a plane at Newark. Even though she’s recovering nicely, the chances of her losing significant movement in her right arm are pretty high. That means when she comes back from medical leave; she may not be able to pass the FBI-required firearms test. That has her pissed, not to mention depressed.”
“Not to change the subject, but that was one hell of a heroic act she pulled on that plane. I mean, two terrorists inside a closed airplane with long firearms. Shit, man, that could have been a massacre, if she and the now-deceased Federal Marshal hadn’t prevented it.”
“Yes, it was,” I let out a long sigh, replaying the horrific scene that could have ended her life. “Right now, she’s working on her physical rehabilitation. I just wish she would visit the shrink to help her deal with shooting a man to death. I think there are deeper i
mplications if a person doesn’t deal with something like that.”
“Give her time, give her time. Tell me, are you working with her on the FBI firearms test?”
“Marcy went into a mild depression while at the hospital. I think the idea of losing her ability to work in the field, coupled with my new opportunities—you know, the consulting gig with the NYPD, and the work with the attorneys at Bevans and Associates—made her a little resentful.” I paused. “So, Marcy asked that we take some time apart from each other.”
“She did?” Lucy asked, surprised.
“I’m giving her space as requested. Just calling once a week for now.”
“Baby, that’s your skinny-ass soul mate. You told me that before. Don’t give up on her.”
Marcy did not have a skinny ass, by any means. I know for a fact. But, Lucy always called her that. “I don’t plan to, but it takes two to tango, right? And by the way, for the record, I never called her my skinny-ass soul mate. Just my soul mate.”
Lucy laughed hard, flashing those brilliant white teeth of hers. “She’ll be fine. Just wait and see, she’ll come back to you.”
I nodded in the affirmative, and then added, “In the meantime, do you remember Marcy’s new partner, Special Agent Tony Belford? He’s been around here for about three weeks. Well, I think he is trying to move in on her.”
“What a stiff-necked asshole! What’s up with him?”
“GQ Tony. That’s what I call him; perfect body shape, not one blonde hair out of place, a flawless fashioned pencil mustache. He might even wear a blue cape with red FBI emblazoned on it underneath his tailored Armani suits. Yeah, he’s an asshole all right—right out of FBI central casting. He’s taken over her cases, and he’s the one helping her at the range.”
“The hell with him. He’s no Joey Mancuso,” she said, smiling and glancing over at me again.
“We’ll see. In the meantime, Cagney and Lacey don’t look too happy with me in this case.” I looked out the window at the apartment in front of us.
“Farnsworth and Charles have their issues. But honey, they’ll just have to get over them ‘cause we’re on the case, too. By the way, Joey,” Lucy said as she pulled into a parking spot, “no one in the precinct’s homicide division has come close to your ratio of solving cases. Everyone’s still trying.”
