by Owen Parr
“And this is one of the reasons why I love you, Lucy.” She lightly smacked me on the backside of my head before we got out of the car.
There was a slight mist in New York City. It was cold and down to the mid-twenties. You’d think by now I’d know to wear enough layers, but I didn’t. Again. I could hear my mother’s words niggling at the back of my head. As I got out of the car, I felt I was walking in the Alaskan tundra. Lucy and I headed over to where the two detectives were standing. The four of us walked to the scene of the murder. Two uniforms had secured the scene. CSU, or the Crime Scene Unit, had not arrived as of yet but were expected any minute. We put on latex gloves and booties, registered with the uniform by the front door, and entered the well-appointed apartment unit in Midtown.
“Who discovered the body?” I asked a very tall and gangly uniformed officer whose name tag read Sanchez.
“The building manager did, sir. The victim’s office called when she didn’t show up for work. They said she had never been late for work in two years, and after trying to call her, to no avail, they called the manager of the apartments.”
Lucy asked Sanchez, “Did the manager disturb the scene?”
“No, detective. He says he stopped at the door to the bedroom when he saw the body,” Sanchez replied, eyeing her detective shield.
“Did anyone hear anything?” I asked.
Sanchez turned to me trying to find my shield, “My partner, Edwards, is knocking on doors. So far, we have nothing.”
“She’s as cold and stiff as Alaskan King crab on ice,” Farnsworth said, after gently examining the body.
“We’ll wait for the coroner to verify, but, this probably took place last night. She’s already gone into rigor mortis,” added Detective Charles.
I walked around the apartment. I detected a strong cologne scent. I doubted anyone else picked up on that. Just to make sure, I asked to meet the manager who had opened the door. I was able to confirm that he was not wearing any cologne. As he approached me, I deduced that Mr. Bullard, the manager, had eaten corned beef hash and eggs for breakfast. Not sure on the type of toast or how the eggs were prepared. The temperature in the apartment was cold, maybe in the low sixties. As I looked around, I noticed nothing was out of place. No drinking glasses. Zero disturbed; all her clothes were in the closet and mail was neatly stacked next to the kitchen counter.
“Her name is Margaret Tobias,” I called out. “She works for Knell and Slovak, attorneys at law.”
Farnsworth asked, “How did you get that?”
I replied from the living room, “Her mail and pay stub are on the kitchen counter.”
Farnsworth added, “Same MO. Naked, facing down. Her legs extended over the end of the bed. I can see blood pooling under her chest–same as the last two.”
Sanchez looked surprised and asked, “The other two?”
Lucy looked at Sanchez, “Keep that to yourself, Officer Sanchez.”
“There’s a serial killer?” Sanchez asked me, in a hushed manner.
I nodded and put my index finger to my lips. Glancing at Farnsworth, I said, “You said blood pooling under her breasts, like the last two. Explain.”
“Yeah,” Farns replied, “you haven’t seen the murder book on the second and third victims. The same MO, except the first one, didn’t have her breasts cut in the form of a cross.”
“Shit, it’s freaking cold in here. Turn the AC off, would you? And close that window. Where the hell is the coroner?” Charles asked, annoyed.
“Please don’t touch the air conditioning switch. Take a picture. Dust for prints around and on the air conditioner switch, and also on the window that’s opened,” I said, quickly.
Lucy turned to me, “What do you think?”
“I haven’t looked at the other scenes, just the photos of the first murder. But, from what you guys are saying, do you think this fits in with the others?”
“Yes,” replied Lucy.
I looked at our newest victim. Young and good-looking Margaret Tobias lay there naked, face down, and very dead. Indeed, there was blood pooling from under her breasts. She probably went to a bar after work, planned on having a few drinks and maybe dinner, but not this. “So, the couple came in, she undressed and put her clothes away, or maybe the perp did that for her. They must have gone directly into the bedroom because there’s nothing in the living room or kitchen, nothing in the dishwasher, either. No cushions were undisturbed on the sofa. Nada. It’s like no one had been here.”
“There’s signs of strangulation on her neck. No question, this is number four,” Farnsworth added, wanting to be part of the discovery.
“No one heard a thing, and no one saw anything.” Officer Edwards, the second officer on the scene who was a little too hefty for the tapered uniform shirt he was wearing, walked in and put in his two cents worth. He was also not wearing any cologne.
“Any cameras at the entrance of the building?” Charles asked, glancing at Sanchez.
Sanchez had just opened his mouth when I replied, “None anywhere.”
Charles turned to me with an inquisitive “what the fuck?” glance.
I gave Charles a hard stare in return. “I checked that as we walked in. No cameras anywhere.”
Charles nodded and quickly glanced at Farnsworth. In my peripheral vision, I could see a smile growing on Lucy’s face.
“Anything in the bathroom?” Charles asked, to no one in particular.
I waited for someone to reply, but seeing that no one did, I said, “Clean, as if the maid had been here. Towels are dry, same with the shower. No condoms. Toilet and trash cans are both clean.”
Farnsworth asked, “So, this couple walk in, go directly to the bedroom, undress, and start having sex? No drinks or foreplay anywhere? No Sinatra or wine?”
Charles asked, “Could our perp be drugging our victims before they get here?”
“Did they do a toxicology report on the other three?’ I asked.
“They did, Lucy replied. “No drugs were found in their system.”
“Right, I forgot about that,” Charles replied, slightly embarrassed.
There are days I wonder how he ever got into detective work. I swear he sits on his brains more than he uses them.
“What did they find?” I inquired while restraining myself from bopping Charles hard on the backside of his head.
Farnsworth responded, “All three victims had been drinking alcoholic beverages. Victim one, sōchū; number two, white wine; and three, sake. All had Chinese type food in their stomachs.”
“What kind of Chinese food?” I asked.
“That raw fish stuff, sushi,” replied Farnsworth.
“That’s Japanese. Sushi is Japanese,” I said.
“Same shit, Japanese, Chinese. They’re all slant-eyed,” Farnsworth retorted.
Lucy asked me in a hushed tone, “What’s that tell you?”
That Farnsworth is a racist asshole, I thought to myself. Instead, I replied, “The perp takes them to the same place, a place he, or she knows.”
“Exactly,” Lucy said, as her eyes widened.
I asked Lucy, “Does the ME’s report show stomach contents?”
“It does, but, I don’t remember offhand what it says,” she replied.
“Perfect,” I replied, “I’ll examine that once we are back.”
The coroner finally arrived with the CSU crew, and they began doing their thing.
“Lucy, please ask the coroner to estimate TOD,” I said.
Lucy went over to the coroner. “Hon, give us an approximate time of death, would you, Ed?”
After a few minutes, tinted blue-haired and right-earring-wearing Ed came over to Lucy. He was whistling a tune like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Detective, I estimate TOD to be between eleven last night and two in the morning. You want a COD?”
“Eddy, baby, I think we know the cause of death. Unless you think it’s different than strangulation.”
“We’ll know better after
I perform an autopsy, but, strangulation seems the right call. This is victim four, right?” Ed asked.
“Seems that way,” Lucy replied.
I had seen enough, and I wanted to get back and finish reviewing the murder book for the first three victims. “Lucy, let’s go back to the precinct, I need to research this better.”
We left the scene, bidding farewell to the other detectives and wishing them luck.
Entering her car, Lucy said, “I’m so glad you’re back working with me. I’m going to enjoy my last year. You have such a knack for this work.”
“Everything I learned, I learned from you,” I replied.
“Honey, maybe you learned the relentless pursuit of the perps and the need to bring justice to the vics from me. But, let me tell you, your style and ability to see what no one else sees is uncanny. Uncanny. That’s all yours baby.”
“ Those who apply themselves can learn to observe versus just looking. I don’t look, I scrutinize.”
“You’ve got some big eyes, Mancuso, big ones, honey.”
3
I wanted to catch up on the investigations. The murder book, which contained all the reports; forensics, autopsies, interviews, photos of the crime scenes, et cetera, was at the precinct. However, I needed a quiet environment not only to do my review but also to brainstorm with my team like we usually would do.
As we were getting close to the precinct, I asked Lucy, “Can you do me a favor?”
“Sure, hon, what’d you need?”
“Go in, and get the murder book. I want to do my review at the pub, not here. Then, can you drive me back?”
“They’re not going to like that,” she said.
“Who, Cagney and Lacey? I don’t care. Captain Johnson, will back me up.”
We arrived at the precinct and Lucy had no place to park. I went in to get it. Having retrieved the murder book, we were on the way back to Captain O’Brian’s Pub and Cigar Bar in the Financial District. I called brother Dominic, Mr. Pat, and Agnes Smith. I wanted to have them meet me at the pub.
Lucy, who was driving, inquired about the new addition to the pub?”
“It’s exciting, especially if you consider that the pub has been around in the O’Brian family since 1948. Father Dom’s granddad was the one who opened it after World War II. Anyway, we’re not changing that. What we did instead, is take over space next door, the old Dino’s Deli. That’s going to be the cigar club,” I paused, looking out the window, as two uniforms were handcuffing a man near the intersection of FDR Drive and East 20th Street. “Plus,” I went on, “the back of the club we converted into our investigative offices.”
“Nice added touch with the cigar club idea. That should be pretty successful considering your locale.”
“Right? We have a built-in customer base--Wall Street, a few blocks away, police headquarters, and FBI offices a few blocks away, not to mention our regulars. Both Father Dom and I are excited at the prospects.”
“I heard Agnes Smith is joining you full-time?”
“It’s already happening. Agnes was bored to death at the insurance company she worked for. She’s been a key player in the investigations we’ve done recently. Her computer skills and ability to get into files and backdoors, if you know what I mean, is eerie.”
“Honey, you need to be careful with that. You’re now consulting with the NYPD. Make sure you don’t break any laws, or come up with stuff that’s not admissible. You get my drift?” she asked, turning to face me.
I smiled but didn’t reply.
She mentioned, “Father Dom told me Patrick is also becoming a private detective.”
“Good ole Patrick Sullivan, or as we call him, Mr. Pat. Yes, the sneaky guy had been studying to get his license. He wanted to surprise me. It turns out he was a Naval Crime Scene Investigator while in the Marines. He’s been with the family since Dom’s brother, Brandon, took over for Dom’s grandfather, Captain O’Brian.”
“We’re talking late ‘60s, correct?” she asked.
“You’re right; 1969 to be exact when they both came back from Nam. Brandon, Dom’s Dad, saved Patrick’s life at some point in 1968 during an operation called Rolling Thunder. I don’t know much more than that since they were not open about sharing any stories.”
I paused briefly before shifting gears. Nam was not a happy topic to discuss. “Getting back to Patrick, I like that he wants to become a private detective. Even though his red hair and beard, plus his Irish brogue, gives the pub authenticity, I’m happy to announce that Mr. Pat has found the perfect replacement: Riley MacClenny. You’ll get to see him in a bit.”
“You know what else I’m thinking?” I was on a roll. “Imagine for a moment that you came on board after you retired and that Marcy joined the team. Put us all together, and what have we got?”
“Baby, you got yourself an eclectic dream team,” Lucy replied. “We would be more diverse than the undercover cops from ‘Fast & Furious.’
“Hey, speaking of movies, our first case—which was made into a novel, A Murder on Wall Street—is now being considered for a television series. How about that? Maybe we’ll become famous—at least on the small screen.”
Lucy gave another one of her bright, beautiful smiles as she headed toward the pub on Beaver and Hanover Streets.
Opening at two in the afternoon—well before patrons would make their way in—, Mr. Pat was in the process of grooming Riley, his new Mr. Pat look-a-like, to become the new face of Captain O’Brian’s Pub. A forty-something-year-old who had experience bartending and managing, Riley looked authentic with his red hair and full red beard.
“Mr. Pat, join us when you can, in our office. Is Agnes in there already?” I asked.
“She is, and I will be there in a minute, lad.” Mr. Pat replied and then turned to see Lucy. “Mrs. Roberts, good to see you.”
Lucy smiled and waved at Pat as we walked into our unfinished new office. It was a big squad room with desks facing each other and a round conference table off to one side. There was a nice electronic white-screen and television monitor at the front of the table. The office was almost complete; the only missing item was the flooring. A mixture of deli-food scents still lingered in the air—a reminder of when Dino’s Deli was in business. “I think I’m going to be hungry,” Lucy quipped.
“I know, right?” I said, “We have more paint and carpeting coming in. Also, once we install the new exhaust system for the cigar smoke, I think we’ll solve the lingering scents.”
Agnes was behind a computer screen, intensely looking through her big black rim glasses; a good-looking lady in her mid-forties. She likes to wear her long blonde hair in a ponytail. For the sake of our burgeoning little enterprise, it was very fortunate that she had found a partner, a parishioner at Dom’s church. For the longest time, she had--or maybe still has--a crush on Father Dom, to the point that for over a year, she attended Father Dom’s Mass daily.
A few minutes after we made ourselves comfortable, Father Dom walked in, followed by Mr. Pat. We were gathered around our new conference table. Large and round, it included eight plush executive-type swivel chairs and a stand-alone big-ass ashtray for my cigars.
I began. “Okay team, this investigation is still very hush-hush. The police have not released any details to the press yet. So, we need to keep this amongst ourselves for the moment.”
Everyone nodded in understanding.
We reexamined the information on victim number one, Odette R, in her late twenties, brunette, employed at a law firm, no defensive wounds, lived alone. These all seemed like reasonably identifiable markers
I said, “Take a look at the toxicology report, and stomach contents.”
Lucy read from the report, “Her blood-alcohol level showed she had been drinking, but not drunk. Traces of sōchū were found in her system.”
Father Dom asked, “What is that?”
I pointed my finger at Mr. Pat, who came back with, “It’s a Japanese alcoholic beverage, containing rice,
barley, sweet potatoes, and brown sugar. It’s stronger than sake and wine, but not as strong as whiskey.”
“Do we serve that here, Mr. Pat?” Dom asked.
“No Father, it’s usually served at Japanese restaurants and sushi bars; rarely at an Irish pub.
Getting back to the report, I said, “Lucy, go on with the stomach contents.”
“Speaking of sushi, she had consumed some. The report shows raw tuna, rice, seaweed, wasabi, ginger, avocado.”
Agnes chimed in smiling, “A tuna roll.”
Father Dom raised his eyebrows. “A tuna roll? Never heard of it.”
“What Lucy read off,” Agnes replied, “well, those are the ingredients of a tuna roll, an entree that you’d find at a sushi restaurant.
“Ok, Father Dom continued, “What about the sex, Lucy?”
My brother is all about facts. He might not care about minutia, but he certainly gave me a perfect opening, and I had to take it.
Without missing a beat, I quipped, “Tuna rolls don’t have a sex, they’re genderless, brother.”
Dom looked at me. I could tell that my brother had to work hard to suppress his if-looks-could-kill stare—being a priest and all. Regardless, he was annoyed since his otherwise extreme white facial features now turned to a deep crimson. Ignoring my immature comment, he replied, “Lucy knows what I meant.”
Lucy looked at me. I could tell she was a little embarrassed to discuss this topic in front of Dom.
“El Padre has heard it all before, plus he asked. Go on,” I said to Lucy while glaring at Dom.
Looking at the murder book, Lucy added, “Okay, no signs of rape. Thus, we’re assuming consensual. The only sex seems to be anal sex.”
I broke the momentary silence. “The sex, or erotic asphyxiation, includes choking, which as you might know is done to enhance the—” I paused, “the experience,” I said, instead of orgasm. I went on, “So, our unsub, or, the unknown subject, goes beyond choking at this point and proceeds to strangle the victim with a satin ribbon as he stands behind the victim. I assume that he, or she, does this to enhance the experience.”
