Skin Deep

by Gary Braver

  “We’re waiting for you to take a look before we take her,” Mangini said.

  “Who found her?” Steve’s eyes fell on three framed photos on the fireplace mantel.

  “Patrol came on an alarm call about seven thirty after her girlfriend found her. She got concerned, when she got no response by phone, so she came up and tried the door, and when she couldn’t get in she contacted the landlady in the apartment below. They found her. They’re both downstairs with the responding officer.”

  “Any estimate how long she’s been dead?’

  “Hard to tell. Based on lividity and rigor, maybe fifteen, twenty hours.”

  The apartment had the familiar Victorian layout—living room, dining room, kitchen in a line, a hall with two bedrooms off the dining area. Steve followed Neil through the dining room where a closed Dell laptop sat under a chair. In the kitchen were technicians he knew from crime scene services. “We’re ready to take her when you are,” Mangini said.

  Steve nodded. The kitchen looked as if it had just been tidied up. The only thing suggesting activity was a single wineglass on the counter, and near it an open bottle of Taittinger, two-thirds full. Fingerprint dust showed latents on it and the single glass. The sink was empty. When Steve glanced at Neil, he saw something in his expression that didn’t look right. “You okay?”

  Neil nodded him into a small bedroom that had been set up as a workout space with an elliptical machine and free weights. On a wall was a poster of a woman in workout clothes making a muscle while three other people in workout clothes glared at her biceps in mock-dismay.

  “It’s Terry Farina.”

  It took Steve a moment to register the name. “Oh, shit.” In the poster her hair was darker and cut short, so he could barely recognize the night student from Northeastern University.

  “Yeah.” Neil peeled off the wall and headed toward the master bedroom. “In here.”

  Steve felt his heart rate kick up as he followed him down the hall to the large bedroom at the end. His attention was arrested by a bizarre structure rising from the mattress of a queen-size bed, sitting cater-cornered across the far wall. A white bedsheet had been draped from the headboard and over the deceased’s body like a pup tent.

  “When did crime scene get here?”

  “About two hours ago. Where the hell were you?”

  “My PDA was dead.” For some reason he had forgotten to recharge his PDA-smartphone last night. It took the captain three calls to rouse him on the landline.

  Steve stepped into the room, which felt cooler than the rest of the apartment. A built-in air conditioner on the left wall was turned off. As Steve approached the bed the acrid odor of urine hit him. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and braced himself as Neil lifted the sheet as if unveiling a sculpture.

  The sight was like a jab to Steve’s solar plexus. The woman was sitting naked in a lotus position, her torso held in place by a black noose fashioned from a woman’s stocking, the foot-end of which was tied around her neck, the other fastened around the metal headboard behind her. A hand towel was pressed between her neck and the hose, probably as padding to prevent injury. Because of the weight of her upper body, the stocking was stretched to a rope, her head flopped forward.

  She did not look like the woman he knew. She did not look human.

  Although the color of her hair and paleness of her torso identified her as Caucasian, her flesh was gray and devoid of the flush of life. Her face was bloated and the gross congestion and cyanosis had turned it purple. Her mouth was slack and the black tip of her tongue protruded through a froth like a slug. Her eyes were slits of red jelly from scleral hemorrhaging. Her hands were balled at her sides, and urine stained the space between her legs where she had voided.

  Steve could see no bruises on her body, which was lean and athletic, the physique of a fitness professional. She had firm full breasts, and although the hair on her head was auburn red her pubic hairs were dark and trimmed to an exclamation point.

  “We figure she passed out and the pressure did the rest,” Neil said.

  Steve nodded. He had seen a lot worse in his seventeen years as a cop. For sanity’s sake, he had developed a psychic detachment that allowed him to view ruined bodies like an insurance adjuster evaluating wrecked cars. But this was different. He knew this woman—the handsome gleaming woman in that poster—her head now a grotesque alien thing.

  As if reading his mind, Neil said, “You fucking believe it?”

  Terry Farina had been Neil’s fitness trainer at a North Shore health club before he transferred to Boston. She had also taken night classes at Northeastern University, where Steve taught Introduction to Criminology. She had taken a psychology course in a classroom next to his.

  Steve shook his head as he looked around the room. It was a feminine space in mauve with a beige and green Berber rug on shiny hardwood floors, a white love seat with coordinating pillows neatly arranged, and floor plants. On a small round table sat a framed photograph of the woman and a female companion smiling. Too cheerful a setting for what sat on the bed.

  Against the wall was a flat screen television, a remote control sitting on the nightstand. Draped on a nearby chair was her dress—a shiny black piece with spaghetti straps—and a black bra and black thong. What looked like the mate to the stocking lay draped over her dress. Her shoes stood side by side each other on the floor under the chair. On another chair against the wall was an unzipped green suitcase packed with clothing. As Neil had said, no obvious signs of struggle.

  “She and the girlfriend were supposed to leave town this morning for a few days with her friend’s family in Vermont.”

  Steve nodded. “Anybody touch the body?”

  “No.”

  “What about patrol?”

  “He says he didn’t touch her, just called the alarm when he found her. Name’s Larry Abraham. Steve, we’ve been through all this, it’s in the report.”

  “Were the lights on or off when they found her?”

  “Off.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” Neil snapped.

  Steve looked at him. “Is there a problem?”

  “Look, we’re ready to wrap up is all.” He checked his watch. “Forget it. I’m going for a coffee. You want one?”

  “You put away any more caffeine you’ll need a straitjacket.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re eating plastic.”

  “You want one or what?”

  “No. Send in Officer Abraham.”

  “I already got a statement from him.”

  “Well, I want a statement from him.”

  Neil scowled his way out of the room.

  Steve moved closer to the body. His hand was shaking as if there were a small nugget of ice at the core of his body. He had examined hundreds of bodies, including some he knew from the streets—druggies, snitches, gang-bangers, hookers—but never a personal acquaintance. He took a deep breath to center himself.

  Because of the ambient coolness, decomposition had not begun. He examined the body and took photographs, and when he was finished he checked her clothing. With tweezers he examined the stocking mate—the same lacy top as the noose.

  After several minutes, Neil returned with Bobby Mangini, another body collector, and the officer who had discovered Terry. “They’re going to take her now.”

  “I’d like to talk to Officer Abraham first.” Mangini and his assistant took the cue and went back out. Neil slunk against the wall, eyeing Steve.

  Abraham was a square, athletic guy with a smooth boyish face that made him look like a high school linebacker. He was clearly unnerved by the sight, trying not to look at the body. “How long you been on the force?”

  “Almost two months.”

  “You’ll see worse,” Steve said. “When you entered the apartment, who was here?”

  “The landlady, Jean Sabo, and the woman’s friend, Katie Beals.”

  “Were t
he lights on or off when they discovered her?”

  “They said they were off.”

  “How about in the rest of the apartment?”

  “The landlady said the lights were on in the kitchen and living room but not here.”

  “Did you touch anything in this room or the other rooms?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How about the body?”

  “I checked her carotid artery to confirm she was dead, but that was it.”

  “Did either of the two women touch her body or anything in the room?”

  “No, sir. They were pretty upset and had to leave. I told them to wait in the other room.”

  Steve glanced at the body again. Her fisted hands meant she had died in agony. “What about the bed?”

  “The bed, sir?”

  Steve lifted the bottom sheet stretched over the mattress. The tag said Model—StroboMatic 10. “It’s an orthopedic bed with motors that have a back and foot lift. It’s also got a back massage.” Steve nodded at the nightstand. “That’s a cordless remote.”

  “Jeez, I thought that was for the TV.”

  “They look alike. Was the bed motor on?”

  “Not that I could tell.”

  With his gloved hand, Steve inspected the remote. It had a timer setting—a maximum of an hour. “How about the AC?”

  “It was on.” He slid a glance toward Neil.

  “I turned it off,” Neil said. “It was freezing in here.” He raised the clipboard in his hand. “I got it noted in the report.”

  Steve nodded and looked at Abraham. “It’s a pretty nasty sight, especially with the girlfriend and landlady, but I’m wondering if you put the sheet over her.”

  “No, sir. I think it was the M.E.’s.”

  “M.E. sheets are blue.”

  “I sheeted her,” Neil said. In his hand was a photo of the victim posing with another woman in a backyard setting.

  “Thank you, Officer. I’ll catch you later.” Abraham nodded and left the room. Steve moved to Neil. “You sheeted her?”

  “Yeah. I got it out of her closet.”

  “You might have contaminated evidence.”

  “Evidence of what? She died of an accident.”

  “That doesn’t tell me why you sheeted her.”

  “The guys were coming in and out.”

  “They’re crime-scene body collectors! They see this all the time.”

  “Christ, I knew her. You knew her.” He stood the photograph back up on the table. “I didn’t recognize her until I saw the poster. A fucking waste.”

  “I’ll say.” A uniformed officer with a sergeant’s badge entered the room—Rick Malloy from the Jamaica Plain precinct. Behind him were Bobby Mangini and his assistant. “Fucking beautiful piece of work is what she was.”

  “Crime scene says they’re done,” Mangini said. “So we’re going to put her in a bag.”

  “Not yet,” Steve said. The others looked at him blankly, resenting his rolling in late and stalling the wrap-up. “I’m just wondering if you or your team moved the body when you checked her. Shifted her around or anything?”

  Neil rolled his head in exasperation.

  “We looked under her to check lividity, but she’s pretty much like we found her.”

  “Didn’t alter the position of her head?”

  “Just to check the ligature under the towel, but her head position’s unchanged. Why?”

  “Because the angle bothers me.” He moved to the bed. “Look at the ligature. All the pressure is on her throat and the veins and carotid arteries along the sides.”

  “Yeah, which is how she died.”

  With his gloved hand he lifted the plait of hair at the back of her neck to expose the V gap made by the stretched stocking. “There’s enough room to put my fingers through.”

  “So?” Neil said.

  “How many hangings have you seen?”

  Neil was taken aback by the question. “I don’t know. A couple.”

  “How many accidentals?”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Look at the bruising on the back of her neck.”

  “That’s the lividity.”

  “Lividity works with gravity—where the blood settles. Look at the bottom of her face where it hangs over. It’s purple. This isn’t the same color as settled blood. That’s trauma.”

  Mangini flicked on a penlight and inspected the ligature around the woman’s neck. “Could also be an abrasion.”

  “Looks like even pressure marks all the way around, which I don’t think would happen with the stocking the way it is. There wouldn’t be any on that V gap, but there is.”

  “Only way to know for sure is to have the lab do a cell analysis.”

  “We’ll put in for that. Also she was wearing a sexy evening dress and a thong—hardly an outfit if she’s going to lie here and sex herself. Even if she was, why leave the lights on in the other rooms if she was going to bed?”

  “So, what are you saying?” Mangini asked.

  “I’m saying I want crime scene to do a full-blown processing because I think someone was with her.”

  Neil’s face flushed red. “I think maybe you’re taking this a little far, Steve.”

  Steve nodded Neil to the other side of the room. In a low voice he said, “I understand how you want to wrap this up, but I’m not convinced this is an accident. Even if it is, nothing’s been dusted in here. The floor’s not been vacced. Nobody’s done a rape kit on the body. This is not department protocol.”

  “Because Mangini was convinced. The techs were convinced. And I’m convinced. She was having a sexual fantasy thing but passed out and suffocated.” He removed the mangled stirrer from his mouth. “This isn’t the Portman case.”

  “Smooth, Neil.”

  Three months before Neil joined the force, Steve had misread a crime scene, incorrectly declaring a suicide. The family had hired a detective who claimed that the investigators had jumped to conclusions and, as a result, the department ended up taking flak from the media. It was shoddy work and the inevitable manifestation of the stress from Steve’s alienation from Dana: heavy drinking, showing up late for work or not at all, use of excessive force with suspects. His superiors had reprimanded him, but when the Portman case hit the headlines six months ago, Captain Reardon suspended him for a week.

  “I think you’re going overboard is all,” Neil said. “Another thing, it’s embarrassing for her family.”

  “You know the family?”

  “No, but you saw the pictures out there—nieces and nephews or whatever. We drag this out and the neighbors outside are gonna want to know what’s going on. Then the fucking media will horn in. So let’s just wrap this up, okay?”

  “We’re going to wrap this up, but we’re deferring to policies and procedures when cause of death isn’t immediately apparent.”

  “Everything by the rules, huh?”

  “Yeah, especially with someone we know.”

  “All the more reason to protect her dignity.”

  Steve stared at Neil. A large part of him wanted to do what Neil said—send her to the M.E. and let it go. But in some dark recess of his gut he felt a rustling unease. “I don’t know how to say this without saying it, but I’m the lead on this. So, yeah, by the rules.”

  Because of their brief partnership, Steve and Neil were still meshing. Reardon had paired them as complements to each other. Steve was the more traditional investigator who used logic, precision, and scientific evidence to reconstruct a crime scene. He was methodical and orderly and took pride in the details and style of his reports. He was also good with people, almost deferential to a fault. Neil, on the other hand, was more gut-intuitive, impulsive, sometimes letting assumptions get ahead of facts. He was also a cunningly effective interrogator, sometimes playacting to manipulate a suspect into spilling his guts. He was good, and they made an effective team. But this was the first time in their partnership that Neil had outright challenged Steve. Maybe beca
use the victim was a mutual acquaintance. Maybe resentment because Neil was older and had been a cop longer, while Steve had rank.

  “Look, guys,” Steve said to the others, “we’ve got some inconsistencies here. So, I want to take this from the top: a full forensic on the body—hands bagged, fingernail clipping, DNA, prints, vaginal swab, blood-typing, semen illumination, fibers, hairs—the works.”

  Neil started to leave.

  “Where you going?”

  He gave Steve a sulky look. “To talk to the landlady.”

  “We’re going to need some backup for a neighborhood sweep plus an RMV check on all parked cars, the owners talked to.”

  The others nodded.

  “I also want all phone company records including home and cell and work. Also her laptop settings and e-mail messages preserved and copied. Same with her answering machine and any address books, mail correspondence, and credit card purchases in the last forty-eight hours.” Then Steve added: “And any known boyfriends, past and present.”

  He then picked up the telephone by her bed and pressed *69 to get the last incoming call while Neil watched him over his shoulder from the bedside. “The number you are trying to call cannot be reached by this method.”

  Neil continued to stare at him, knowing what Steve was doing.

  Steve shook his head. “Whoever it was blocked caller ID.”

  While the techs got ready to do a full processing, Steve headed out of the room. But before he left he glanced back. Neil was at the bedside looking at the body of Terry Farina. His back was to him, but Steve could swear that Neil made the sign of the cross.

  3

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  They were walking down the back stairs to the landlady’s apartment.

  “I don’t know, four or five months ago. How about you?”

  “Two or three weeks.” Steve had gotten to know Terry casually from the short class breaks. On occasion they’d meet downstairs at the Dunkin’ Donuts eating area in their classroom building, a few times have coffee together. She was in her late thirties and was taking refresher courses because she had decided to attend grad school in the fall. “So, you’ve never been here before?”