by John Cutter
“Well, maybe we met for a reason,” she said. “I deal with psychos all the time, remember.”
“A psychologist, right.” He smiled back at her, excitement stirring again as his eyes took in her body. “I don’t know how it could have slipped my mind.”
“As long as you remember my number, I’ll overlook it.” Suddenly her smile turned grave. “You are going to call me again, aren’t you?”
“How can you doubt it?” he laughed.
When she didn’t say anything, he went over to her, taking her hands in his. “Look, Claudia,” he said. “I haven’t felt like a human being in so long, and last night was great for me. Of course I want to see you again. I feel like I’ve hit the lottery. My life—well, let’s just say it hasn’t been so good, and I need to get it back.”
She looked deeply into his eyes. “Because of your job?” she asked gently.
“No, no—it isn’t that,” he said. “I just—I just can’t find peace, is all. No matter what I do, at the end of the day I’m unhappy. But look,” he added, gripping her hands tighter, “thanks to you, for the first time in a long time I don’t have that feeling right now.”
Her smile returned. “Well, as I said, maybe we met for a reason.”
“I hope so,” he said. “I’ll speak to you later today, all right?”
“Sure.” She fished a card out of her purse and gave it to him. “I’m here for this conference, but normally I’m only thirty miles away, in Stamford. You can call me at work, on my cell, at home, whatever—just call.”
“All right.” He kissed her, and forced himself to let go of her hands. “Believe me, Claudia, I don’t remember when I ever wanted to see anyone again more than I want to see you.”
“All right, Detective Captain. Talk to you soon.”
6
Morrison knew Sergeant Rivera would be nervous.
The brass always made Rivera edgy, but when Morrison wasn’t around, it was far worse. It wasn’t only that Morrison was his boss; the two of them had a special relationship, going way back. Morrison had given him a major break early on in their days of working together.
They’d been on a gun run, first on the scene; and when they’d come up on the perp, and Morrison had shouted Police, don’t move! Rivera had just frozen up. Who knows what it was—something left over from his days as a combat infantryman—but one way or another, it was a very close call. The perp was already cagey and was going into his waistband when Morrison ran up, punched him out, and pulled the guy’s Glock out of his hand, a round already chambered. Once they’d cuffed him and brought him back to the house, Rivera had broken down in apologies and self-deprecations, sure that Morrison was going to have his ass for it, but after some discussion Morrison had given him another chance, and promised to watch over him while he worked through the last couple of years to mandatory retirement.
Now, with all the fame-seekers crowding around to get their cards punched, he was sure he’d see Rivera first of all, relieved as always to see him. But when he walked into the squad room, he was dismayed to see Chief of Detectives Arndt instead, standing in the middle of the room directing Morrison’s detectives and supervisors on the investigative steps they were to take next.
Sighing, Morrison walked past the group into his office and unlocked the door. He then turned and, with uncharacteristic politeness, invited Arndt and half a dozen of his cronies to make themselves comfortable inside while they strategized. They all trooped in with him and shut the door after them.
Half an hour later Morrison emerged with a sheet of paper. The rest of the detectives in the squad room knew what this meant; the senior people had seen it happen time and time again. Whenever there was a roomful of armchair detectives coming around to involve themselves in a case—especially of the sort who outranked the Captain—they invariably had all sorts of suggestions, and those suggestions had to be followed to the letter. The thing was, they never told you how they had to be followed; and that was the saving grace of the whole thing.
Morrison handed the list to George Hanrahan and his partner, conspicuously explaining to them that they were not to return to the office until every one of the boxes on the list was checked off. Hanrahan and his partner knew this meant their involvement in the case would be limited, but they both knew it had to be done, and took the list without hesitation.
Once they were out the door, Morrison took everyone else into the lunchroom, away from the ears of the experts still amassed in his office, in order to develop their own plan to solve the case. He knew that despite the weight of promotions and standardized tests, his detectives possessed a wealth of knowledge, experience, and instinct that far outweighed their bosses’, and he wasn’t about to let bureaucracy get in the way of their work. Good ideas can come from anyone, so everyone chimed in during this session, with even the Coke Brothers listening to what the others had to say.
Once they’d come up with a good list of tasks—including some the bosses had come up with, for as Morrison was fond of saying, even a blind squirrel can find a nut every now and then—they all headed out to get the investigation underway, while Morrison headed back to his office to keep the bosses entertained.
“Hey, Cap,” Rivera called to him as he passed.
“What’s going on?” Morrison asked, stepping into the sergeant’s office.
“Well, there’s something going on in Jamaica Estates that you might be interested in.”
“In Queens? What are you talking about?”
“We got another one—like we had on Sutton Place.”
Morrison was taken aback. “Are you kidding? The same extreme?” Rivera nodded gravely. “No one here knows anything yet, but yeah: it seems like we might have number two in three days. Similar profile to our other victim, too, from what I’m told—and neither of them grounders.”
“Aw, shit,” Morrison said. He glared at the floor, his mind racing. “That means—shit. These guys didn’t just start, you know?”
“No, probably not.”
“The press is going to have a field day. I hate to say this, but I’m going to have to get that asshole Arndt involved. Goddammit, and I’d just sent everybody out, too!”
“Yeah, sorry, Cap. Timing’s a bitch on this one.”
“It’s all right—I need to see the scene first anyway. I guess I’d better get out to Queens. Who do we have left in the office?”
Morrison ducked out to look around the squad room. Alexander Medveded was still at his desk.
“Hey, Alex—grab your coat,” he said. “You’re coming with me. Frankie”—turning back to Rivera—“you stay here and keep the brass in my office happy.”
“You got it. I’ll get ’em swapping war stories—you know, the stuff they heard while they were at the range, or sitting back at the precinct desk.”
“Good. That ought to do it. By the way, what squad caught the case?”
“103 Squad, Lieutenant Doherty.”
“Okay, well, at least he’s a decent guy.”
“Yeah, the guys like him.”
“All right, I’m on my way then—let me know if Arndt gets wind of this before I get back.”
“Okay, Cap—I’m on top of it.”
At 0745, just on the other side of a jammed Midtown Tunnel that had held him and Medveded for what seemed an eternity, Captain Morrison called Lieutenant Jim Doherty.
“Hey Jim, Bill Morrison here. How’s it going today?”
“Hey Cap—not so good, and I’m guessing that’s why you’re calling. I read the paper yesterday; looks like we may have something in common.”
“Yeah, it does. Look, I’m going to get to the point. There’s no jealousy toward Major Crimes out there, is there? You think your guys will have a problem working with my squad, if we determine these are the same animals as in our case?”
“Absolutely not, Bill. It all equals out in twenty, as they say. And besides, on this one we can already tell we’re going to need any help we can get.”
&n
bsp; “Okay, good. Can you count on the guys you have there?”
“Yeah, they’re a great team, real professionals. We’ve been together a long time.”
“Who’ve you got going on it?”
“Three sergeants and six detectives—Detective Ron Myers and his partner Kayla Barnes are already assigned, and both are real good. We’ve got Crime Scene here already too.”
“Is it Williams and Kelly?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Good. They handled our case, and if we’re right we may have the same killers connecting the two cases.”
“Okay, got it. Well, I’m guessing you’re interested in seeing what we’ve got here—when are you thinking of coming by?”
“I ought to be there in five minutes or so—the tunnel was a bitch but we’re making good time now.”
“Typical Bill Morrison, always two steps ahead,” Doherty laughed. “Listen, I’ll fill you in when you get here, all right, Cap? There’s plenty to talk about.”
“Sounds good. See you soon, Jim.”
Morrison hung up and concentrated on the road. Medveded, characteristically tactful, stared out the window in silence. His deep empathy was something Morrison had always appreciated about the big Russian; he always seemed to know what to say or not to say. Most of the squad chalked up his uncanny ability in the interview room to his sharp tactical mind: Medveded was a World Chess Federation–certified chess master, and even during heavy snowstorms he could be found on his afternoons off clearing off a park board in Brighton Beach for a game. The kind of five-steps-ahead thinking that he employed on the chessboard was certainly a big part of his tact in interviews; if nothing else, it keenly attuned him to the thrill of out-maneuvering his opponents. But equally important was his almost supernatural ability to relate to others. Morrison had watched him talk to all types of people, from stone-cold killers to the overwhelmed mother who had shaken her colicky baby to death and tried to cover it up; playing, by turns, the roles of father confessor, Good Cop, Bad Cop, psychologist, and friend, each exactly as needed, to the person in front of him. He had an uncanny knack in reading people, and understood of his interviewees, as most others did not, the ways in which the vast majority of them were victims in their own right. He seemed to be able to make anyone feel that he understood what they’d done, and only wanted to better understand exactly when and how they’d done it.
When they arrived at the scene, Lieutenant Doherty was speaking with the duty captain to one side of the large house’s taped-off doorway. Seeing Morrison as they parked, he excused himself and jogged across the street to meet him.
“Good morning, Cap,” he said as they shook hands. “Glad to have you here.”
“Thanks, Jim—you know Detective Medveded? Alex Medveded, Lieutenant Jim Doherty.”
“Pleasure.”
Doherty led them over toward the doorway, beyond which a few Crime Scene specialists were moving methodically to and fro. “Gentlemen, we’re looking at one or two, more likely two, sick fucks here. No forced entry, but certainly robbery; the place hasn’t got one piece of jewelry left in it. Victim’s bound and tortured. Big bite-mark case. Her lips are gone—and I don’t mean the ones on her face. It looks like they were done pre-mortem.”
“You think these guys read about the Hillside Strangler case?” Morrison asked.
“Possibly—they definitely bagged her and brought her back to the house.”
“Why do you say there’s two?”
“Let me show you.”
They walked in carefully, through an eerily serene-looking living room. Doherty pointed into the kitchen, where a number of the linoleum floor tiles were missing.
“Our guys were able to take some impressions from over there, of bloody shoe prints. They wanted to preserve them, so they pulled the tiles too. The prints are from different shoes, so either we have one guy who changed his shoes while committing the crime, or at least two perps.”
“Got it. Hey—Williams!”
The Crime Scene officer stopped in the doorway. “Hey, Cap. You getting déjà vu around here too?”
“I was just going to ask you about that,” Morrison said. “Offhand, what do you think?”
“If I had to swear right now, I’d say it’s definitely the same guys from Sutton Place. The scenes are practically mirror images.”
“Yeah, I was thinking that too.” He turned back to Doherty and Medveded with a heavy sigh. “Well, whoever these animals are, you can bet this isn’t their first time. They’re definitely enjoying themselves. We’re going to have to move quick, or the body count’s going to grow. Jim, I’m going to have to call the Chief of Detectives.”
Doherty rolled his eyes. “I should’ve called in sick,” he said. He looked around, then added more quietly, “How did that dick get so far up the ladder, is what I want to know? He’s inferior in every capacity, and his staff is no better.”
“Well, you know what they say about pets and their owners—after a while they start to look alike.”
“Right,” Doherty laughed. “Well, I guess we’d better start putting our heads together. How do you take your coffee, anyway? Let me guess—milk, sugar, no donuts.”
They both laughed. Damn the stereotype, but who didn’t love a donut?
“If you’re sending someone, I’ll take two Boston creams,” smiled Morrison. “That’s my standard price for calling Arndt.”
Doherty laughed again and wiped mock sweat from his brow. “Hey, thanks, man. I only have a year and a half left, and if I never talk to that guy again, it’ll be too soon.”
The two went over the scene in greater detail for a few minutes while Morrison took notes. Once he felt decently informed and knew the Boston creams were on their way, Morrison stepped off a little distance, took a deep breath, and dialed Arndt’s cell number.
Arndt picked up on the first ring, an irritable curtness to his voice.
“What is it, Captain?” he asked.
“Hey Chief,” Morrison said. “We’ve got a second body here that looks like it’s linked to our case on Sutton Place.”
The irritability fled from Arndt’s voice as panic took over. “What? Are you sure? Don’t jump to conclusions now.”
Morrison smiled in spite of himself. “Yeah, I’m sure. We have a couple of the same Crime Scene people here, and they agree.”
“Oh, Jesus. This is not good, not good.” Morrison could practically hear the man wringing his hands in the background. “We’ve got a real problem now, don’t we? Okay, let’s see—Jesus—where is it, exactly?”
“I’m out in the 103, Chief—Jamaica Estates, Queens.”
“Another wealthy neighborhood, you mean? I wonder if—” Arndt trailed off.
“Yeah?”
“I mean, do you think it could be the Wall Street people, targeting one-percenters?”
Morrison stifled a scoff of disgust. It was incredible how quickly Arndt jumped to conclusions, and how badly. “Hey Chief, they cut the lips off this lady’s vagina, and left her with multiple bite marks. I don’t think they run with a protest crowd. It’s a violent sex crime, and we don’t even know the economic status of the victim yet. It’s a pretty good bet that she’s above middle income in this neighborhood, but still.”
“All right. What do we know about her, then?”
“She’s a 35-year-old female, Abigail Johnson. Looks like she lived with her husband, but he isn’t at home. We’re going to look for him next; apparently none of the neighbors they’ve canvassed have seen him for a while. Anyway, the victim’s blonde, like our first victim; attractive and fit, too, also like the first. Drives a Range Rover with a baby seat in it. The kid’s not in the house—”
“Jesus, you’d better do an AMBER Alert,” Arndt interrupted. “We can’t—”
“If you’d wait a second,” Morrison cut in, unable to keep the exasperation from his voice. “I was going to say, the child was with the victim’s ex-husband. She’s okay. Now as I mentioned, the victim has mult
iple bite wounds, primarily around the breast area, and the same vaginal condition that we saw yesterday. We’re still processing the scene, but we’ve already picked up footprints from at least two different types of shoe, suggesting multiple perps. I’ve got Lieutenant Jim Doherty with me here, and with your permission, he’s going to turn the case over to us as an extension of ours.”
“Do it,” said Arndt. “As much as it pains me to say yes, it sounds like that makes sense here.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Chief.”
“Anything else?”
“No, that’s it for now. I’ll have Doherty get me the paperwork as soon as he—”
But Arndt had already hung up.
7
Day four, and Chief of Detectives Arndt was knocking at Morrison’s door.
The door was closed because it had been a late night, and Morrison was drinking a hefty dose of Jameson in his coffee to put himself right. Morrison ignored him until he went away, finished off his coffee, gave the room a hit of Ozium, and took a swig of mouth-wash before heading out.
He found Arndt wandering around the squad room like a lost child, the rest of the detectives hard at work making themselves unavailable to talk to him. As Morrison approached him, he gestured toward an unfamiliar face.
“I don’t recognize her,” Arndt said. “Who is she?”
“I’ll introduce you,” said Morrison, uninterested in starting a têtea-tête with Arndt this early in the morning. And of course you don’t recognize her, you idiot, he thought. She’s never kissed your ass before.
He walked Arndt over to the redheaded woman he’d pointed to. “Chief of Detectives Arndt,” Morrison said, “I want you to meet Detective Tina Koreski. She’s on loan from Gangs, along with two others we pulled from Robbery and Special Victims to bolster our manpower on this case.”
“Nice to meet you,” Tina said.
“Likewise,” Arndt said with an oily smile; then abruptly asked, “How old are you?”
Morrison cringed at the inappropriate question. But Tina, young as she may have looked, was ready for it.
