by John Cutter
Morrison passed row after row of headstones on his way to the grave he was there to see. Massive as the cemetery was, he’d long since moved past the need for a site map. Step after step, his feet found their way automatically; and soon he stood before the familiar tombstone.
Francis P. Donohue—Loving Father, Devoted Husband, Outstanding Policeman.
Morrison stood, bowing his head in reverence for a moment of silence. Then he spoke to his friend and mentor, casually and openly, as he always did—as though the Chief were standing there with him, as, in some way, he was.
They’d graduated from the same academy class, despite Donohue being a few years older—everyone else had called him the oldest rookie on the job. Donohue had spent four years in the Navy working on submarines, then a few more as a dockhand in Boston, before the force had called him. He was a true Southie, but being unlikely to find a job in Boston, he’d started in the Stamford PD where, being unknown around town, he was scooped up immediately to work as an undercover narcotics officer. Soon he was on the statewide narc squad, working the worst streets in Hartford, Bridgeport, and New Haven.
Donohue had always hated that people thought of Connecticut simply as a quaint place full of covered bridges. He liked to remind people that where he worked, the police union had a billboard on I-95 that said Welcome to Dodge City! Where the politicians dodge questions, and the people dodge bullets. A lot of people thought that billboard was funny, but not Francis Donohue; he knew firsthand that they had the crime to back it up. He’d been stabbed in Bridgeport, shot at in New Haven, almost run over in Hartford. He’d even been beaten by the police, when they didn’t realize he was an undercover.
After several years in Stamford, he’d been called by the NYPD when they were rehiring after the layoffs ended in ’79, and Morrison, a young cop at the time, had learned the investigator’s craft from him. It was Donohue who had encouraged him to study and make sergeant. It was Donohue who had impressed upon him that that was the way to chase the bad guys without doing so much grunt work, and had showed him how to keep on the right side of the brass without sacrificing integrity.
Now the man was gone, and there was no replacing him. A pang went through Morrison; for an instant it seemed as though the memories of his son and Donohue had merged. All these parts of him, lost forever—how much more of himself could he lose, and still be himself at all? How much longer could he bear to be the one left behind?
Shaking the thought off, he kissed the top of the headstone and returned to his car.
The weather wasn’t as brutal as it could be for January, especially with the windows up and the sun beating down through the windshield; but it was a shock as always to get back out after the long drive back. Morrison was scarcely out of the car, rubbing his hands together in front of the stationhouse, when he saw Tina Koreski walking up to him.
“Cap, can we talk?” she asked.
Well, no surprises there, he thought. “Look, Tina, I know you’re not happy to have to work with this guy, but I need you to do it. It’s for the good of the team, believe me.”
She waved him off. “No, no,” she said. “I’m not going to complain, boss. I understand you’re in a tight spot with him, and I’m definitely not happy about it, but I’m a team player. I’ll do what I have to do. I just wanted to talk about it for a second.”
Morrison’s relief vanished in the strangeness of her tone. “Of course.
What’s up?”
Koreski’s expression was uncertain. “Well, you’re going to have to forgive me for saying this, but—uh—well, have you noticed how he looks at our victims’ photos?”
Morrison was surprised at this. “No, I haven’t,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“I guess I didn’t either, before I was partnered up with him a bit ago,” she said, “and I know I haven’t really been around him long enough to pass judgment, but I could swear he almost looks like he enjoys seeing how they were tortured.”
“Enjoys?”
“Yeah. I mean, I’ve watched Medveded stare at the same photos for hours, but that’s different—you can always tell he’s bothered by what happened to these women. But not Galipoli. I swear I thought I saw him smile while we were going over the photos in there, and someone was talking about what it must have been like for the women.”
“I’ve heard he’s got a pretty sick outlook,” Morrison said, “but that’s a pretty extreme idea. Granted, I have no use for the guy, but what exactly are you saying here?”
Koreski looked embarrassed. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe I’m passing judgment too quickly.”
“If you mean it, you can tell me, Detective. I take this kind of thing very seriously.”
“No, I’m sorry, Cap. Forget I said anything. I just—none of us like the guy, is all. But like I said, I’m a good soldier. I’m not going to complain about it.”
“Thanks, Tina. I know I can count on you. Just keep me updated, will you?”
“Of course, Cap. I will.”
12
Fifteen days had passed since the last homicide on their case when Captain Morrison got the call. His instincts had spoken again as the phone rang, and became stronger as he drove over to the scene. This, he knew with a sinking feeling, was victim number three.
Northwest corner of 63rd and Third Avenue—another nice building in an upscale neighborhood. The building was beautiful, really: sixteen stories, fancy lobby, aging doorman. The victim had lived on the fourth floor.
Just outside the elevator, he met Sergeants Rivera and Simmons talking to two patrol cops.
“Well, boys, what do we have?” he asked.
Sergeant Simmons gestured toward the cops. “They tell us that one of the maintenance people had gotten a call from the Children’s Assistance Society, saying our victim hadn’t shown up for work and wasn’t responding to texts, calls, or emails. The maintenance guy went up to knock on the door and found it propped open, with no one answering the knock. They aren’t allowed to enter apartments without permission, so he called the super, and the super found the victim.”
“Where are these guys now?”
“We’ve got them at the stationhouse. Medveded’s talking to them.”
“That’s good.”
One of the patrol cops jumped in. “They swore to us that they never went inside,” he said.
“That’s good, too. If we get any prints that match theirs, they’ll have a lot of explaining to do.”
Two Crime Scene officials walked out of the apartment, carrying large paper bags. Not Williams and his partner this time, Morrison noted, but these guys were no less capable. “Hey, fellas,” he said to them as they passed. “Give me the rundown, will you?”
“Well, boss, we have one female, white, late forties. Not a bad-looking woman, judging by the photos in the apartment; though it’s tough to tell otherwise, at this point. Seems to have been bound and tortured. Massive bite marks on her body, and missing the lips from her vaginal area. Looks like the sick fuck bit them off.”
Morrison nodded grimly. This was getting to be too familiar. “How much longer do you guys need before we can get in?” he asked.
“Give us another half hour, and we should have everything we need.”
“All right. Does it look like they tried to cover their tracks in any way?”
“Yeah. The shower was still dripping, and her hair was wet—it looks like they took her in there to get rid of some trace evidence. Stupid fucks left towels in the bathroom, though—we bagged them. There should be some good hair and fiber evidence on them.”
“Okay, thanks,” Morrison said. “Let me know if you guys find anything else unusual before you wrap up.”
“Will do, Cap.”
Morrison turned back to his sergeants. “Well,” he sighed, “this is our third now. People are going to lose their minds when this hits the press.” A weary thought crossed his mind of the additional pressure on its way from downtown. His task force was already stretched,
and pulling double shifts tracking these psychos; he was going to need more help. He shook the thought away for the moment. “What are we doing here so far?”
Rivera reviewed his notes. “We have a canvas of the building done, Cap. Seems this one is at least somewhat different from our other victims: she’s a social worker. According to Crime Scene, she’s got a Master’s degree hanging on the wall in there. Her name’s Jennifer Burnett—48 years old, according to paperwork in the management office. They have no emergency contact listed, and the doorman says she lived alone. She kept to herself for the most part, though every now and then she went out to one of the local bars. No forced entry, so either she knew her attacker, or they pushed in behind her. Based on the call from her job and what Crime Scene sees inside, it looks like she’s been dead a couple of days.”
“All right. We’re going to need to interview all of the doormen—who knows what the other shifts might have seen.”
“Bad news, boss,” Rivera answered. “Seems they only have a doorman until 2300 hours. The building cut back just before the holidays, to save some money.”
“Jesus,” Morrison muttered.
“The good news is, we have video of the lobby area,” Simmons said quickly. “One of the guys is downstairs now trying to secure a copy, so we can go through the last week to see what our victim’s habits were. Hopefully these guys were stupid enough to come through the front door.”
Morrison smiled. “Well, let’s hope; we definitely need a break here. Do we have anyone checking the surrounding area for cameras? Are there any parking garages in the area where they might have parked?”
“The Coke Brothers are checking that out now,” Rivera told him.
“Okay. It’s a new timeline; let’s get on it. If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’m going to have to call the Chief and let him know about all this—I’m sure this’ll be interesting.”
The call with Chief Arndt was mercifully brief. The Chief’s concern, as always, lay more with his career than with the victims; but tonight, fortunately for Bill Morrison, there was a major political benefit that Arndt apparently couldn’t afford to miss. One night to come up with a game plan, Morrison thought.
The press was already out in front of the building when he walked back up the block. One of the reporters, recognizing him, ran up to stick a microphone in his face. Before the reporter could get a word out, Morrison pushed the microphone away with a terse “No comment,” grabbing one of the uniformed officers to stand watch over the entrance.
Back on the fourth floor, Morrison’s people were huddled in the hallway. Rivera seemed excited.
“Boss, hey, glad you’re back,” he said. “Listen to what Kasak and Marchioni got.”
He looked toward the back of the group, where the Coke Brothers invariably settled. True to form, there they were, trench coats and all. Both of them always wore trench coats with belts, no matter what was happening; it was a common joke that if they had to get to their guns it would take ten minutes just to untie the belts.
“What’s up?” Morrison asked.
“Well, we found a few cameras on the block,” said Marchioni. “Most of them aren’t much use—old systems, grainy footage, you know the drill. But one of the buildings just had a new system put in, and the building manager really knows how to operate it. We took a look at the footage for the last four days, and we have what looks like a similar car to the one on Sutton Place, with a partial plate.”
“Terrific,” said Morrison. “Anything of our perps?”
“Yeah. They’re two white guys, or maybe the second guy is light-skinned Hispanic, both well dressed, like in the first video. We don’t have them with our victim, but they exit the car around 2325 hours two days ago.”
Morrison clapped his hands together. “Okay, now we’re making progress! What’s the car?”
“BMW, looks like; with Connecticut plates we’re thinking.”
“Anything else?”
Kasak spoke up. “Well, similar to the first video we had, we got them hustling back to their car about three hours later. Their clothes are definitely messed up—not the way they were when they got out.”
Morrison turned to Rivera. “Okay, make sure someone does a lawman search on that partial plate. Tell whoever does it that it’s possibly a BMW—that ought to help limit the vehicles that come back. This could be the break we’re looking for, boys.”
Not long thereafter, Crime Scene wrapped up, and Morrison and his people entered the apartment. The body would be present, under guard as usual, until the Medical Examiner’s morgue wagon showed up for it. Back in the day, that would have meant hours, due to the number of homicides; these days, the detectives sometimes ran into them on their way out.
“Cap,” Rivera pointed out, gesturing at the livid bite marks around the corpse, “these guys, they’re big biters, huh? Look, it’s the same as the last one—bit her vaginal lips clean off.”
“Yeah,” Morrison agreed. “They really upgraded the torture on this one, though.”
“We’re a lot better on the forensics this time, I think,” Rivera went on. “Crime Scene said they think we have some good DNA on the carpet. She has drag marks, too, look—they gave her a bath before they dragged her in here.”
“Yeah, Crime Scene mentioned that,” Morrison said.
“Well, they’re smart, but not real smart. They took care to wash her off, but they just dropped more transfer evidence by moving the body around. Crime Scene’s taken multiple prints off the floor and bathroom walls.”
“Good.”
“Look at the rug burns—the small stab wounds—the lips,” said Simmons with a grimace. “That’s some real heavy-duty suffering. Man, I want to get these guys.”
“Yeah, they’re animals all right,” Rivera agreed.
Morrison noticed something. “Hey guys, any of you seeing what I’m seeing with these bite marks?”
The others all looked closely. Leo Kasak was the first to see it.
“Looks like two different people did the biting this time,” he said.
“Exactly. The one guy, our original biter, had a smaller mouth. These other marks definitely show a wider spacing between the teeth, no? I mean, I’m no dental expert, but they’re clearly different sizes.”
The others agreed. It looked like the second guy was getting more and more into participating in the torture.
Morrison’s stomach growled. For the first time, he realized none of them had eaten all day; they’d all been too absorbed in gathering information from the crime scene and its surrounds. He told the team to meet up at Luigi’s—a favorite hole-in-the-wall Italian joint, with a room in back where they could talk about the new developments—and stepped out to call Claudia.
“Hey, handsome,” she said. “How’s your day going?”
“That’s a long story,” he chuckled. “Are you still coming to the city tonight?”
“Yeah, just got a little tied up today—no pun intended!” They both laughed. “Honestly, I can’t wait. I’ve already booked my room for two nights. Are you okay with staying over tonight?”
“Of course. I should be by around eight—or actually, better make that ten,” he added, glancing at his watch. “We’ve actually just had a new homicide in our series.”
“Oh, shit. Are you sure you don’t need to stay there? We can make it another time, if you want.”
“No no, I need to see you,” he said. “Even for a few hours. As long as you don’t mind coming in.”
“All right,” she said. He could hear the smile on her face. “Get there when you can—I’m walking out the door now. Can’t wait to see you!”
13
Luigi’s was a fixture for Morrison and his team. They’d come here for years, and nothing had changed. The décor was nothing to write home about, but the food was great, and it was always private enough to talk there. Morrison and Francis Donohue had spent many a night here, talking over cases in the back room; Donohue had always stressed the import
ance of breaking bread with his team, of making them feel like family.
Morrison grabbed a table in the back and ordered food for everyone, along with a Miller Lite and a shot of Jameson for himself—he’d have to keep it on the lighter side for Claudia later. Like modern-day Knights of the Round Table, his team filed in and found seats: three of his sergeants and most of his detectives.
Morrison started in. “Okay, people. We have three homicides now: all women by themselves. From what you’ve seen, do you think these guys stalk their victims, or are they randomly selecting them?”
Everyone began to bandy around their various opinions on the matter, but when Alex Medveded spoke up, the rest of the table went silent.
“These guys have hit twice in the 19th, and once in Jamaica Estates,” he said. “I think they’re familiar with these rich neighborhoods, but not with the victims themselves. Based on this, and on the car we think they’re driving, I believe they come from affluence themselves—children of privilege, if you will. As to whether it’s random or stalk-based, I think it’s both. I think they have territories they’re stalking, like a shark does. It doesn’t matter what fish they find in that territory, but once they find it, they do their homework.”
As he finished, the rest of the table nodded in agreement. He’d put it very succinctly.
Morrison held off his response. A few dishes were being brought to the table—Morrison had ordered family-style—and the Captain raised his beer for a toast.
“To Chief Francis Donohue: may he rest in peace,” he said. “If he were still alive, he’d be sitting here with us.”
They toasted, and for a moment the conversation passed into fond reminiscence. Rivera talked about how the Chief had once spent three hours with him after the end of a case, just talking to him about his family life and the struggles he was going through at the time.
