Puppets

by Daniel Hecht

  Angelo had found the jewelry among the ruins of the corpse. The ring did look distinctive, a small opal in an ornate antique setting, the kind of thing that might be an heirloom.

  "Good work," Mo said sincerely. St. Pierre the eager beaver.

  Mike took the compliment like a puppy getting praised, practically wagging his behind. "Finally, we're in line for facial reconstruction, but that'll take some weeks. I also gave tissue samples to the DNA lab in Albany for a definitive ID when we get something to compare it to."

  "Any fingerprints on the arranged objects?"

  "Good prints on everything. And we're on for a match search. But that could take a while, too—"

  "How about the ligature cord? I'm especially interested in the knots."

  For the first time, St. Pierre looked troubled, his eyebrows moving independently as if they couldn't decide where to end up."The line is a .95 serrated poly weed-whacker line made by Unibrand and sold at hardware stores, Home Depots, Wal-Marts, impossible to trace. About the knots, um, I asked Lazarre for'em, she stalled me. I didn't get what it was about. Maybe you should talk to her."

  Mo could see where this was leading. Liz Lazarre was chief evidence technician at the county lab up at Grasslands. Her domain was a suite of sealed, positive-pressure, HEPA-filtered rooms that contained little more than bright lights, drying racks, huge, white enamel tables, and photographic equipment. The tables were kept sanitary and were big enough to accommodate anything deemed likely to reveal evidence, from a thumbnail to a car bumper to a couch. She would have put the power-station weed-whacker cords on one of her tables, gone over them with tweezers and microscopes, and photographed them under various types of light. Liz was nicknamed Eva Braun, an attempt to signify her dictatorial style, although Mo didn't really know whether the original Eva had been as hard-nosed as her buddy Adolf. Mo had a sinking feeling about why she had stalled St. Pierre.

  "In other news," St. Pierre said proudly, "I just got a call that my wife has gone into labor, and I'm going home right now to attend the delivery. I'll probably need tomorrow off."

  Mo just looked at him, the big sunny face, the boyish smile. He seemed unaware of the ironies here, his talking in the same breath about desiccated corpses and babies being born, or his taking only one lousy day off to acknowledge the new life that was coming while giving the rest of his days to death.

  "That's great, Mike," Mo said. "Good luck. I know it'll go great." He shook St. Pierre's hand, gave it a real squeeze. He knew he would be scared shitless in St.Pierre's shoes.

  Across the room, Paderewski was looking at St. Pierre, smiling and clapping her hands. How she heard anything through her earphones, Mo couldn't understand. "You going to give out cigars?" she asked.

  A telephone call to Liz verified Mo's suspicions. Liz was a smoker who lived in torment from her inability to light up on the job, crabby from constant nicotine deprivation. It wasn't easy to tell just how you got on Liz's good side, or if she actually had one, but you certainly didn't want to get on her bad side. So when she told him she'd already sent the ligatures and knots to the FBI Manhattan field office, expedited at Biedermann's"request," Mo didn't complain. Instead he thanked her and drove to the county's Grasslands Campus in Valhalla, ten minutes north. The ME's office.

  Angelo spent his days down in the basement, working with dead bodies and coworkers and assistants who often struck Mo as not much more lively than the customers. The amazing thing was that they all took their lunch down there, munching away in a staff lounge right across the hall from the big cold-storage locker containing stainless-steel bunks designed for very deep sleepers.

  Angelo was punctual about his mealtimes, and Mo found him as expected, feet up on the table, avidly reading some technical journal while eating a big submarine sandwich. His assistant was there, too, hunched over the table and eating potato salad out of a plastic container. Angelo shot his forefinger at Mo and stood up to greet him.

  "I thought I might see you today," Angelo said.

  "Oh?"

  "Well. It's not often I've got three of yours in here at once. Who do you want to see first?Willard and O'Connor I'm done with. The power station lady is going to take a little longer, just because of her condition. We're doing some microscopic tissue analysis and some insect work on her—there're some egg casings and larvae that will help us draw a bead on how long she was there. You want to see?"

  "Not today. Actually, I came to see you."

  "I'm flattered. Let's go back inside, we'll talk." Angelo had heard the gloom in his voice, got the message. He balled up his sandwich wrapper, tossed it, and led MQ down the corridor toward the autopsy suite. They went through a pair of swinging doors and into the main room, a big, windowless chamber with tile floors and bright lights. Six white-enameled surgical tables took up most of the area, and the far wall held two dozen stainless-steel-faced drawers intended for current customers.

  Once he'd shut the door behind him, Angelo said, "Rumor has it Carla's gone. How're you doing with that?" He looked at Mo and stroked a nonexistent beard, looking more like a psychotherapist than a cadaver-cutter.

  "Ah, not so good. You know."

  Angelo turned away and crossed over to the wall of chrome, where he pondered for a moment before yanking one of the handles. The long drawer slid out and there was Big Willie, skin bluish, huge chest split with the crude stitching of the Y-incision, head and neck braced in a green plastic block. Angelo looked at Willie critically for a moment before saying, "I know. You're in mourning. But for what? RIP for Carla and Mo, or for love itself?"

  It was an insightful question, and Mo spread his hands, turning so he didn't have to face Big Willie."When you start pushing forty—" he began. Meaning that, yes, after a while you did begin to fear it could die out of your life, maybe the one just past was the last ever. "Listen, help me with your buddy here," Angelo broke in, patting Willie's arm. "I need this drawer, but we'll want him around while your review is pending, and anyway we haven't located any next of kin yet, don't know how to dispose. I've got to move him over to storage. Wheel that gurney over here, would you?"

  Mo obediently rolled the gurney over next to the drawer. Angelo adjusted the height and locked the wheels.

  "We'll just flip him. It's okay if he's on his face, he'll end up on his back in the fridge." Angelo positioned himself at Big Willie's legs and stood looking at Mo expectantly. Mo put his hands under the massive shoulders and lifted when he got Angelo's nod. "There you go. Good. Good," Angelo said encouragingly. It took all of Mo's strength to turn the body onto its side, and then it suddenly followed through on its own and rolled jokingly onto the gurney.

  They wheeled Big Willie into a side hall and to the locker. Angelo opened the insulated door, and the light inside came on automatically, like a refrigerator. It was a small, cold room with two rows of five-stacked steel bunks on either side, set up on vertical chain conveyors that raised or lowered them. A couple of bodies lay on the right-side bunks, giving Mo the uncomfortable feeling of having intruded into some stranger's bedroom. They locked the gurney's wheels, and Angelo pumped a pedal that raised it to the level of one of the left-side shelves.

  When he'd gotten the height right, Angelo turned back to Mo."I don't even want to hear the over-the-hill crap," he said. He positioned himself to roll Big Willie, and when they both heaved, the body flipped over and landed on its back on the shelf. Angelo adjusted one of Big Willie's arms and then released the gurney's lifters and brakes, saying, "It's bullshit, Mo. One, you're too young to be thinking that way. Two, you were lonely in that relationship. If you want my opinion, it's good luck for you that Carla had the gumption to break it off." He raised his eyebrows, Right?—driving the point home with his dark eyes.

  Mo shrugged. Breakit off, try a little harder, how could you tell when it was time for one or the other? Where was the line? Mo had always landed on the try-harder side. "Maybe we could talk about business," he said after a moment. "Your postmortem on the power st
ation corpse, not your post on my relationship. Can we get out of here?"

  "Sure." Angelo still held his eyes, letting Mo know hedidn't entirely accept the dodge.

  They left the locker, Angelo pushing the empty gurney as they headed back toward the autopsy room.

  Mo breathed the warmer air of the corridor with relief. "I'm interested in the ligatures—"

  "Found four in the remains. Sent them up to Liz."

  "Who looked them over and sent them on to Federal Plaza."

  Angelo nodded thoughtfully as he wheeled the gurney back into the bright main room. "Mm. You'd like to see them, huh?"

  "Well—"

  "Fortunately for you," Angelo said, "I kept some close-up photos of my own. Always keep shots of such items in situ." He winked, turned to a stainless sink, and began washing his hands. "Never hurts to have a little backup documentation."

  "I take it you've worked with Biedermann before," Mo said.

  Twenty minutes later, Mo was back at his desk, looking over photos of the knots, copies printed off Angelo's scanner and colorlaser printer. On the left, a knot in place around the wrist bones and blackened tendons of the power-station corpse. On the right, a knot from O'Connor's fully fleshed wrist. Same cord, the serrated poly line. Same knots, the little double noose with three or four turns of line, the complex midline tensioning knot. Details so specific that it would ordinarily lead one to suspect that the two were killed by the same guy. Nice to know before meeting with Biedermann and his lackeys again.

  Mo checked his watch. So far so good. One more errand to run, and then he'd better get over to Federal Plaza.

  13

  MO WALKED THROUGH A broad expanse of chest-high, gray cubicles filled with FBI personnel at their computer screens. The plastic access authorization tag flopped on his lapel, marking him as an outsider. He followed the room's central corridor to a row of offices and conference rooms against the out sidewall, where the first person he saw was Dr. Rebecca Ingalls. She was standing just inside the door of a conference room, wearing a green dress and matching jacket, talking to someone just out of Mo's view. Silhouetted against the window, her figure hit Mo hard: strong thighs and sweet belly curve, surprisingly narrow waist. The sight of her gave him a good feeling, until the broad-shouldered form of SAC Biedermann stepped past her and came out to greet him.

  "Aha. Detective Ford, come on in, welcome," Biedermann said. The words were warm but the voice was not—Biedermann was apparently working on his social skills but had an absence of native talent. "Dr. Ingalls was good enough to make time in her schedule. I thought she should join our little powwow, look over your materials, and get up to speed on this new situation. Rebecca, I believe you've met Morgan Ford of the State Police?"

  She nodded and shook his hand. "Nice to see you again," she said. Bang, an Annie Oakley smile, Great Plains bright and dead on target.

  "Good to see you," Mo agreed.

  They took seats at a big table, just the three of them today, Biedermann at the head with Mo and Dr. Ingalls opposite each other. Mo opened his briefcase and set out some of the materials he'd brought; Dr. Ingalls put out a file and a notebook. Biedermann's end of the table was conspicuously empty.

  "So let's see what you got." Beidermann rubbed his big hands together expectantly.

  "Well,"Mo said, "you've already gotten the materials from our labs, the pathology reports, and my personnel file. That doesn't leave me much to bring but my opinion, which I'll be glad to share with you if you'd like. Then I'd like to see your files."

  A look of dislike crossed Biedermann's face. "Now hold on here—"

  "My opinion is that if Ronald Parker's attorney finds out how completely this new murder parallels the ones attributed to Parker, he'll go to press before he goes to court, claiming you nailed the wrong guy. That whereas I can't show these knots and cuffs and ligature abrasions to the newspapers—" he tossed copies of Angelo's photos toward Biedermann—"I can, in fact I am obligated to, disclose exculpatory evidence to his attorney. Who doesn't have to play by the same rules I have to, and who will happily blow the lid off your secrecy game. However, I'm willing to forget that obligation for the time being if I see some files appear on this table in the next sixty seconds. The deal for today was not a powwow but for me to look at your materials."

  Biedermann's jaw inched forward, a G.I. Joe look that he probably practiced in front of a mirror. Dr. Ingalls looked a little taken aback by the immediate antagonism between the two men, but she was also curious, observing closely.

  "I told you yesterday,"Biedermann said curtly, "that I don't take any bullshit from you." He reached behind him for a phone, tapped a number, waited, said into the receiver, "Get me Frank Marsden, White Plains barracks State Police." As he waited, he said to Mo,"You're out, Ford. It's that simple. Marsden will can your ass so fast—"

  "Actually," Mo cut in, "I just talked to him before I came down here. Put him in touch with a lady by the name of Francine Jacobs, in our personnel office? He was upset that you had requested my file, and his,without the courtesy of consulting him. He's pissing mad already and disinclined to be told what to do. Do yourself a favor and try a more cooperative management style." Mo kept his voice even and just watched Biedermann's reaction.

  Biedermann hesitated, one hand holding the phone out from his face and the other flat on the table, staring at Mo.

  "One other thing you should know," Mo added, "is that Richard Flannery is taking a personal interest in this case. You've met the Westchester DA, right? He has asked me, personally, to keep him, personally, informed, and to let him know if I need his help with anything." Mo had decided that one way to survive working with both Flannery and Biedermann was to play them against each other. It was one thing for Biedermann to push around a lowly detective, another to get macho with the elected top legal authority of New York's richest county. "In fact, I talked to him just before I came down here. He asked me to give him a full update tomorrow. Maybe you should call him instead of Marsden."

  Biedermann still held the phone, and it could have gone either way, but then Dr. Ingalls laughed, shook her head, tapped the back of Biedermann's hand with her pen. "God, I love my job!" she said sincerely. "You guys are giving me a textbook demonstration of hierarchical competition behaviors! Erik, you've heard similar criticisms before, maybe it's time to acknowledge there's some truth there? Also, Detective Ford has already had some great insights, and I don't think you can afford to do without his obvious talents. Let's get to work."

  Biedermann, to his credit, hooked a wry grin on one cheek. He tossed the receiver back onto the cradle, got up and went to the door, cuffing Mo hard on the shoulder on the way."Esteban," he called to the outer office, "you want to bring us the Howdy Doody files? Thank you very much." Then he waited at the door, looking back at the two of them. "Looks like we got the makings of a great team here," he said without enthusiasm.

  The original Howdy Doody's cord was Unibrand .95 serrated line, just like the line taken from O'Connor's body, available in bulk spools at over three thousand outlets throughout the country. Likewise the eyelets, three-eighths-inch galvanized-steel question marks manufactured by Save-Rite Hardware and available for fifty cents apiece nationwide. Likewise the disposable handcuffs, Flex-Cuf brand, a three-eighths-by-one-sixteenth-inch band of nylon. The most telling parallels were the knots, which matched, and the bruises and abrasions on the ligature sites, which told the tale of identical abuse and manipulation of the victims. Finally, there were innumerable parallels among the types of designs prevalent in the arranged objects. None of these were details that had made it to the press.

  The three of them looked over the materials, compared photos side by side. For a while Biedermann stood behind Mo, leaning over him as he reviewed the materials, the proximity of his big body making Mofeel claustrophobic. When he went back to his chair, he just sat, fiddling with a pen, looking thoughtful and almost sad. Dr. Ingalls took the materials as Mo finished with them, and when she wa
s done, she blew out a breath. She clasped her hands behind her head and sat leaning back in her chair, staring at the ceiling.

  Mo was the first one to talk. "Ronald Parker is the wrong guy."

  "No,"Biedermann insisted. "Not a chance."

  "How can we be so sure? Okay, you caught him in his car with all the paraphernalia, his profile fits, but maybe he was, I don't know . . . set up? Maybe—"

  "Morgan,"Dr. Ingalls said quietly, "there was an eyewitness. Given all this, I'd doubt the eyewitness myself—except it was me.We arranged a trap. Ronald Parker came into my apartment. He. . . hurt me. He had the equipment with him. My testimony against him isn't just going to be about the profile match." She looked at Mo as if wary of his reaction.

  "So what does that leave? Parker had a, an accomplice, someone who knew the signature inside out, and now that Parker is in jail he's going it alone?"

  "Maybe,"Dr. Ingalls said. "Except for two points. First, Ronald Parker was alone when he came to my apartment. Second, even if two people got together to commit murders, no two people could share the identical psychopathology. Their different psychological needs would sooner or later have to be expressed in the crime. Especially if they were no longer working together."

  "An identical twin brother?" Mo hazarded, knowing he was reaching."Parker was adopted—could he have reconnected with his twin somewhere along the line? I mean, you're always reading about the separated-at-birth thing—"

  Dr. Ingalls shook her head. "We went back, found his birth records. A single birth."

  "Leaving the inside-job scenario," Mo said. "The new killer is someone close to the original investigation and is masquerading as a copycat to confuse the issue. So who knew this much about the investigation?"