by J. L. Abramo
“Okay, what about the autopsy report, Lou?” asks Sam. “Anything there that we don’t already know?”
“It’s not pretty. Let’s get some air into this room,” he says. “I’m gonna grab a pot of coffee from the hall.”
“Hey, speaking of coffee,” says Murphy, “either of you guys seen my coffee mug?”
“It’s over at the lab for tests. They’re hoping to discover the origin of life from the residue in the bottom of the cup,” says Samson.
Robin Harding seemed to be nothing if not businesslike that morning when Vota came into what she would call her office and what Laurence Olivier would call upstage left of Batman’s office. Harding stood up when he entered and offered him a seat, absentmindedly tapping the file folder in her hand against the corner of the desk between them. She caught herself doing it, reseated herself, and dropped the report on the cluttered desktop. A deep sigh betrayed her slightly as she began relating the autopsy findings as if she were reading aloud from a grocery list.
“Kevin Addams, age nineteen, apparently in excellent health, no unusual physical characteristics aside from scars on left leg. Dr. Wayne’s initial estimate on time of death will have to suffice, approximately fifteen to twenty hours before the body was discovered. We found traces of the same drug that we found with the Ventura boy, pancuronium bromide, administered by injection. It’s difficult to be certain, but by the look of the massive blow on the back of his head and the heavy amount of blood loss, I doubt that the drug was necessary.”
“So, why use it?”
“You’re the detective,” she said without malice.
“What about the finger?” asked Vota, unable to move the conversation to a more pleasant subject.
“Same as the Ventura boy,” Harding said. “Snipped off with small shears, we’re guessing garden variety. And dull. It looks as if it took some work. Then something hot was used to burn the flesh and stop the bleeding.”
“A flame?”
“More like an iron, probably smaller. The surface could not have been much larger than the finger itself. There were no burn marks elsewhere on the hand; a common household iron would lack such exactness. A wood-burning tool maybe, definitely not an open flame.”
Vota flinched, took a deep breath, his mind clicking off and on, his brain searching with caution and futility for a way to ask.
“But they were already dead when the killer took their fingers?” he said, hoping for a definitive yes.
“Again, it’s impossible to be certain. But I would say that they were already deceased.”
The answer would have to do.
She was very good. Very professional. Very bright. She had picked up more than knowledge from Dr. Wayne in a very short time. She had adopted his cool, almost cold tone and demeanor in the discussion of very disturbing details. As much as this detachment never ceased to amaze Vota, he couldn’t help admiring it. And appreciating it, because it somehow made it a little less impossible to ask the next question.
“And the cuts on the boy’s face?”
“Two letters. P and R. Same kind of cuts as before, a small razor knife. We found traces of cotton fiber in the wound. We’re guessing that he placed a cloth, maybe a handkerchief over the cuts, to stop the bleeding. And he used something to clean the cuts afterward, alcohol-based. It’s being tested now; we should have something on it in an hour. If you need anything else, give me a call.”
“And that was it?” says Samson.
“That was it,” says Vota, tossing the four of hearts into the pizza box, “except that after she thanks me for my patience and I thank her for her spellbinding presentation, she tells me that even though I may not think so, the whole thing upsets the hell out of her.”
“And you say?”
“And I say I’m glad to hear it. And then she’s off to do another one.”
“Call the Lab, Lou. Try to get a quick answer on the alcohol. Tell them to put Murphy’s coffee mug on the back burner if they have to.”
“I think the guy was drinking,” says Murphy.
“Oh?” says Samson.
“They found a few drops of liquid on the kitchen floor. The evidence guys felt pretty sure that it was booze. He might have used it on the boy’s face.”
“You’re saying that this maniac was standing over a corpse having a cocktail while he waited for his hankie to do its work,” says Samson, an involuntary spoken thought.
“Believe me, I hated suggesting it,” says Murphy.
“I, for one, am baffled,” says Vota. “I think we need a shrink in on this one.”
“How about the detective from the 60th, the Russian?”
“Ivanov?”
“Yeah, I met her at the Ventura scene. She mentioned that she has a degree in Forensic Psychology.”
“Phone her, Tommy,” says Samson. “Find out when she can meet with one or all of us. Shit, that reminds me, I have to make a call. Lou, ring the lab and see if this guy was drinking. Maybe we can get some DNA, not that it would do much good unless we catch the bastard.”
Samson phones the 68th Precinct and asks for Detective Andrew Chen.
“Detective, I talked with your captain and we both thought it would be very helpful if you would come in with us on this investigation,” Samson says, trying to sound sincere.
“I’d love it,” says Chen, sounding very sincere. “Is it true that there was another homicide closely related to the one out here?”
“How about we meet for breakfast tomorrow and I fill you in? How does the Narrows Diner at nine sound?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Great,” says Samson.
“Lieutenant?”
“Yes?”
“Would you mind if I took a peek at the scene on Bay Ridge Avenue?”
“Hold on,” Samson says. “Tommy, is there anyone left over at the Graham Place?”
“I left one uniform and a couple of guys cleaning up. Graham would like to get back home tomorrow. I’m guessing that the cleanup is complete. I asked the officer to hang there until he heard from me.”
Samson goes back to Chen.
“Okay, take a look. Let the uniform go when you get there and lock up when you leave.”
“Great, I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Yes, you will.”
“They think it’s Scotch,” says Vota when Samson is off the phone.
“Son of a bitch,” Samson says.
“Ivanov can be here first thing in the morning,” says Murphy.
“Okay, good. Make sure one or both of you are here to meet with her, I’m tied up at nine,” says Samson. “It’s hard to imagine anyone making sense of this thing, but who knows, maybe she’s a psychic.”
“Or at least a Gypsy,” says Murphy.
Suddenly Landis is standing at the door.
“Save me a slice?”
“When have we ever?”
“Here’s that photo you wanted—the numbers on Graham’s bedroom wall. The expert says it’s a definite match to the writing at Avenue S.”
Samson takes the photograph. 242113.
“Six numbers this time,” he says. “What the fuck is this guy trying to tell us?”
TWELVE
Tony Territo has a lot on his mind. And none of it is very good.
A shipment of cars from his garage in Brooklyn was stopped and impounded inside of Mexico, a driver arrested. It was costing Territo a ton of money to keep his name out of the discussion, with no guarantees. Not to mention a quarter million dollars’ worth of metal on wheels that he wouldn’t see a penny of.
Business was slow on the car lot. The time of year, the economy, every fucking thing working against him. And Mondays sucked. The credit report on the high-roller he thought he had sold a Mercedes to on Sunday indicated that the deadbeat couldn’t finance a Geo let alone a $110,000 German coupe.
The situation at home wasn’t much better. Tony’s son was beginning to look like the Goodyear blimp, the doctor warning that
if the kid didn’t get off his 100 percent greasy fast-food diet and begin exercising he would be a heart attack statistic before he reached sixteen. His daughter was an ungrateful bitch who would only say no if Tony said yes. And she dressed like the girls that Tony, growing up, had always thought of as good enough to fuck, but not to take home to meet Mom and Dad. And his wife Barbara, God love her, thought that money grew on fucking rose bushes.
All Tony wanted was to have a nice family weekend in Atlantic City, to take his mind off the daily disasters, and no one in the fucking family wanted to cooperate. If it weren’t for that lame De Niro/Billy Crystal film, Tony might have seriously considered seeing a headshrink.
On top of all of that, the very last thing that Tony Territo wanted to do that Monday afternoon was to meet with Dominic Colletti and sweet-talk the old fuck. Tell the old relic that sure I’ll take care of the Hoyle kid; give me a little time. And why have to drive way out to Sheepshead Bay to listen to Colletti’s bullshit, to a fucking restaurant he couldn’t even pronounce the name of?
Although Territo was so fucking hungry, he could have eaten vegetables.
What Tony Territo wants to do is to tell Colletti to drop dead and call over for a delivery from Pete’s Pizza on 94th Street.
But Territo takes his father’s warnings seriously.
So instead, he climbs into a Jaguar from off the lot, looks at the address on Knapp Street that Sammy Leone had given him that morning, and heads out to Sheepshead Bay.
“How did it go?” asks Frances DiMarco when her husband returns from his lunch with Frank Sullivan. “I see that you came back without the shopping bag.”
“He accepted the clothing,” says Sal. “He was a little unsure about the other offer. He said that he would have to think about it. I believe that if Sully felt he could contribute even a small amount, he could be persuaded.”
“Maybe Joe Campo could use some help at the store,” says Fran.
“That’s a good idea, I’ll walk over and talk to Joe this afternoon,” says Sal DiMarco. “How did you get to be so smart?”
“I learned a lot from my students all those years,” she says.
Detective Andy Chen arrives at the Graham house just before two in the afternoon. The cleanup team is gone and the officer on duty is pacing the front room like a caged animal.
“Lieutenant Samson said you could take off when I got here,” Chen says. “I’ll lock up when I leave.”
The uniformed officer is out the front door without hesitation.
Chen walks through the rooms, starting in the kitchen. Not really looking for anything, only trying to get a feel for the place. The place where a young man was tortured and killed. Chen feels a strange sense of excitement.
And he has heard the rumors. Serial killer.
Andrew Chen has waited a long time for something like this. Four years beating the crowded streets of Chinatown in Manhattan. Finally a promotion to Detective, only to be reassigned to Brooklyn’s own Chinatown on 8th Avenue. Typecasting. A second-class cop sent to babysit third-class citizens. Pearl Harbor, the Korean and Vietnam Wars, had painted persons of Far Eastern heritage as untrustworthy at best, as the enemy at worst. Inside the Police Department and out in the streets. Even those like Chen, who were born and raised as Americans and had never been anywhere near a rice paddy.
Maybe this was Andy Chen’s chance to be accepted as a detective instead of as a Chinese detective. This is what Chen is thinking as he walks through the Graham house, this is what he is thinking when the buzzer summons him to the front door.
And when Chen opens the door what he finds is not a beautiful young woman, but a beautiful young Chinese woman. And he forgets what he was thinking before he saw her.
“Oh,” she says, combining a charming look of confusion with an irresistible smile. “Is Susan at home?”
“I’m afraid not,” Andy Chen says, “but perhaps I can help you.”
Chen steps out to the porch to talk with Serena Huang.
Tony Territo pulls up in front of the Knapp Street address. As he steps out of the Jaguar, Tony spots Sammy Leone pacing at the entrance as if to remind Territo that he is three fucking minutes late. The sign above the door has Tony thinking that his very late lunch will be some kind of swishy French cuisine until he realizes that it says Meditation, not Mediterranean.
“You’re late,” says Leone.
Territo bites his tongue, takes a deep breath, and is about to ask what the fuck they are doing here. Sammy Leone rushes into the building before Territo can form the words. Tony follows.
Territo is led into a small room, off a larger room. The floor is covered with foam mats. In the center of the room, Dominic Colletti is on the floor, arms crossed over his concave chest, legs tied in a knot. Colletti is wearing gym shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt. The wrinkled old fuck looks like a week-old boardwalk pretzel.
Colletti’s eyes are closed. He looks to Tony like something a taxidermist fucked up. Territo is about to speak, but Leone silences him with the wave of an arm. They stand and wait. Territo’s stomach is growling, and there is not a menu in the place. Finally, the old man opens his eyes and speaks to Territo.
“Tony, thank you for coming,” Colletti says. “Have you tried yoga?”
Territo briefly pictures the thick slimy white slop his wife wolfs down with fresh fruit every morning. Then he is fighting off visions of a sausage roll smothered in marinara sauce from Pete’s on 4th Avenue.
“Can’t say that I have,” Territo finally manages.
“I strongly recommend it. Very calming and relaxing,” the old man says. “You look as if you could use it. You look all wound up.”
“I appreciate your concern, Mr. Colletti,” Tony says, trying to control himself. “I’m very busy this afternoon. It was difficult getting away from the dealership. I just wanted to assure you that I will take care of the thing we talked about; in fact, I’m already working on it. I only need a little more time to iron out the details.”
“It won’t be necessary,” says Colletti.
“Really?” says Territo.
Territo doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or more worried. Colletti quickly clears it up.
“There is something that you can do for me,” Colletti says. “My youngest boy, Richard, turns thirty years old this week. I would like to do something special for him. He tells me there is a car he has seen on your lot that he would love to own, a 1972 BMW coupe. Why my son would want a car that is older than he is puzzles me, but he insists it will make him very happy. And the happiness of my children is important to me. Please let him have this vehicle.”
Territo is speechless. He can’t believe his ears. The old prune wants Tony’s cherished BMW, for his fucking deranged son Richie, as a gift. Tony would rather whack Bobby Hoyle than give up the car. Territo thinks of his father, Vincent, and tries to be extremely careful when he finally finds his voice.
“Don Colletti,” he says. “I have many other vehicles that are much more desirable, all brand new models, any of which I will be very happy to offer in appreciation for all of the help you have given me.”
Territo feels as if all of the oxygen is going out of the room.
“Richard has his heart set on this specific automobile and I am very determined to have it for him.”
Suddenly, Tony Territo knows that he is being tested. And he understands immediately that he will fail the test.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Colletti, but I can’t help you. In case you were not aware, the 1972 BMW is my own personal vehicle and I am extremely fond of it.”
“Please, Anthony, do not make the mistake of denying my request.”
“Please, Mr. Colletti,” Territo says, throwing all caution to the wind and wanting badly to get the fuck out of that closed, stinking place, “don’t make the mistake of threatening me.”
And then Sammy Leone is stomping his feet, his neck the color of a hothouse tomato, yelling something about disrespect. And Colletti calmly comm
ands Leone to be quiet, to not disturb the tranquility of the room, and Leone goes silent.
“I beg you to act sensibly, Tony,” the old man says. “I will expect to hear something much more positive from you before Saturday. Sammy, please show Mr. Territo to the door. I need to do my deep-breathing exercises. It will help me to clear this unfortunate misunderstanding from my mind.”
Colletti closes his eyes as Sammy leads Tony away.
Samson has been on the phone with Chief Trenton; the phone call he was hoping would not come, as certain as he was that it would. Trenton wants to know what they are doing to solve this case, because the commissioner is on Trenton’s back like Quasimodo’s hump. Samson manufactures a progress report and slams down the receiver. He looks around the room and realizes that they are doing nothing.
“Tommy, I want you back at Lutheran. I want to find out who lifted those drugs. I don’t care how many people you have to talk to, I don’t care if it’s a floor washer or the head administrator of the hospital. Lou, take Landis and a few uniforms with you over to the first scene. Tommy has the name of a woman who saw a car. Try to get a better description and then canvas the neighborhood again. Send Landis and one of the officers over to the school, maybe someone noticed a car there. This guy had to use a vehicle to take the Ventura kid to the apartment building. Someone had to see something. I’ll go back to the grocery store on J. If he drove the milk truck to the Graham house, he must have left a vehicle near there. I’ll send Mendez over to the dairy. I want a list of every vehicle that anyone saw that was not familiar: year, make, model, color, condition, plate or partial plate numbers. I don’t care how long the list is. We need to find some kind of match.”
“Why is he even using the drug at all if he’s bashing the victims’ brains in?” says Murphy.
