Behind the Yellow Tape

by Jarrett Hallcox

  Melissa, Adrian, Frankie, and the other CSIs had been introduced to Bluestar at the academy, but the case Adrian mentioned had been her first opportunity to use it on a real case. The suspect in the case was trying to cover up everything. It turned out to be a sexual homicide, but there was very little blood evidence. The suspect said that as he was “doing her,” the victim’s breathing got slower and slower, and he claimed that she’d basically perished while in the throes of passion. He also said there wasn’t much blood, but he had certainly cleaned up his mess, washing his hands, towels, and other objects in and around the bathroom. That’s where Adrian used the Bluestar to prove that the suspect had been calculated in his actions and in fact had cleaned up a lot of blood, a hell of a lot of blood. “He even changed her shirt after she died,” Adrian noted. Ironically, and no one knows if it was on purpose, the shirt he put on his victim had the sentence “God has treated me well” printed across the front of it in large purple letters. “There wasn’t a whole lot of blood at the scene, but the bathroom sink really lit up. People are stupid; they can’t ever clean up enough.”

  Adrian Furman working on her fingerprint chart for court.

  HALLCOX & WELCH, LLC

  We then moved back into the video room with Melissa to ask her a few last questions before we broke for the night, so we could finish the evening with a home cooked meal at the DeFilippos’ house before we departed to head back to Tennessee.

  “Is there a case that eats at you?” we asked Sergeant DeFilippo, as we had every other CSI we visited with on our road adventure.

  “There was one recently; it hasn’t gone to trial, but it was sad,” Melissa replied. The word sad really seems to define her, especially when discussing her cases.

  “There was a 911 call from Perth Amboy, from a cell phone,” Melissa continued, “but it bounced off a tower in New York City. The 911 operator dispatched officers to places that sounded like what the woman was saying, but they of course never found her.” Two days later, the woman was found dead, dumped in a large bag by the side of the road.

  Investigators discovered that the victim had been on an interview for a potential nanny job with the man who was now a suspect. He worked as an auto-body technician, and coincidentally the bag the woman’s body was found in was very similar to ones used at the shop where the suspect worked. Tiny beads typically used in sandblasting were also found both in the bag and in the suspect’s car. Though the beads could not be specifically placed to any one locale, the bag was determined to have come from the shop where the suspect worked. Investigators continued to process the auto-body bay but found nothing.

  At the suspect’s house, very little evidence was found either. But one of the detectives did find a cell phone in a bathroom drawer, and the last call registered on the phone was to 911. “Apparently, she had gone to the bathroom and made a call with a cell phone she had found in the house,” Melissa said, about the poor young woman. “Once they got the call, they could hear her being yelled at to get out of the bathroom.” The victim probably thought she’d be saved, desperately waiting for the police to come, but no one ever showed. Because the cell had hit on a New York City tower, the 911 call was dispatched to New York City officers, never realizing that the call was coming from across the river in New Jersey. If the call had bounced off another tower, her fate might have been different.

  “There wasn’t much evidence,” Melissa said, of the crime scene. However, “there was something weird though when they found the body; she had maggots on her chest, but no wound.”

  “There shouldn’t be maggots there,” we responded to Melissa, trying to figure out reasons why there would be. Typically, flies lay eggs only in the moist, warm areas of a victim, such as the nostrils, ears, eyes, anus, and pubic area. But if there is an open wound, such as a slit throat or a gunshot wound, then maggots will lay eggs in those areas as well.

  “Well, and it probably won’t make it into court, but investigators worked out some street information on the guy, and supposedly, he liked to have sex with prostitutes and finish on their chests,” Melissa explained.

  “That’d probably do it,” we replied, a little dazed, never having thought about flies laying their eggs in sperm. The case is still pending trial.

  Our experience in Union County, New Jersey, was a little surprising. As the crow flies, the county is only twelve miles from New York City, and yet it has a relatively low crime rate. On average, the CSI unit works roughly forty homicides per year—just over three per month and just under one per week. (There were none during the four days that we spent in Union County. Perhaps we’re good-luck charms.) But whether you’re talking about Gary, Indiana, or Beverly Hills, California, every city or county in the United States has crime related to three elements—drugs, sex, and money. Without those things, crime would be nonexistent.

  With our interviews, ride-alongs, and penal swabs finished, we headed to the DeFilippos’ house for another dinner with the CSI unit—an Italian Last Supper, if you will. Most of the crime scene investigators were in attendance for the prosciutto and melon, the made-from-scratch dishes doused in red and white sauces, and the sopping up of the juices with fresh Italian bread. Frankie, fashionably late as usual, brought a bounty of fresh cannolis from an old-school Italian bakery that has been in Elizabeth since the Statue of Liberty arrived in the harbor. The conversation around the table started out typical for cops, telling the bad things, the funny things, the gross things, and the things not for public consumption. And after some good Italian wine, some ghost stories were told.

  “Youse guys know we used to live in a haunted house?” Mike asked the group.

  Silence fell on the group for a second, until Frankie said, “Getthefuckouttahere!”

  “It’s true,” Mike insisted, over the laughter, breaking off a piece of bread. Mike then proceeded to tell some elaborate ghost stories about how one of Melissa’s Looney Tunes figurines, Gossamer to be exact, would mysteriously find its way from its shelf on the bathroom wall down to the commode lid. It would be sitting there staring at them when they returned home for the evening. Mike told how his Xbox video game system, which he kept on a TV tray in the living room, would be found overturned and stacked under the tray when he got up the next morning. And he told stories of 911 calls that came from inside the home when nobody was there. Most of the group continued to laugh, skeptical of ghosts and Mike’s stories. Then Mike and Melissa told a whopper.

  “A friend of ours and her kid came up one time,” Melissa began as we huddled around listening like we were kids at summer camp. “We were just sitting around talking and her little boy looked up at the stairs and said, ‘Who is the funny-looking man?’ At the same time, the dog began to growl at empty space.” Hair stood up on the backs of our necks. The Jersey Devil lives!

  After a few more stories and a few more cannolis, it was time for us to go. The New Jersey CSIs are our dear friends, and we stood in the threshold of the doorway for an eternity, cheek-kissing everyone, Melissa never wanting us to go and us never wanting to leave. It was the custom back in the old days for people leaving their country for America to bring balls of yarn with them, leaving the loose ends with relatives on the pier. Slowly, as the ship pulled away, the ball would begin to unwind and eventually the connection between the loved ones was broken, sometimes forever. If we’d given her a ball of yarn, Sergeant DeFilippo might have held on to the loose end as we dragged her down Interstate 40. Melissa and her crime scene unit is by far the most youthful we visited; Melissa is in her midthirties, and Frankie, Adrian, and Lauren are only in their twenties—mere babes in the police world. It will be interesting to see this young generation of CSIs and how they stand up to thirty more years of looking at and working the scenes of tragedies like the Nicole Giovanni case. Unfortunately, the world is not growing safer; don’t be fooled by political speeches. This means that Melissa will probably have to string the bloodstains of many a young girl’s bedroom. And through the passing years, ju
st as in The Shawshank Redemption as Andy Dufresne changed the posters in his cell, Melissa will undoubtedly see blood on the next generation’s teen idols. We just hope that she, and the rest of the young Union County crime scene investigators, will still be up to the challenge. God knows, the world can use more CSIs like them.

  8

  So Let It Be Written

  NEW YORK CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT, NEW YORK

  New York City is the single largest city in the United States and the second-largest in the world (Tokyo is number one). New York City is considered a major powerhouse in today’s world economy. Founded in 1625, New York City is based on a system of five boroughs—The Bronx, Brooklyn, Manhattan, Queens, and Staten Island. The region was originally inhabited by the Lenape Indians and became the theater for several important battles during the Revolutionary War. The first presidential inauguration was held in New York City, and it was the capital of the country until 1790. The police department alone is larger than most cities, employing an astounding 37,038 people.

  New York City. The Big Apple. Gotham. The city that never sleeps. Home to the Yankees, Broadway, Donald Trump, Wall Street; on September 11, 2001, home to the largest crime scene the world has ever known. Everything that happens or exists in New York City is simply bigger, brighter, and louder than anywhere else in the country. Population-wise, New York City is also the largest city in America, coming in at just over eight million people. But those who work within the city will tell you that including people who commute to or visit the city each day, and also counting the illegal immigrants, homeless people, and other unknowns, that number grows to more like eighteen million. In order to police a population that large, you need a virtual army. As of the most recent law enforcement census conducted by the Bureau of Justice Statistics, the New York City Police Department (NYPD) is composed of 37,038 full-time police officers—in army deployment standards, that’s a corps. (Consider that the next largest police department, in Chicago, has 13,129 full-time officers.) Fifteen years ago, the NYPD had roughly three thousand homicides per year. Mayor Giuliani’s policies brought crime down significantly, but the NYPD still works about eight hundred to nine hundred homicides per year—just under three per day. Unlike most of the other places we visited, seeing crime, murderous crime, was not going to be a problem in this city.

  Our tires hummed across the George Washington Bridge into Queens. We had gotten up before daybreak to drive into New York from New Jersey because we were scheduled to meet Detective Larry Walsh at seven a.m. sharp. Unfortunately, we had gotten lost along the way. Good thing for us that Larry was also running late, and as if providence had intervened, Larry called us on his cell phone and was able to meet us on the bridge, so that we could follow him in. Let’s just say that traffic laws and regulations are lost on Detective Walsh.

  After jumping curbs and running through traffic lights irrespective of color, we arrived at Larry’s office. We got out of our car to sunlight that disappeared when Larry the Giant got out of his. When we said everything is bigger in New York City, we meant it. Detective Larry Walsh is a big SOB. Huge. And scary. He’s a heavy-metal-music-listening, earring-wearing giant who’s very direct and uses the F-word as much as most people blink. He can carry the both of us, and unfortunately has, like a sack of potatoes—one in each arm. But in addition to his thick Bronx accent, his multiple ear piercings, and his omnipresent fleece vest, he has the heart of a teddy bear—a teddy bear itching to bitch-slap a mofo.

  The authors with New York City Police Department

  investigator Larry Walsh.

  HALLCOX & WELCH, LLC

  “How you doin’?” Larry grumbled deeply, as he gave each of us a big squeeze as soon as were out of our cars. Detective Walsh came crashing into our lives (he literally fell through the floor of a crime scene house) during Session VI at the National Forensic Academy—the only session in which we’ve ever had to evict someone for inappropriate actions. This person was a menace who aggravated the hell out of everyone and everything that he came in contact with. He was disgusting, vulgar, and a liar. Quite frankly, he was a horse’s ass! And his classmates hated him. One day, while this person was acting typically unpleasant, Larry came up beside us like an eclipse and said as loudly as he could—“Yo, you want I should bitch-slap the motherfucker in the ear?” We absolutely did, but we declined and instead went on to counsel the jackass for the umpteenth time. Eventually, we expelled him, to the chagrin of everyone who wanted to see that bitch-slap thing to completion.

  Queens is home to the crime scene unit for all of New York City. The unit is composed of fifty men and women who respond to all sexual assaults, pattern crimes, and homicides that occur in New York. Each borough has its own evidence collection team for processing crimes that fall into other categories. The prevailing belief across the country is that the larger the police department, the more money it has, and thus the better off it is. This is hardly the case. New York officers’ starting salaries are way below those of other large agencies. In addition, many surrounding counties have plenty of money (a strong recruiting incentive) to attract officers away from NYPD. “Janitors and teachers make more than we do,” Larry said as he led us onto the floor where he worked. “None of us can afford to live in the city.” Larry had driven all the way in from Long Island earlier that morning. To put it in perspective, the top pay for a NYPD officer puts him or her at about $65,588 per year. Even with the current pay raise the NYPD received in 2008, nearby Nassau County, on the other hand, tops out at $92,000. Suffolk County is $98,000.

  The tight budget affects more than just an officer’s salary. The perception most people have of a CSI unit is of some really high-tech place with stainless steel tables, microscopes, and all of the fancy whizgigs that money can buy. Unfortunately, that couldn’t be any further from the truth. What we saw looked more like Barney Miller’s office from thirty years ago—all Larry needed was a rotary phone and he’d be set. “We ain’t got nuthin’,” one of the guys said, after being introduced to us. They have computers, but they are not hooked up to the e-mail system, nor are they on a server that would allow them to share files. They have digital cameras, but they are not compatible with the computers they have, so they don’t use them. Seeing the NYPD reminded us of stories of how Rome just grew too big to keep up with itself, with the outlying parts of the Roman Empire dying off first. The crime scene unit at NYPD is on the outskirts of a dying empire.

  We sat with Larry and some of the rest of the guys in his unit for a while, drinking coffee and chatting about the television version of crime scene investigation. “What do you think about the show CSI: New York?” we asked the three guys sitting around the table.

  “I only watched that shit once,” Larry began, leaning over in his chair, pointing his behemoth finger in our direction. “And all I saw was them trying to find a rat who ate a fuckin’ bullet. Getthefuckouttahere! How youse gonna find one rat in New York City? We gots millions a rats!”

  “Did anyone from the show come here and see what it is that you guys do?” we timidly asked, now afraid to talk anymore about the show.

  “Yeah, they were here for one day,” one of the other guys answered. “One day, and they said, this ain’t gonna make good TV.”

  “Do you guys like any of the CSI type of shows?” we asked.

  “Yeah, Dexter,” was the overwhelming response. What a shocker. The favorite show of the boys in blue is about a serial killer who’s a forensic bloodstain analyst during the day, but who employs his own style of vigilante justice, limiting his killing to only bad guys. You gotta love New York.

  Our plan for the day was to have Larry escort us around the city, visiting crime scenes being worked throughout the different boroughs. That is, if there were any. “Do you think they’ll be any callouts?” we asked Larry sarcastically, as we looked through hundreds of his grisly crime scene photos. Before he could even respond to our question, a call came in to the precinct that a body had been found.


  “So let it be written, so let it be done,” Larry said, in that deep, Rocky-esque voice. Larry is fond of that biblical quote, though his version comes from the Metallica song “Creeping Death.” When we had asked Larry months earlier whether we could visit him and see what his life was like as a CSI in New York City, his answer had been the same—“So let it be written, so let it be done.” It’s sort of his metal mantra.

  We hurried down the back entrance of the building to where Larry’s crime scene vehicle was parked. It was an old, beat-up Ford Explorer that made the run-down cars cabbies drive look like Cadillacs, in sharp contrast to the brand-new vehicle that the Union County folks were using just a few miles across the river. “This probably won’t be much of a scene,” Larry said, backing out of his spot wildly, as if he’d done this a thousand times before.

  “How long have you been on the force?” we asked, scrambling to put on seat belts that turned out to not even work.

  “Seventeen long years and six with the unit,” Larry replied, making an illegal left U-turn on red, from the far left lane, in a police car with no blue lights.