"Uh-huh. He asked me who did the last one and I told him I never had one."
The fact that it was the first time the girl was going through the procedure made it impossible for her to know what the standard practice should be in such exams. It was the perfect moment for someone to take advantage of her.
"What did Dr. Foster do next?"
"First he told me he had to do a breast exam."
"How did he do that?"
"Like he was feeling up on me, is what I thought."
"Can you tell us exactly how and where he touched you?"
First Darcy told us how the doctor rubbed his hands around her chest, then she demonstrated on herself. The long caresses and manipulation of the girl's ample breasts bore no resemblance to the steps physicians took in legitimate examinations. Neither did his repeated questioning, asking her whether it felt good while he touched her.
"What was next?"
"He made me lie down on the table and put his fingers inside me. He was touching me funny and poking me inside with some kind of instrument that I couldn't see, and that's when the man knocked on the door."
"What man? Touching you how? Slow down, Darcy."
"Somebody just banged and Dr. Foster, he like got real nervous. He told me to get up and get dressed, and he started to hide all his medical tools back in his bag."
"Did the other man come into the room?"
"Nope. He kept calling the name Pierre-telling him to open up. But he didn't. Not then. Not till he threatened me."
"What did he say?"
"'If you tell anybody about this, I'll get you. I know how to find you and I'll make sure you never talk again.' Then he took me by the arm and made me walk through the waiting area, out the back door to the alleyway. He tossed his case with all the stuff in it into the Dumpster, which I thought was really weird."
"How did you get away from him?"
"He made me walk to the subway station and he waited until I got on the downtown train to go home. Said if I told anyone about this except my boyfriend I'd never see my mother again."
"I'm glad you decided to tell someone, Darcy."
"I didn't have a choice, really. I was bleeding so badly that night that I had to get my mother to take me to the hospital." She smiled at Alan Vandomir. "They're the ones who called the police."
"So you paid a visit to Dr. Foster?" I asked Vandomir.
"By way of the back door on Saturday morning. That's where we found all the equipment inside the Dumpster. And Lucky Pierre was right at his desk."
"What kind of medicine is he licensed to practice?"
"None, actually. That's why we're here."
I looked at the vulnerable teen and wondered what would have happened to her had there not been such an opportune knock on the door. "Don't tell me he's a gardener or a hairdresser?"
"Nah. He's a phlebotomist. All he's trained to do is to draw blood for lab tests. Doesn't know the first thing about gynecology or anything else medical. And you're certainly not going to like where he works, Alex."
"I'm afraid to ask."
"Try the court system. He's employed by the Midtown Community Court. His assignment is to draw blood from hookers to test for sexually transmitted diseases."
"Public service is a wonderful thing, isn't it? Now I'll have the chief administrative judge on my back for embarrassing him with this arrest."
The MCC had been a controversial innovation from the outset, almost a decade ago. The mayor and the judicial head of the criminal court system had been allies in moving some misdemeanor cases out of the Centre Street courthouse and handling them in the neighborhood in which they'd occurred. It hardly made a difference to any of us in the DA's office to have the cases-mostly prostitution and low-level drug dealing-out from under our feet. But Battaglia had been hell-bent on maintaining jurisdiction over every offense, no matter how petty, and he would revel in this bit of mismanagement by his adversaries.
"I'll have it written up as sexual abuse and throw in an unauthorized medical practice. We can have Darcy sign the affidavit and send her on her way, for today."
By two o'clock, I had finished charging Vandomir's case and when Mercer arrived, I had the John Doe serial rapist indictment signed and filed. By the time I made the rounds from my eighth-floor office to the ninth-floor grand jury rooms to the tenth-floor Supreme Court clerk's office and then up to fifteen so the judge overseeing grand jury matters could unseal the indictment, it was after three and Mike Chapman was sitting at my desk.
"The plot thickens, Coop."
"Were you there for the autopsy this morning?"
"Yeah. Tell your pal Mr. Kroon you kept your promise. If Emily Upshaw wasn't already dead before she met Dr. Kirschner today, it's a sure thing now."
"Was it as obvious as what it looked like?"
"Five stab wounds to the back with a carving knife. Got the heart, one lung, the kidney, and anything else that matters."
"Was she-?"
"Sexually assaulted? The jury's out on that one. No semen in the vaginal vault, but don't gloat about it yet. There's some bruising on her inner thighs, like it was an attempt. Your perp had attempts that weren't consummated, didn't he?"
Mercer and I looked at each other and nodded our heads.
"Plus Crime Scene found something unusual in the bathroom."
"What?"
Mike took a Polaroid photo out of his pocket and showed it to us. "See the sink counter on the right? There's a plastic bottle of bleach on top."
"Okay, so?"
"Emily wasn't exactly a meticulous housekeeper. Look at the dingy towels and the ring in the bathtub."
The photo made it obvious that the only clean surfaces in the room were the toilet seat and bowl.
"Hal thinks the killer finished in the bathroom what he started in the bedroom. Masturbated here and then wiped the toilet bowl to clean off anything that would leave a trace of DNA. Ever seen that before?"
"No."
"Well, Hal has. There was a case in Queens last October. Perp had only been out of jail a week, paroled on an old sex offense. Did a push-in burglary in Astoria and when he couldn't get it up to complete the rape, he went into the bathroom and played with himself."
"And the Mr. Clean routine?"
"Just before his release from prison he'd been swabbed, by law, to put his profile in the convicted offender data bank. He knew that was a surefire way to identify him in the new venture, so he scoured away the DNA."
"All that tells me is that Emily's killer was smart enough to eliminate any traces of himself. It doesn't help to figure out whether or not he's our East Side rapist."
"Damn, you're stubborn. Mr. Silk Stockings didn't complete the assault on Annika Jelt, did he? I'm sure he wasn't even aware you'd be able to connect the cigarette outside on the stoop to that crime. Maybe Emily's killer is keen to the fact that if you don't match him to the old cases, you can't identify him or even link the two series. Maybe this is a leopard who actually has changed his spots."
"No other DNA in Emily's apartment?" Mercer asked.
"Oh, did I neglect to mention that? Coop's pal, Teddy Kroon. His prints are-"
"That's the first thing he told us last night," I said. "Of course they're everywhere. He found the body of his best friend and tried to see if there was anything he could do to save her."
"You know how you hate to be interrupted? Same goes for me. The prints don't surprise me too much-that's exactly what I was going to say. And neither does his DNA on a wineglass. Maybe it's a little tacky that he sat there swilling her lukewarm Chianti while he waited for the men in blue, but it's not a crime. On the other hand, it makes me wonder whether he was in the apartment earlier than he admitted to us-maybe even drinking there while he waited for Emily to come home."
"But the messages he left on the answering machine, from the bar they were supposed to meet in?"
"It's the oddest thing, Coop. Somebody erased them. I didn't want to say it in front of Teddy, but th
ere were no recordings on it by the time I responded the other morning. And Teddy's got one more thing to explain."
"What's that?" Mercer asked.
"Why his DNA was all over the computer mouse on Emily's desk."
14
"How'd they get a genetic profile from a computer mouse?" Battaglia asked. "This guy drool on it?"
"Skin cells, Paul. They slough off with ordinary use. It probably means that Teddy Kroon was holding on to the mouse for several minutes, long enough to be opening files or surfing the Web without realizing he was leaving his own DNA fingerprint on it."
The scientific methodology of DNA had changed so radically since its forensic introduction in the last twenty years that it was not only possible to develop identifying evidence from minute samples of genetic material, but also to work from trace evidence, not just blood, semen, and saliva. Sweatbands inside baseball caps, tearstained clothing, and steering columns on stolen cars that had been handled by thieves to get them started could yield enough data to amplify and match to suspects or convicted offenders.
"What was he looking for?"
I was trying to brief Battaglia on the latest developments in the Upshaw case before he called in the media to give them news of our innovative John Doe strategy. As usual, he was asking questions to which I did not yet have answers. The computer forensics cops would have been livid if any of us at the scene tried to open the files.
"I don't know. We have to get him back in, boss. He never mentioned anything about the computer. I didn't think to ask him about it at the time."
Battaglia scowled and kept reading the remarks that Brenda had outlined for him. "How come it's only the house press?"
He liked it better when all the major networks covered his releases. This one would just be attended by the stringers assigned to the courthouse from each of the daily newspapers and the crime reporters from the local TV stations. "Short notice. Brenda didn't contact them until this morning."
The district attorney walked to the conference table at the far end of the room. He didn't need to tell me the rules again, but he always liked to do it. "I'll give them the story and take questions. If I need you to fill in any blanks, I'll just look over at you and you'll know you can answer. Tell Rose to let them in." He seated himself in a high-backed green leather chair, behind which a blowup of the rapist's sketch was propped against a bookshelf.
I stepped out to his executive assistant's desk and gave her the nod. Mercer followed me back in to flank Battaglia at the head of the table. The twelve journalists filed in and greeted the district attorney while cameramen set up tripods behind the old wooden chairs.
He read stiffly from the papers in front of him. "Good afternoon to all of you. What we've decided to undertake here is a bold new initiative-one more major step in our battle against sexual assault.
"This will be a joint effort on the part of prosecutors, police, and scientists to use both the latest technology and an innovative legal strategy to indict the Silk Stocking Rapist-as you people think you've so cleverly named him-on the basis of his DNA profile. We are going to stop the clock on the statute of limitations that would sooner or later allow him to escape the consequences of his crimes. Whenever we find him, he will have his day in court.
"This effort is smart, it's creative, it's proactive," Battaglia said. He pointed over his head at the artist's sketch. "But we need your help in capturing this predator. Then we'll make sure he never walks among us again. Thank you."
"Have you done this before, Mr. B?" the CBS newswoman called out.
"Twice. Very quietly. Now it's going to be business as usual when these monsters think they can beat us just because the legislature's too lazy to take a few minutes to eliminate the statute of limitations."
"Is this about sticking it to Albany then, Mr. District Attorney?"
"Those statutes were designed to protect against the dangers of faulty memories and lost witnesses. They're anachronisms," Battaglia said, a smile drawing slowly across his face. "Like the legislators themselves. Talk about faulty memories. Those last remarks were off the record, right?"
"When are you gonna catch this guy?" Mickey Diamond asked.
"The commissioner has stepped up his efforts and we've brought in some outside eyes to help review the situation. I'd expect that-"
"Outside? From where?"
"I'm not going to comment on that. Whose side are you on anyway?"
"If you think he's done so many of the cases, how come you only indicted him on this one charge?" the all-news-radio reporter asked.
"We wanted to get started with the oldest case, so we don't risk losing it. We'll be presenting the others later in the month to do a superseding indictment. But this gets us out there in the public awareness and into the national data banks without wasting any more time. This rapist can run but he won't be able to hide for very long."
"This weekend's murder, Mr. B, you have any idea why the police commissioner is hedging on calling it part of the Silk Stocking pattern?"
"It's premature to do that kind of thing and alarm the public until all the evidence is analyzed," Battaglia said, scowling again.
"Alarm the public?" Diamond said. "You got women running around the Upper East Side like it was the January white sale at Bloomingdale's. It's sheer bedlam today. I think panic is a better word for it."
"That's exactly what we're trying to avoid. Let me give you ladies and gents some of the latest statistics. The numbers for last year-violent crimes in Manhattan-are way down over the previous twelve-month period." I had heard this drill more times in ten years than I would ever be able to count. Battaglia's next sentence was predictable. "Figures don't lie, but liars figure."
He chuckled but most of the reporters rolled their eyes. "Homicides are lower, robberies are down-"
"Rape is the only category of felonies that went up. Why so, Mr. B?"
The side of his mouth twisted in my direction and he gave me an almost imperceptible nod, in gratitude for the briefing I'd done earlier. "There are two issues involved here," I said. "First, I think all of us involved in this work accept that there is more reporting of these crimes, not actually more victimization. We have so many more services available for survivors now-legally, medically, and psychological counseling, too.
"The second thing is that you have to make a distinction between stranger and acquaintance rapes. Stranger attacks represent fewer than twenty percent of reported sex crimes. That number has been very stable and has shown no significant increase anywhere in the city for more than five years."
"So why is that any different for acquaintance rape?" the local NBC reporter asked.
"Because effective NYPD strategies-like anticrime units, community policing, an aggressive sex offender monitoring unit, and a smart SVS-they can keep the stranger rapists off the street with greater success. Acquaintance rapes are cases in which the victim is with the offender because she thinks she knows him, she trusts him. He's a family member or coworker or friend. She walks right past the cop on the beat to go to his home or her apartment or a hotel room. Law enforcement can't prevent this kind of case from happening, and that's why you see the numbers going up from time to time."
Mickey Diamond brought us back to the moment. "How come nobody prevented that foreign student from getting stabbed last week? How about yesterday's murder?"
Battaglia took control again. "That's precisely why we're taking this very aggressive approach, this John Doe indictment. No serial rapist is entitled to put his hands around the throat of this city and strangle it with fear."
He stood up to signal the end of the questioning period and started toward his desk.
"So you're saying these attacks are the work of one man, Paul?" Diamond asked.
Battaglia pretended not to hear him. He wanted nothing on the record that could be quoted back to him if he guessed wrong. "Rose, you want to get me the mayor on the phone? And help clear these crews out of here as fast as you can."
&nb
sp; Diamond was relentless. "Heard you came face-to-face with that skull in the basement over at NYU the other night, Alex. Want to comment on what you thought about the experience? Tell us where that investigation is going?"
Battaglia's head whipped around and he glared at me to ensure that if I had thought for a second that I might respond to the question, I'd think better of it.
"That's entirely a matter for the police and the medical examiner. They've got to figure out who the woman is and how she died before there's any reason for my office to be involved. Alexandra has nothing to say about it. We're closing up shop here so you'd better scram before you miss your deadlines."
"So I guess that means the commissioner hasn't told you about the call that came into the tip hotline this afternoon?"
Battaglia hated to be out of the loop on anything. He looked to me for help. I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head, knowing he would blame me for not having the latest information. "I've been tied up most of the day," he mumbled to Diamond. "I'm sure the PC called but I haven't gotten back to him yet. Which tip are you talking about?"
"Some shrink from the Village saw my piece over the weekend," Diamond said proudly. "Says he thinks he knows who the girl in the brick coffin is. Claims that one of his patients whose initials were A.T. went missing almost twenty-five years ago."
15
"Would you please tell us, Dr. Ichiko, why you changed your mind this evening and decided against revealing the identity of your former patient?" The New York One reporter had sandbagged the psychiatrist outside his Sixth Avenue office as he closed up, and the interview was running at the top of the seven o'clock news.
The doctor raised his coat collar and walked briskly away from the cameras, trying to shield his face more than to protect himself from the biting-cold air.
"Is it true you've been offered a substantial amount of money to tell her story tomorrow night on a network reality show?"
The doctor waved his hand in front of the camera and tried to dodge the reporter by stepping off the curb between two parked cars.
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