“You son of a bitch.”
“He keeps talking,” Rhyme said, amused. “What’s the point of Miranda?”
At which point Detective second-class Peter Antonini, attached to Major Cases, did indeed fall silent as Sachs called Sellitto in the command van and told him about the successful takedown. He would in turn relay the news to the brass at One Police Plaza.
You were dead…
Rhyme’s phony death and the obituary had been a last-ditch effort to solve a series of crimes that cut to the heart of the NYPD, though crimes that might have gone unnoticed if not for an offhand observation made by Ron Pulaski a week before.
The young officer was in the lab helping Sellitto and Rhyme on a murder investigation in Lower Manhattan when a supervisor called with the news that the suspect had shot himself. Rhyme found the death troubling; he wanted closure in his cases, sure, but resolution by suicide was inelegant. It didn’t allow for complete explanations, and Lincoln Rhyme detested unanswered questions.
It was just then that Pulaski had frowned and said, “Another one?”
“Whatta you mean?” Sellitto had barked.
“One of our suspects dying before he gets collared. That’s happened before. Those two others, remember, sir?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Tell us, Pulaski,” Rhyme had encouraged him.
“About two months ago, that Hidalgo woman, she was killed in a mugging.”
Rhyme remembered. A woman being investigated for attempted murder—beating her young child nearly to death—was found dead, killed during an apparent robbery. The evidence initially suggested Maria Hidalgo was guilty of beating the child, but after her death it was found that she was innocent. Her ex-husband had had some kind of psychotic break and attacked the child. Sadly she’d died before she could be vindicated.
The other case, Pulaski had reminded him, involved an Arab-American who’d gotten into a fight with some non-Muslim men and killed one of them. Rhyme and Sellitto were looking into the politically charged case when the suspect fell in his bathtub and drowned. Rhyme later determined that a Muslim had killed the victim, but under circumstances that suggested manslaughter or even negligent homicide, not murder.
He, too, died before the facts came out.
“Kinda strange,” Sellitto had said, then nodded at Pulaski. “Good thinking, kid.”
Rhyme had said, “Yeah, too strange. Pulaski, do me a favor and check out if there’re any other cases like those—where suspects under investigation got offed or committed suicide.”
A few days later Pulaski came back with the results: There were seven cases in which suspects died while out on bail or before they’d been officially arrested. The means of death were suicide, accident and random muggings.
Sellitto and Rhyme wondered if maybe a rogue cop was taking justice into his own hands—getting details on the progress of cases, deciding the suspects were guilty and executing them himself, avoiding the risk that the suspects might have gotten off at trial.
The detective and Rhyme understood the terrible damage this could cause the department if true—a murderer in their midst using NYPD resources to facilitate his crimes. They talked to Chief of Department McNulty and were given carte blanche to get to the truth.
Amelia Sachs, Pulaski and Sellitto interviewed friends and family of the suspects and witnesses nearby at the time they died. From these accounts it appeared that a middle-aged white man had been seen with many of the suspects just before their deaths. Several witnesses thought the man had displayed a gold shield; he was therefore a detective. The killer clearly knew Rhyme, since three of the victims were apparently murdered while the criminalist was running their cases. He and Sachs came up with a list of white detectives, aged thirty-five to fifty-five, he’d worked with over the past six months.
They surreptitiously checked the detectives’ whereabouts at the times of the killings, eventually clearing all but twelve.
Rhyme opened an official investigation into the most recent case—the fake suicide that Pulaski had commented on. The scene was pretty cold and hadn’t been well preserved—being only a suicide—but Amelia Sachs came up with a few clues that gave some hope of finding the killer. A few clothing fibers that didn’t match anything in the victim’s apartment, tool marks that might have come from jimmying a window and traces of unusual cooking oil. Those weren’t helpful in finding the killer’s identity, but a few things suggested where he might live: traces of loam-rich soil that turned out to be unique to the banks of the Hudson River, some of which contained “white gas,” kerosene used in boats.
So it was possible that the rogue cop lived near the river in Manhattan, the Bronx, Westchester or New Jersey.
This narrowed the list to four detectives: from the Bronx, Diego Sanchez; from New Jersey, Carl Sibiewski; from Westchester, Peter Antonini and Eddie Yu.
But there the case stalled. The evidence wasn’t strong enough to get a warrant to search their houses for the clothing fibers, tools, cooking oil and guns.
They needed to flush him. And Rhyme had an idea how.
The killer would know that Rhyme was investigating the suicide—it was an official case—and would know that the criminalist probably had some evidence. They decided to give him the perfect opportunity to steal it or replace it with something implicating someone else.
So Rhyme arranged his own death and had the chief send out the memo about it to a number of officers, including the four suspects (the others were told of the ploy and they agreed to play along). The memo would mention the memorial service, implying that at that time the lab would be unoccupied.
Sellitto set up a search and surveillance team outside the townhouse and, while Rhyme remained in his bedroom, Sachs and Sellitto played the good mourners and left, giving the perp a chance to break in and show himself.
Which he, oh so courteously, had done, using a screwdriver that appeared to be the same one that had left the marks on windows of prior victims’ residences.
Rhyme now ordered, “Get a warrant. I want all the clothes in his house, cooking oils and soil samples, other tools, too. And any guns. Send ’em to ballistics.”
As he was now led to the door, Peter Antonini pulled away roughly from one officer holding him and spun to face Rhyme and Sachs. “You think the system works. You think justice is served.” His eyes were mad. “But it doesn’t. I’ve been a cop long enough to know how screwed up it all is. You know how many guilty people get off every day? Murderers, child abusers, wife beaters…I’m sick of it!”
Amelia Sachs responded, “And what about those innocent ones you killed? Our system would have worked for them. Yours didn’t.”
“Acceptable losses,” he said coolly. “Sacrifices have to be made.”
Rhyme sighed. He found rants tedious. “It’s time you left, Detective Antonini. Get him downtown.”
The escorts led him off out the door.
“Thom, if you don’t mind, it’s cocktail hour. Well past it, in fact.”
A few moments later, as the aide was fastening a cup of single-malt scotch to Rhyme’s chair, Lon Sellitto walked into the room. He squinted and gazed at Rhyme. “You don’t even look sick. Let alone dead.”
“Funny. Have a drink.”
The chunky detective pursed his lips then said, “You know how many calories’re in whiskey?”
“Less than a donut, I’ll bet.”
Sellitto cocked his head, meaning good point, and took the glass Thom offered. Sachs declined, as did Pulaski.
The rumpled detective sipped scotch. “Chief of Department’s on his way. Wants to thank you. Press officer, too.”
“Oh, great,” Rhyme muttered. “Just what I need. A bunch of sappy-eyed grateful visitors. Hell. I liked being dead better.”
“Linc, got a question. Why’d you pick the Watchmaker to do the deed?”
“Because he’s the only credible perp I could think of.” Rhyme had recently foiled an elaborate murder plot by the professio
nal killer, who’d threatened Rhyme’s life before disappearing. “Everybody on the force knows he wants to kill me.” The criminalist took a long sip of the smoky liquor. “And he’s probably one of the few men in the world who could.”
An uneasy silence followed that sobering comment and Pulaski apparently felt the need to fill it. “Hey, Detective Rhyme, is this all accurate?” A nod at the memo that contained his obituary.
“Of course it is,” Rhyme said as if the comment was absurd. “It had to be—in case the killer knew something about me. Otherwise he might guess something was up.”
“Oh, sure. I guess.”
“And by the way, do you always get your superior officers’ attention with ‘hey’?”
“Sorry. I—”
“Relax, rookie. I’m a civilian, not your superior. But it’s something to ponder.”
“I’ll keep it in mind, sir.”
Sachs sat next to Rhyme and put her hand on his—the right one, which had some motion and sensation. She squeezed his fingers. “Gave me kind of a pause.” Looking down at the sheet. “Lon and I were talking about it.”
It had given Rhyme some pause, too. He felt the breeze from death’s wings nearly every day, closer than to most people. He’d learned to ignore the presence. But seeing the account in black and white was a bit startling.
“Whatta you gonna do with it?” Sellitto said, glancing down at the paper.
“Save it, of course. Such beautiful prose, such pithy journalism…Besides, it’s going to come in handy someday.”
Sellitto barked a laugh. “Hell, Linc, you’re gonna live forever. You know what they say. Only the good die young.”
FOREVER
Mathematics is not a careful march down a well-cleared highway, but a journey into a strange wilderness, where the explorers often get lost.
—W. S. Anglin, “Mathematics and History”
+ − < = > ÷
AN OLD COUPLE LIKE THAT, the man thought, acting like kids.
Didn’t have a clue how crazy they looked.
Peering over the boxwood hedge he was trimming, the gardener was looking at Patsy and Donald Benson on the wide back deck of their house, sitting in a rocking love seat and drinking champagne. Which they’d had plenty of. That was for sure.
Giggling, laughing, loud.
Like kids, he thought contemptuously.
But enviously, too, a little. Not at their wealth—oh, he didn’t resent that; he made a good living tending the grounds of the Bensons’ neighbors, who were just as rich.
No, the envy was simply that even at this age they looked like they were way in love and happy.
The gardener tried to remember when he’d laughed like that with his wife. Must’ve been ten years. And holding hands like the Bensons were doing? Hardly ever since their first year together.
The electric hedge trimmer beckoned but the man lit a cigarette and continued to watch them. They poured the last of the champagne into the glasses and finished it. Then Donald leaned forward, whispering something in the woman’s ear, and she laughed again. She said something back and kissed his cheek.
Gross. And here they were, totally ancient. Sixties, probably. It was like seeing his own parents making out. Christ…
They stood up and walked to a metal table on the edge of the patio and piled dishes from their lunch on a tray, still laughing, still talking. With the old guy carrying the tray, they both headed into the kitchen, the gardener wondering if he’d drop it, he was weaving so much. But, no, they made it inside all right and shut the door.
The man flicked the butt into the grass and turned back to examine the boxwood hedge.
A bird trilled nearby, a pretty whistle. The gardener knew a lot about plants but not so much about wildlife and he wasn’t sure what kind of bird made this call.
But there was no mistaking the sound that cut through the air a few seconds later and made the gardener freeze where he stood, between two flowering trees, a crimson azalea and a purple. The gunshot, coming from inside the Bensons’ house, was quite distinctive. Only a moment later he heard a second shot.
The gardener stared at the huge Tudor house for three heartbeats, then, as the bird resumed its song, he dropped the hedge trimmer and sprinted back to his truck, where he’d left his cell phone.
+ − < = > ÷
THE COUNTY OF Westbrook, New York, is a large trapezoid of suburbs elegant and suburbs mean, parks, corporate headquarters and light industry—a place where the majority of residents earn their keep by commuting into Manhattan, some miles to the south.
Last year this generally benign-looking county of nearly 900,000 had been the site of 31 murders, 107 rapes, 1423 robberies, 1575 aggravated assaults, 4360 burglaries, 16,955 larcenies and 4130 automobile thefts, resulting in a crime rate of 3223.3 per 100,000 population, or 3.22% for these so-called “index crimes,” a standardized list of offenses used nationwide by statisticians to compare one community to another and each community to its own past performance. This year Westbrook County was faring poorly compared with last. Its year-to-date index crime rate was already hovering near 4.5% and the temper-inflaming months of summer were still to come.
These facts—and thousands of others about the pulse of the county—were readily available to whoever might want them, thanks largely to a slim young man, eyes as dark as his neatly cut and combed hair, who was presently sitting in a small office on the third floor of the Westbrook County Sheriff’s Department, the Detective Division. On his door were two signs. One said, Det. Talbot Simms. The other read, Financial Crimes/Statistical Services. The Detective Division was a large open space, surrounded by a U of offices. Tal and the support services were on one stroke of the letter, dubbed the “Unreal Crimes Department” by everybody on the other arm (yes, the “Real Crimes Department,” though it was officially labeled Major Crimes and Tactical Services).
This April morning Tal Simms sat in his immaculate office, studying one of the few items spoiling the smooth landscape of his desktop: a spreadsheet—evidence in a stock scam perpetrated in Manhattan. The Justice Department and the SEC were jointly running the case but there was a small local angle that required Tal’s attention.
Absently adjusting his burgundy-and-black-striped tie, Tal jotted some notes in his minuscule, precise handwriting as he observed a few inconsistencies in the numbers on the spreadsheet. Hmm, he was thinking, a .588 that should’ve been a .743. Small but extremely incriminating. He’d have to—
His hand jerked suddenly in surprise as a deep voice boomed outside his door, “It was a goddamn suicide. Waste of time.”
Erasing the errant pencil tail from the margins of the spreadsheet, Tal saw the bulky form of the head of Homicide—Detective Greg LaTour—stride through the middle of the pen, past secretaries and communications techs, and push into his own office, directly across from Tal’s. With a loud clunk, the detective dropped a backpack on his desk.
“What?” somebody called. “The Bensons?”
“Yeah, that was them,” LaTour called. “On Meadowridge in Greeley.”
“Came in as a homicide.”
“Well, it fucking wasn’t.”
Technically, it was a homicide; all nonaccidental deaths were, even suicides, reflected Tal Simms, whose life was devoted to making the finest of distinctions. But to correct the temperamental Greg LaTour you had to either be a good friend or have a good reason and Tal fell into neither of these categories.
“Gardener working next door heard a coupla shots, called it in,” LaTour grumbled. “Some blind rookie from Greeley PD responded.”
“Blind?”
“Had to be. Looked at the scene and thought they’d been murdered. Why don’t the local boys stick to traffic?”
Like everyone else in the department Tal had been curious about the twin deaths. Greeley was an exclusive enclave in Westbrook and—Tal had looked it up—had never been the scene of a double murder. He wondered if the fact that the incident was a double suicide would b
ring the event slightly back toward the statistical norm.
Tal straightened the spreadsheet and his note pad, set his pencil in its holder, then walked over to the Real Crimes portion of the room. He stepped through LaTour’s doorway.
“So, suicide?” Tal asked.
The hulking homicide detective, sporting a goatee and weighing nearly twice what Tal did, said, “Yeah. It was so fucking obvious to me…But we got the Crime Scene boys in to make sure. They found GSR on—”
“Global—?” Tal interrupted.
“GSR. Gunshot residue. On both their hands. She shot herself first then he did.”
“How do you know?”
LaTour looked at Tal with a surprised blink. “He was lying on top of her.”
“Oh. Sure.”
LaTour continued. “There was a note, too. And the gardener said they were acting like teenagers—drunk on their asses, staggering around.”
“Staggering.”
“Old folks. Geezers, he said. Acting like kids.”
Tal nodded. “Say, I was wondering—you happen to do a questionnaire?”
“Questionnaire?” he asked. “Oh, your questionnaire. Right. You know, Tal, it was just a suicide.”
Tal nodded. “Still, I’d like to get that data.”
“Data plural,” LaTour said, pointing a finger at him and flashing a big, phony grin. Tal had once sent around a memo that included the sentence “The data were very helpful.” When another cop corrected him Tal had said, “Oh, data’s plural; datum’s singular.” The ensuing ragging taught him a pointed lesson about correcting fellow cops’ grammar.
“Right,” Tal said wearily. “Plural. It’d—”
LaTour’s phone rang and he grabbed it. “’Lo?…I don’t know, couple days we’ll have the location…Naw, I’ll go in with SWAT. I wanta piece of him personal…”
Tal looked around the office. A Harley poster. Another, of a rearing grizzly—“Bear” was LaTour’s nickname. A couple of flyblown certificates from continuing education courses. No other decorations. The desk, credenza and chairs were filled with an irritating mass of papers, dirty coffee cups, magazines, boxes of ammunition, bullet-riddled targets, depositions, crime lab reports, a scabby billy club. The big detective continued into the phone, “When?…Yeah, I’ll let you know.” He slammed the phone down and glanced back at Tal. “Anyway. I didn’t think you’d want it, being a suicide. The questionnaire, you know. Not like a murder.”
Trouble in Mind: The Collected Stories, Volume 3 Page 37
