“In a hell of a hurry.”
Driscoll pulled out his cellular and punched in a number. Cedric Thomlinson answered the call and spoke quickly. “Lieutenant, the scene down here is like a madhouse. Newspaper reporters and TV crews are camped outside the building. Santangelo’s been on the horn four times. He wants to know what progress we’ve made in the case.”
“Well, he’s not gonna like the latest development. Amelia Stockard is our latest victim.”
“Holy shit! That was the Magnolia tea heiress they found at the dump?”
“That’s right. Now listen carefully. I want you to get hold of Butler and Vittaggio. Fill them in on the latest development, then send them to Saks Fifth Avenue. Have them get the rundown on Miss Stockard’s charge card, number 2476-3876-1204. They’re to see the security manager and keep it on the QT. I want a list of purchases for the last year, and I want to know if anyone else was authorized to use the card. They’re to get me her current address as well.”
“I’ll get on it right away.”
Detective First Grade Liz Butler was part of the Task Force. She was a top-notch police officer, with a keen investigative mind and tenaciousness. Her partner, Luigi Vittaggio, stood on equal ground. Driscoll knew they would both do a thorough job. Now if only he could keep the press and the newscasters at bay. But this was New York City, the capital of the world, and as far as news was concerned, the death of the tea heiress would rival the sojourns of Patty Hearst.
Driscoll turned his attention back to Larry Pearsol. “Can you take a DNA sample from the fetus and run it against the known sex offenders list?” It was a long shot, but Driscoll wanted to cover all possibilities.
“Sure, but it may take a couple of days.”
“Larry, I may not have a couple of days.”
Chapter 23
Colm had been at it since 6:00 A.M. when his shift had begun, and it had proved to be another grueling day. The workday’s end seemed out of reach, and he was in the grip of despondency, finding no immediate escape or relief. His vocation offered some insulation from his demons, but everyone else he was forced to work with annoyed him, and his mood was growing increasingly bleaker. He glanced at his watch. It would be another forty-five minutes before he could put the day behind him and meet his date. Time seemed endless.
He leaned back in his swivel chair and closed his eyes. For some reason, the memory of his first visit to a hospital floated to consciousness.
It was to the Williston Medical Center in South Burlington, Vermont. He remembered the shushing sound his gurney made as it zigzagged through the hospital’s bleach-scented corridors on its way to a cloistered ward on the third floor. His wrists and ankles were restrained, held fast to the metal transport by leather straps. In a dreamlike state, brought on by a potent dose of diazepam, he had difficulty remembering the events that had led up to his arrival at the hospital. And where were his parents? Why weren’t they at his side? He sensed something ominous had happened to them. And what was that smell? It wasn’t coming from the winding corridors of the hospital. No. It was coming from his own tattered clothing. In his drug-induced stupor he had difficulty affixing a name to the scent, until it suddenly dawned on him: it was the smell of smoke. Had he been in a fire? He looked up at the orderly that was guiding his gurney. He tried to speak but had difficulty forming words. It was as though someone had put a stranglehold on his vocal cords. Drool was all that escaped his mouth. He tried to communicate through tear-soaked eyes, but all the orderly saw was Colm’s glassy-eyed doelike gaze.
Into the elevator they went, where the orderly exchanged pleasantries with a talkative nurse. Colm felt ignored. Peeved at the dismissive orderly, he fought the urge to swipe at the man, despite his restraints. Then, with a jolt, the elevator came to a stop. His gurney was on the move again. More winding corridors. He heard the definitive sound of a woman’s voice crackling over a loudspeaker. She was directing doctors and nurses to different departments within the hospital.
“Ride’s over,” said the orderly as he slid the gurney to a stop in front of an eight-foot high steel door. The door had a plastic sign affixed to it: PEDIATRIC PSYCHIATRIC WARD. After pressing an admittance bell, the orderly stared through a wire-meshed pane of glass in the door’s center. His call was answered by a willowy-looking man dressed completely in white. Colm figured the man to be a doctor.
Wordlessly, the orderly relinquished his responsibility, and Colm was placed in the care of this pristine-looking man. Again, the gurney was in motion, this time inside the confines of the dreary ward. The bossy directives that had filtered through the hospital’s loudspeaker were replaced with the guttural sounds of people in emotional distress. This cacophonic chorus of human wreckage came from every direction. Terror-stricken, Colm looked to this newly assigned caretaker with pleading eyes.
“You’re going to be all right,” his new watchman said as he lowered the height of the gurney and unfastened Colm’s restraints. He then led Colm into a small room with a bed and a simple wooden chair beside it. Colm sat in the chair and began to cry.
The shuffling of feet in the corridor outside of Colm’s office brought him back to the present. It was precisely 3:00 P.M. Quitting time. Driven, he got up from his chair and walked to his closet. In the darkness of that intimate space, several items of clothing were impeccably displayed on wooden hangers. It was a casual look he would need today. He selected a Polo shirt and Levi’s slim-fit jeans, then slipped into a pair of Sperry Topsiders. Thus armored, he was ready for his next encounter.
He left the building, ambling lightheartedly toward the parking lot where he had parked the van. In just under an hour he would arrive at the Kings Plaza Shopping Mall. The anticipation exhilarated him.
Colm strolled the bilevel plaza, stalking his own reflection in the store windows, until he reached the Croissant Shoppe. That’s when he saw her, demure yet provocative. Time to act like any other shopper in need of a coffee break. After she stopped watching him, reasonably certain he was not her date, he circled the girl and sat nearby, in a corner of the restaurant where he could study her. Her garish attempt at makeup disturbed him. Despite the cones of nipples that indented her cotton halter, she looked boyish, with masculine legs. From his vantage point, he could see the reflection of her nubile form multiplied in the mirrored walls of the eatery. The expansion made him dizzy.
Her impatience was growing thinner by the minute. He knew she believed her date was a no-show.
She walked briskly to the counter and ordered a cappuccino that she sipped angrily, scalding her tongue. She squatted on a bench, slid a Virginia Slims between her lips, and was about to light it when she spotted the NO SMOKING sign. She bit her nails and stared at her watch. She confirmed its reading with the large industrial clock dangling above the cashier and, exasperated, stormed out of the shop, coffee cup in hand. Her hasty dash caused her to spill some of the cappuccino on her denim skirt. Aggravated, she threw the cup in the trash and made her way down the windowed corridor.
Colm was in heaven. He had watched her every move and felt her every emotion. He decided to follow her.
She turned into Aubrey’s Bookstore. Her attention span was infinitesimal. She moved from hardcover to paperback, opening and closing jackets, leafing through pages, then replacing each book on its shelf, only to start all over again.
A girl called out her name. “Clarissa!”
A smile formed on the face of his intended.
Who was this other girl? A friend? A classmate? A lover, perhaps? She certainly was not part of the plan.
Together, Clarissa and the newcomer walked out of the bookstore, their laughter ringing under the glass cupola of the mall. They continued down the corridor, turning hurriedly into Sweet Delights, a confectionery store. Colm followed.
The variety of candies, their shapes and colors, the fragrance of licorice, vanilla, fruits, and sugars inebriated him. Sweets for the sweet, he thought. He filled two gilded gift boxes with sugar-glaze
d fruit drops and approached the cashier. “Please present these gifts to my two friends over there…after I’ve left the store. And make no mention of me.”
“No sweat. How ’bout I tie a ribbon on top? Just two bucks more?”
“You read my mind. How much do I owe you?”
“That’ll be…fifteen-forty-nine. But no credit cards under thirty dollars.”
He handed the teenager a twenty and vanished from the shop, hiding behind a polymer ficus that stood beside the store’s entrance. How he reveled at their astonishment, their nubile giggles, their pixilation. Like children presented with new gifts, they quickly ripped open the boxes and marveled at their candies. Clarissa, the more vivacious of the two, picked out a blood-red confection and popped it in her mouth. Her eyes beamed with delight. Her friend did the same and grinned. The pair strolled out of Sweet Delights, visibly giddy. Obviously, Clarissa had gotten over her no-show date.
When they reached the bank of elevators, they hugged and kissed and promised to call each other later that evening. Clarissa was now alone, and Colm could get back to his stalking.
Upon its arrival, he entered the elevator with her. They were finally together, inside the glass cage. Just the two of them. He took a good look at her. She was made of the finest stuff. Ebony eyes, alabaster skin, porcelain nose, silky hair. The thought of her bones made his skin tingle. “Isn’t an elevator a wonderful thing?” he said.
Surprised, Clarissa smiled. “You don’t get out much, do you?”
He began to whistle a familiar melody.
“That’s from The Wizard of Oz!” she said, grinning.
“Correct. You just won a trip for two to Hawaii! You and your guest will be staying at the lush Waikiki Grand Hotel, overlooking beautiful Diamond Beach.”
Clarissa gave him a look.
The elevator reached the exit-floor landing, and she stepped out.
“Wait,” he pleaded. “The ride’s not over.”
“It is for me.”
Colm caught up with her in the parking garage, daringly burrowing his fingers inside her halter, rubbing the ridges of her vertebrae.
She bolted from his touch, running headlong into and under the front wheels of a Ford station wagon packed with kids. “Someone call 911!” the driver’s voice rang out.
As shoppers encircled Clarissa’s inert body, Colm approached his intended. Pulverized calcium was all he saw.
Two police cruisers arrived, followed by an ambulance. Colm’s head ached unbearably, as though shards of glass were lacerating his brain. He turned away from his misfortune and ambled for the shelter of his waiting van.
His hand reached for the glove compartment, scrounging for a bottle of Tylenol. He popped open the cap. The bottle was empty. Colm flung it against the van’s windshield.
“Goddamn it,” he cursed as he put the vehicle in gear and headed for the exit ramp.
Chapter 24
Clarissa’s blood pooled on a fast-moving gurney, then trickled onto the mosaic tile, trailing a line of crimson through the winding corridors of the ER.
In a matter of minutes, the gurney was rushed into Trauma One, where the young girl’s comatose body was injected, probed, and connected to a cluster of instruments that flashed vital data on amber screens.
“Suction!” ordered Doctor Stephen Astin, a stethoscope to the victim’s chest. “We’ve got pulmonary blockage.”
As a nurse intubated the patient, pink froth filled the plastic tube, draining pieces of lung into the metallic sink.
“Hypotension!” hollered Astin. “Give me two units of O-negative, and a mixture of Ringers and dextran. Now! And get her scanned for correct type.”
A bluish hue receded from Clarissa’s face as the suction cleared the pulmonary alveolus. Intravenous infusion pumps were dragged in to inject fresh serum into the girl’s arteries.
“Anyone know who she is?” asked Astin.
“Clarissa Parsons,” the lead nurse replied.
“Any relation to the DA?”
“She’s his daughter.”
“I’ll be damned,” said Doctor Colm Pierce as he entered the room holding a collection of X-rays.
Chapter 25
When Driscoll arrived at Police Headquarters, he was immediately surrounded by a swarm of newspaper reporters and television newscasters. Microphones were jammed within inches of his face, while TV cameras captured his every movement. The reporters asked question after question.
“Lieutenant, are you any closer to finding the killer that’s murdering our city’s female citizenry?”
“Is it true Miss Stockard was pregnant?”
“Do you have any news at all that you can share with the public that might make them feel less fearful?”
Driscoll’s gaze fell upon Jessie Reynolds, one of New York’s more considerate newscasters. She had been following the crime beat for years. When he spoke, his comments were directed at her. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Department has a team of thirty dedicated detectives assigned to the case. I assure you that every effort is being made to capture the madman that has declared war on New York City.”
“What about Miss Stockard?” a voice cried out. “Is it true she was going to have a baby?”
“I can’t answer that question. The Medical Examiner’s office has not yet finalized its findings.”
Driscoll’s cell phone rang. He fought his way through the crowd of news-hungry reporters and stepped inside the lobby of One Police Plaza.
“Driscoll here.”
“Lieutenant, it’s Liz. We’ve got an address for you on the Stockard woman. She lived at 128 East Ninety-fourth Street. An apartment house turned condo on the Upper East Side. She was the only authorized shopper on her Saks charge card, and we have the list of purchases for the last year. Nothing really stands out except for a bottle of men’s cologne she purchased two months ago. Everything else is routine.”
“Liz, I want you and Luigi to go to her residence and give it a thorough search. See if it leads us anywhere. Question the super. I need to know who her acquaintances were and if she was romantically involved. Before you leave the building, slide a tip card under each of her neighbor’s doors.”
“You got it.”
When Driscoll pocketed his cellular, he thought about the volley of questions that were just directed at him. What business was it of theirs whether Miss Stockard was pregnant or not? That particular question offended him. It served only to feed the frenzied news-mongers. How despicable and crass humans could be, he thought as he headed for the bay of elevators that would take him upstairs to the Command Center.
As Driscoll rode the elevator to the fourteenth floor, his cellular rang again. This time it was Larry Pearsol, the Medical Examiner. He let Driscoll know that he had run the DNA from the Stockard fetus against the known sex offenders list, but he had gotten a no-hit.
Luck wasn’t with him today, Driscoll thought. Maybe it would be tomorrow.
Chapter 26
Driscoll was behind the wheel of his Chevy heading for 128 East Ninety-fourth Street, Amelia Stockard’s residence. Detectives Butler and Vittaggio had run into a snag. The building manager had refused to let the two detectives search the deceased woman’s condo without a proper warrant.
Liz Butler had been in contact with Andrea Gerhard, an assistant district attorney. Since it was unknown where the Stockard woman was killed, Ms. Gerhard had agreed to write a crime scene warrant for the Stockard condominium, on the premise that dead people have no expectation of privacy. Thomlinson had already sent an officer downtown to pick up the warrant and have it signed by Judge Creedey. By the time Driscoll reached the East Ninety-fourth Street complex, the signed warrant, its truthfulness attested to by the affiant, was in the hands of Detective Butler. But when he pulled up in front of the six-story building, Butler and Vittaggio were standing outside.
“What are you two doing out here?” he asked. “You’ve got the warrant, right?”
“Yeah, we got the war
rant. But we thought it best to wait for you,” said Detective Vittaggio.
“How come?”
“This ain’t no south Jamaica crack house, Lieutenant. It’s a multimillion-dollar complex. The lobby looks like something out of Architectural Digest.”
Driscoll nodded. He understood their apprehension. The last thing they needed was some Park Avenue lawyer accusing them of stealing a dead woman’s Rembrandt.
“Well, I’m here,” said Driscoll. “Let’s go.”
The sign on the door read BUILDING MANAGER. A fancy name for a super, thought Driscoll. After a knock, the door opened, and there stood Jonas McPartland.
“Back again?” he asked.
“I’m Lieutenant Driscoll. You’ve already met Detectives Butler and Vittaggio. We now have a warrant to search apartment 4E.”
“Oh my! You guys are quick. I’ll still have to check with the Board’s attorneys.”
McPartland was not what Driscoll expected. He was impeccably dressed in a Brooks Brothers three-piece suit. He was short, with close-cropped hair and horn-rimmed glasses. He seemed rather effeminate to Driscoll, a far cry from some Moe with a rag sticking out of his back pocket pushing a janitor’s bucket.
“Mr. McPartland, we are here as a courtesy to you. The warrant is signed by a judge, and we will enforce it with or without your Board’s OK.”
“Of course, Lieutenant, of course. We always try to cooperate with the authorities. I just wanted to check with my superiors. We don’t usually have this type of disturbance in the building. It’s very unsettling.”
“I understand, Mr. McPartland. It would be helpful now if you would provide us with a key. It will save us from breaking down the door.”
“Oh, please don’t do that. What would the residents think? Just give me a minute.” The little man scurried away and reappeared a few seconds later, holding a set of keys.
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