The Battle of Jericho

by Walter Marks

  “You have a list of the owners?”

  “Sure. Hang on.” He made a few taps on his iPad and handed it to Jericho.

  Jericho looked it over quickly and showed it to Maria.

  “Tim,” he said, “the victim was killed execution style, and we think a Russian organized crime gang did it.”

  “You think they stole a boat so they could dump the body out at sea?”

  “Well, we haven’t received any report of a stolen boat.”

  “But they would probably return the vessel back here,” Rasmussen said. “Because that’s where their car would be, or whatever vehicle they used to transport the body. So there’d be no missing boat.”

  “That’s true,” Jericho said. “Still, even if they hot-wired a boat engine, it still takes a lot of skill to sail a boat out to sea in the middle of the night. It’s more likely they forced someone who lived on a boat to take them out, then bring them back once they’d dumped the body.”

  “That’s logical.”

  “Tell me something,” Jericho said. “How many owners on your list are living on their boats?”

  “Only three right now: Savarone, Richardson, and Bellamy.”

  “Anything suspicious about any of them?” Jericho asked. “Do they seem nervous or frightened? I mean, if a gang forced them to do this, they’d have been threatened with death if they talked. In fact, someone who went through this could well be totally traumatized.”

  “I haven’t noticed anything. Of course, I don’t have much contact with those guys.” Suddenly he held up his hand. “Wait a minute,” he said. “This is a little thing, but sometimes little things mean a lot.”

  The harbormaster paused and went on.

  “Every morning, I make a tour of all the slips, checking that the boats are securely moored, and each one is ship-shape and up to code. Well, a few weeks ago I passed Pat Bellamy’s boat, the Irish Rose, and I noticed the way the lines were fastened to the pier cleats. Bellamy’s a veteran sailor, and he always uses double bowline knots when he ties up. But that morning, the knots were just ordinary overhead knots, which a true sailor would never use — they come loose too easily. I thought it was odd, but I didn’t give it much thought. But now…”

  “Now it would suggest that an amateur tied up the boat. Which would fit my gang scenario perfectly.”

  “Yep,” Rasmussen said. “If you want to interview Bellamy, he’s in Slip 19, that’s on the west side right off the road.”

  On their way over to the Irish Rose, Maria spoke to Jericho. “Do you think we’ll get anything out of Bellamy?”

  “I doubt it. If the Russians made him take them out in his boat, I’m sure they threatened to kill him if he talked. All we can do is see if he’s lying. If he’s lying, we’ll know for sure he’s involved.”

  “How can tell if he’s lying?”

  “Let’s talk to him. Then you tell me.”

  The Irish Rose was a converted trawler with a dark blue hull, white double-windowed cabin, and a high-rise, spacious pilothouse.

  Jericho leaned over and knocked on one of the cabin windows. A window shade went up and they saw the face of a gray-haired man; unshaven, unkempt, and clearly unfriendly. He yelled though the window. “Yeah? What d’ya want?”

  Jericho flashed his detective’s badge. “East Hampton Police,” he said loudly. “We’d like to ask you a few questions. Can we come in?”

  “You can ask right here.”

  “Okay,” Jericho said, continuing to speak loudly. “We’re wondering if you took anybody out in your boat in the last few weeks.”

  “No.”

  “Did you lend your boat to anyone?”

  “No.”

  “The harbormaster told us that a few weeks ago he noticed you’d tied up your boat with overhead knots. He said you always used double bowlines. I can see you’re using double bowlines right now. Why would an experienced sailor like you ever use overhead knots? You know they can easily come undone!”

  Bellamy’s voice volume rose higher. “Jesus Christ! What the hell business is it of yours how I tie my knots? Don’t you cops have anything better to do than hassle law-abidin’ citizens?”

  “Sir, this is a criminal investigation.”

  “You’re breakin’ my balls while the whole East End is bein’ overrun by illegals — bringin’ in crime, drugs, and disease, jammin’ the schools and emergency rooms, turnin’ nice neighborhoods into slums, while they’re payin’ zero taxes! How ’bout bustin’ some o’ those beaners?”

  “Mr. Bellamy,” Jericho said. “We just want to know if someone had the use of your boat.”

  “The answer is no. What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand?”

  He slammed down the window shade.

  Jericho grabbed Maria’s arm and hustled her away from the boat.

  “So,” he said. “Do you think he was lying?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Maria nodded.

  Jericho smiled.

  CHAPTER 49

  When Jericho and Maria returned to the station house, the Chief called them into his office. The desk sergeant had given him a letter dropped off by a woman, addressed to “The Lady Policeman.” When Krauss had opened the handwritten letter he saw it was for Maria Salazar and dealt with the Richman case.

  He handed it to Jericho and Maria, who read it together.

  Dear Lady Policeman — I not tell complete truth. Afraid. When I am little girl in Gdansk, Poland, Communists get mad because Polish want freedom. Communist soldiers they become policemen, take over country. My father he union bigwig, he follow Lech Walesa. You know Lech Walesa? Big hero for freedom. Father afraid policemen kill him. Tell me never, never talk to police. Always I remember what he say. I afraid so not tell truth to you. But when I make confession priest Father Bednarik tell me is sin to lie to police. I tell truth now. Last appointment Mrs. Richman have big bruise on face. She say her husband hit. She say she afraid of him. Maybe he kill. I tell her no make big thing from this. She say no, I scared he kill. This is truth. I’m sorry I lie.

  I pray to Jesus she okay.

  Yours truly,

  Miss Sonya Wozniak

  “It’s from Ann Richman’s hairdresser,” Maria explained to Krauss.

  “Tell her to come in and execute this as an affidavit,” the Chief said.

  “Will do.”

  “Well,” Krauss said. “This sure strengthens the case against Richman.”

  “But not enough to make an arrest, right?” Maria said to Jericho.

  He nodded. “Still, the evidence is piling up.”

  “What about the other suspects?” Krauss asked. “Like…Aaron Platt?”

  “He’s a dead issue.”

  “What about that Malaysian guy you mentioned.”

  “The Malaysian guy is out.”

  “How come?”

  “It’s complicated,” Jericho said. “It’ll only confuse you.”

  “Tell me, dammit!”

  “He’s the wrong hair type.”

  “Huh?”

  “Told you it would confuse you,” Jericho said.

  “Okay,” Krauss said, looking bewildered. “You better get the goods on Richman, and soon.”

  “Right.”

  “And what about the first murder, the girl from the Montauk beach?”

  “She appears to be the victim of a mob hit — by the Russian Mafia.”

  “The Russian Mafia?” the Chief exclaimed. “Holy Christ! What do they have to do with it?”

  “It’s also complicated, Sid. I’ll write it up and you can read the report tomorrow.”

  “I’d like to know now.”

  “Gotta go, Chief,” Jericho said, moving toward the door. “Some important personal business to attend to.”

  Jericho left without waiting for a response. Krauss looked at Maria questioningly. Maria looked back and shrugged.

  Jericho went home, knowing he could no longer avoid facing reality. He
sat down at his desk and logged onto Skype.

  “Hi, Sarah.”

  “Hi, Neil.”

  “Listen, I’m afraid I won’t be able to have Katie over for Thanksgiving. I…”

  “Just a minute,” Sarah said. “I’ll get your daughter.”

  Sarah disappeared from the screen. For a while Jericho stared at the background — clearly the marital bedroom. He felt like a voyeur, spying on the intimacy of his ex-wife’s love life.

  Katie appeared on-screen. “Hi, Daddy.”

  “Hi, sweetie. Listen, it looks like we’ll have to put off your Thanksgiving trip. I’m so, so sorry. But see, honey, my work is just…”

  “That’s okay, Daddy,” Katie said. She chewed her lip for a moment and then smiled. “I’ve changed my mind about coming. I think I’ll have more fun hanging out here. Mommy’s making a turkey and she wants me to help make the stuffing.”

  Katie put her hand up to her mouth.

  “Sweetie, I’d give anything to see you,” Jericho said. “I know it’s hard for you to understand…”

  “Bye, Daddy.” The screen went dark.

  Jericho sat for a few minutes, staring at the blank screen. His mind went blank too, until the pain swept over him. He knew it was his fault. He’d screwed up his marriage and he was losing his child, all because he’d messed up as an NYPD detective. He’d partied his way and drunk his way and fucked his way out of everything that mattered to him and now he was paying the price.

  He got up and went into the kitchen. In the fridge he saw the half-full bottle of Pinot Grigio.

  “What the hell’s the difference!” he mumbled. He grabbed the bottle, yanked out the cork, and took a hefty swig.

  The moment he swallowed, the alcohol jolted his system and a wave of nausea swept over him. He barely made it to the bathroom before he threw up into the toilet.

  When the heaving stopped he splashed cold water on his face and looked in the mirror. His face was ashen and his mouth tasted of bile.

  He watched the tears filling his eyes. For a moment he tried to fight it, but then he just let go and wept until there were no tears left.

  He went back into the kitchen, poured the rest of the wine down the sink drain, then walked unsteadily into his bedroom and lay down.

  After a while, he was blessed with sleep.

  CHAPTER 50

  The Indian Burial Ground is located in Montauk on a bluff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. It is a sandy plain, with scruffy beach grass growing around the hundreds of flat stone grave markers. It’s been left unattended for centuries. Recently, real estate developers have tried to purchase the land, but lawsuits filed by Native American activists, environmentalists, and archeologists have kept it in legal limbo.

  On this cloudy, windy morning, Bradley Occum, a council member of the Montaukett Indian Nation, was leading a group of East Hampton High School students on a field trip.

  “Over a hundred years ago,” Bradley told the kids, “a New York State judge declared the Montauketts to be ‘extinct.’ This judicial genocide is hopefully on the verge of being undone by the state legislature.”

  “Mr. Occum,” a teenage boy said, “I see little crosses carved on these gravestones. Were these Indians Christians?”

  “Yes,” Bradley answered. “They were converted by East Hampton priests after a pestilence — probably smallpox — wiped out about half the tribe. They were told Christ would save them from the very disease the Christian settlers brought with them from England.”

  A girl who was walking at the edge of the group suddenly shouted, “Mr. Occum, look at this!”

  Bradley ran to where she was standing, followed by the rest of the kids. They saw what was obviously a freshly dug grave, the sand lighter in color and mounded up next to a gravestone.

  “I thought you said nobody’s been buried here in centuries,” the girl said.

  “That’s correct. But it looks like somebody’s violated this sacred ground.”

  “Can we dig it up?” asked one of the boys.

  “We don’t have a shovel, jerk-off,” said another.

  “This is a matter for the police,” Bradley said. He took out his phone and called EHTPD.

  Jericho and Maria watched as two patrolmen dug through the sandy ground. The thud of a shovel told them they’d struck something. Digging carefully, they unearthed a canvas tarp.

  Jericho lowered himself into the hole and unfolded the tarp. In it was the remains of a woman. He knew immediately from the bleached blond hair still upswept in a tight bun, the Ralph Lauren running suit, and the missing foot that it was Ann Richman. But the formerly thin woman’s body now appeared obese — swollen with hydrogen sulfide gas created by the breakdown of the body’s own bacteria. The running suit had the “big pony” logo, now distorted by her bloating. Her eyes bulged, her skin was blue, and her tongue was forced out between cracked lips.

  Maria shuddered at the sight.

  “Maria,” Jericho said. “Please give her husband a call. Let’s get him out here — see how he reacts when he identifies the body.”

  She got on her phone, as Jericho helped the patrolmen lift up the woman and lay her gently on the ground. One of the cops gagged from the corpse’s odor of rotten eggs.

  Sanford Richman stood looking down at the body, his face frozen in stunned horror. For a while his lips moved but no sound came out. Finally he spoke. “My God…my God…it can’t be my Annie. It’s…gotta be somebody else.”

  He bent down to look closer.

  “Oh, no. Those are her Tiffany diamond stud earrings. I bought them for her when we…”

  He covered his face. The smell made him hold his breath and back away.

  “So you’re identifying this body as your wife?” Jericho said dispassionately.

  “Yes. Yes, it’s…my Annie,” Richman whispered. “How…how did this happen? Who would do this? Is it…is this the work of that serial killer?”

  Jericho ignored the question. “I know this is a difficult time for you,” he said, “but would you come down to Headquarters so we can ask you a few questions?”

  “…When? Now?”

  “That would be good.”

  “Detective, please give me a little time. Right now I’m kinda…kinda…”

  “I understand, sir. Would tomorrow morning at nine be better?”

  “Tomorrow? Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.”

  “I know. This won’t take long.”

  “All right,” Richman said, sighing. “I have nobody to share Thanksgiving with anyway.”

  Jericho thought of Katie and his heart grew heavy.

  “What happens how?” Richman asked. “I need to make funeral arrangements.”

  “Well, the body will be brought to the medical examiner for autopsy.”

  “Autopsy?” Richman shouted. “Somebody’s gonna cut up my wife’s body, desecrate her…after all she’s gone through? I won’t permit that!”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Richman. But autopsy is required on all homicide victims. It’s the law.”

  Richman nodded in grim acceptance. “Well,” he said softly, “at least I have…some closure…if there is such a thing…”

  He broke off as his eyes filled with tears.

  “Why don’t you go home now, sir,” Jericho said. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

  Richman turned away without speaking and walked back to his car.

  “You’re just letting him go?” Maria said.

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you arrest him?”

  “We don’t have enough evidence,” Jericho explained. “It helps that we have a body, but we still can’t tie Richman to this murder.”

  “Can’t you arrest him on suspicion?”

  “We’d have to Mirandize him and he’d shut up, lawyer up, and give us nothing. If he comes in voluntarily, which he will because he wants us to believe he’s innocent, we may get something out of him, catch him off guard.”

  “What if he leaves town? What i
f he leaves the country?”

  “He won’t,” Jericho said. “That would be an admission of guilt. He’d have to live his life as a wanted fugitive, and he’d much rather play the part of the bereaved and innocent husband.”

  “So…you believe he killed his wife on the beach, cut off her foot, and left it on the sand so it would look like a serial killing?”

  “Yes,” Jericho said. “Or he might have killed her in the house, right before she was going out for her run.”

  “Then he brought her out here at night and buried her.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why here?” she asked.

  “What better place to bury a dead body than in a cemetery?” Jericho said. “Especially one that’s been left unattended for years.”

  “Oh, my God,” she said. “You really think he’s capable of all that?”

  “In my job I’ve learned people are capable of anything.”

  “How do you think he killed her?”

  “Forensics will tell us,” Jericho said. “My guess is blunt trauma to the head. If you look carefully, there’s bloody hair and several jagged cracks on her skull, exposing the brain.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  CHAPTER 51

  At nine o’clock Thanksgiving morning, Maria and Jericho sat in his office, drinking takeout coffee. A patrolman appeared at the open door.

  “Mr. Richman and a lawyer here to see you.”

  Shit! Jericho thought. He brought his damn lawyer. “Send them in.”

  Richman entered with his attorney, Jericho’s old pal — D. Everett Chang.

  “Good morning, Detective,” Chang said, smiling.

  “Nice to see you again, Counselor,” Jericho said. “And you too, Mr. Richman. You remember my partner, Maria Salazar?”

  They all nodded.

  “Please sit down,” Jericho said.

  Chang spoke in his most lawyer-like manner. “My client does not wish to answer any questions. So please address your questions to me.”

  Jericho nodded.