Gianna didn’t blame her. Wanda’s boss, Chief Forensic Pathologist Dr. Asa Shehee, was a legendary son of a bitch himself. “How is the old bear?”
“Old bastard, you mean, and he’s the same old bastard he always was,” she replied, helping her assistant roll the body onto the dissection table. She checked the tool and equipment tray, swung the microphone around and switched it on, said the day, date, time and name of the autopsy subject, and began to work. Gianna closed her eyes, anticipating the first cut, only to hear a description of the cut marks on the torso. “You sure you don’t want to see this?” Wanda asked.
Gianna sighed. No, she didn’t want to see it, but she got up and went to look. The mutilation was as horrible a week later as it had been upon first glance the previous Saturday night. “What am I looking at?” she asked, willing the nausea back down as she leaned over the mangled torso. She didn’t know why she’d originally thought these were mere hacking marks when they definitely and distinctively were words carved into a young woman’s body.
“These cuts are deep and deliberate. Angry. Intentional. No hesitation marks, like the person was afraid or remorseful or even worried about being seen. Most definitely a hate crime, I’d say.”
“So, wrong place at the wrong time?”
Wanda Oland hesitated and Gianna jumped right on it. “Is this a hate crime or isn’t it, Wanda? I can’t use a ‘maybe.’”
“It is, and in my opinion, the hatred is directed specifically at this person—at Natasha Hilliard—and not just at some random dyke the killer happened upon while walking down the street. But the thing is—the head SOB and I talked about this and we don’t fully agree—it tracks like a revenge killing to me. I’m thinking this is just your average, garden variety revenge murder and the victim happens to be gay.”
“Then why call her a dyke? Why carve that into her?”
Wanda shrugged. “Because she was a dyke.”
“She also was a Gemini and an Episcopalian and a history professor. Why not carve that into her if whoever did it just hated Natasha, the person?”
“Why carve anything at all,” the doctor said, and it wasn’t a question. She sighed. “And here’s another thing to keep in mind: I don’t think there was any sexual assault, and I’d expect to see that if this was a random attack against a random lesbian victim. The absence of the sexual element is another thing that points me toward revenge of a personal nature.”
Gianna looked at Natasha Hilliard’s mutilated body. “So do I have a revenge murder or a hate crime?” She walked away from the dissection table, as much to calm herself as to get the hideous image out of her sight.
“You waiting for an answer?”
Gianna turned back to face the surgeon. “Do you have an answer, Wanda? One that tells me why this kid is dead? Because if the killer hated Natasha the dyke because she was a dyke, and killed her because she was, then that makes it a hate crime, not a revenge murder or a crime of passion.”
“You’re the cop, Maglione, I’m just the cutter.”
“But you’ve never cut one like this, have you?”
Wanda looked down at the ugliness laid out before her and shook her head.
Garden variety murder my ass, Gianna thought as she slogged through the heavy, steady rain to her car. Despite the slicker and the umbrella, she was soaked through, compliments of the gale force winds that had blown the rain around like an egg beater in a mixing bowl until about half an hour ago. Now the storm seemed to have settled itself into the kind of soaking downpour the region so desperately needed, and it even seemed a few degrees cooler, so she didn’t mind being drenched. She had changes of clothes in the trunk of her car, in her office, and in a locker in the Think Tank, so she wasn’t worried about being wet. What worried her was the challenge of looking for a murderer within Natasha Hilliard’s circle of family, friends, and professional colleagues. Whether Wanda Oland was correct in her assessment, or whether Gianna herself was, the crime still was specific to that specific victim. Either way, it was Gianna’s problem because even if it was a ‘garden variety revenge murder’, no way the chief would consider re-assigning it now. Not after the response to Mimi’s stories in that morning’s paper.
The phones had started ringing before daybreak—in the chief’s office, in Hate Crimes, at Mid-Town Command, in Community Relations, and in the mayor’s office—and they were still ringing. Gianna didn’t need the chief yelling at her about how the mayor was yelling at him about how the community was yelling at her to “do something.” The only something that would be satisfactory would be the immediate arrest of Natasha Hilliard’s killer and Joyce Brown’s rapists. She felt pretty good about the latter possibility and positively glum about the former. True, they were in the early stages of turning over the stones of her life, but Natasha Hilliard’s feet seemed never to have strayed from the good path.
According to the reports coming in from the Hate Crimes team investigation, Natasha’s entire family knew she was a lesbian, had known since she was in high school, and had found no fault with her for it. The Hilliard parents, Robert and Christine, were equally proud of their three daughters—Jill, Natasha and Felicia—all of whom were upstanding citizens and successful professionals. Natasha had adored and been adored by both her sisters and a close knit family of aunts, uncles and cousins, all of whom appeared devastated by her murder. She was admired and respected by her colleagues and peers in academia, and very much liked by those she’d allowed close enough to form friendships. There were five of those in the D.C. area and a dozen others scattered across the country and into Canada. Professor Hilliard had traveled widely, attending meetings and conferences and lecturing. A rising star in her chosen profession, she also was being recruited by universities in Chicago, Boston and New York. And though it would take some time to run checks on the out-of-town connections, if the in-town connections were any indication, there’d be nothing to find. While both Lili Spenser and Selena Smith were dismayed to learn of Tosh/Tasha’s involvement with the other, neither seemed surprised or angry.
“It’s funny,” Lili said through tears shed for both her lover and her mother. “I always felt she was faking the AG thing, that she was pushing it too hard. I told her that once and she got mad, so I dropped it.”
Pushing it how, Gianna had asked.
“Always talking the talk, walking the walk. Sometimes the words sounded really strange coming out of her mouth. ‘Bitch’ this and ‘dog’ that, constantly, and it sounded fake. Now I guess I know why.”
And you never knew how she was employed, Gianna asked.
“She just said she worked in the straight world, but so do I. Dancing at The Snatch isn’t my profession. I teach dance at Performing Arts High School, but I earn more on the bar three nights at week at The Snatch than I do in a month at school.”
And what did you know of Selena Smith, Gianna asked.
“Nothing,” Lili said with a sad smile. “But I’m not surprised. Tosh really loved women, all women. No reason for me think I was the only one.”
“You’re kidding!” was Selena’s response to learning about Lili. “I went there once, with some friends. We’d heard about this place and couldn’t believe that women would actually...well, we couldn’t believe what we’d heard, so we went to see. And sure enough, there they were! But what freaked me out was all those male-looking women! Some of them were scarier than men, and you’re telling me Tasha was one of them? I don’t believe you! She was much too refined for that kind of behavior. I never saw a hint of that in her. Never.”
For the last year, according to Selena, she’d seen Tasha at least twice a week for dinner and until recently they’d spent weekends together. They often traveled together to conferences and meetings. “We shared our lives. I just don’t believe that there was such an enormous part of hers that I knew nothing about. I can’t believe she would dump me for a stripper. You can call them dancers all you like. Strippers is what they are. I know a stripper when I see one, an
d those women are strippers.”
Gianna hadn’t seriously considered that a woman had carved Natasha Hilliard’s body so grotesquely but she was interested in the revenge angle. It made sense given the nature of the crime. But revenge for what, if being a lesbian was at least partially the reason for the murder? She didn’t see a way to connect either Lili or Selena to a revenge killing. Both were as unequivocally and openly lesbian as Natasha, and she was certain that they hadn’t known about each other until told of the fact by Hate Crimes investigators. So, somebody else hated her enough to kill her; and not just to kill her but first to stalk her, to wait until she was alone on a deserted side street in a shitty neighborhood, and then, finally, to maim her, to destroy her body. That much hatred usually took awhile to fester to the point of eruption, which meant it would take time to find its source, time they didn’t have. What they needed was a lead, a direction to follow or a reason to follow a certain direction, and they didn’t have that, either.
Gianna looked at her watch and picked up the phone. Directionless was not a comfortable feeling, and she needed to change it quickly.
“Dyke.”
Gianna stopped mid-stride, turned and caught up with two patrol officers she’d just passed in the hall, caught up with them, fronted them, and stopped so fast they almost slammed into her trying to halt their stride. “What did you say?”
They were young, one blond, the other dark. The blond one smirked, the dark one looked nervous. “Come on, let’s go,” the dark one said, grabbing the blond by the arm. They started to walk around her.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Gianna said, the cold finality of the order in her tone of voice nailing them to the spot. She took her notebook and a pen from her pocket and wrote down their names: Blondie was Ferrell and Atkins was his nervous buddy. “Which one of you made the remark?”
“What remark was that?” Ferrell asked, opening his eyes wide in mocking, feigned innocence, the smirk turning surly.
“Look, Lieutenant, we gotta go. We got roll call right now,” Atkins said.
“You know me?”
“N..n..no, Ma’am. Not personally. That is, I’ve never met you, but we all know who you are,” Atkins said.
“I know you.” Ferrell literally snarled, his thin lips curling with the effort. “You’re the dyke who got the boss shitcanned.”
“What did you say?” Inspector Eddie Davis had appeared so quietly and so quickly behind the two cops that Gianna hadn’t had time to react to his presence and she was looking right at him. The cops whirled around coming face to face with their new commanding officer. “What did you say?” Davis asked again, and at the quiet authority in his voice the rookie cops literally trembled.
“N..n...nothing, sir,” Atkins said.
“Then I’m not talking to you. Get your ass to roll call, and I’d better not hear of you even breathing too many times in a minute or you’ll be looking for a new job. Do you understand me, Officer Atkins?”
Atkins stuttered so hard he couldn’t get any words out, so he fled down the hall, leaving Ferrell to face the music alone.
For his part, Ferrell tried for bravado through his terror. “I didn’t mean anything, Inspector. It’s just a word, that’s all,” he said, shrugging and exchanging bravado for nonchalance.
“Until further notice, Ferrell, you’re assigned to foot patrol in the four block area around The Snatch, starting now. I’ll inform the WC.”
Ferrell’s nonchalance evaporated. He went white. His eyes bulged. “That’s not... you can’t...they’ll...” He was stuttering worse than Atkins.
“Not fair? This is the police department, not the playground, and yes I can. I just did. As for what they’ll call you out there? Don’t worry about it, Ferrell. It’s just words. Now get your ass out there and protect the citizens who pay your salary. All of the citizens.”
They watched Ferrell stomp away. Then Gianna looked into the darkly handsome, now darkly angry, face of the man who had been her boss before the chief put her Hate Crimes Unit under his own direct command. “It’s good to see you, Inspector,” she said. She’d always liked and respected Eddie Davis and he’d always returned the sentiment.
“It’s good to see you, Anna. You’ve done a hell of a good job with Hate Crimes. My only regret is that I wasn’t able to take credit for it.” Clearly he still smarted from having her unit taken from his command when he headed CID.
Gianna didn’t say anything and they both knew why: They both served at the pleasure of the chief and just as it had pleased him on Monday night to move O’Connell and replace him with Eddie Davis, it had pleased him the year before to move Gianna’s Hate Crimes Unit from Davis’s command. “I’m glad you’re here to straighten out this mess,” she told him.
“And I thought you liked me,” he said, feigning hurt feelings, and if Gianna hadn’t been too old to swoon, she might have. Davis looked exactly like a young Sidney Poitier, and women—those who’d known him for as long as Gianna had and those just meeting him—often experienced difficulty breathing normally in his presence. Except for those who thought, as Gianna did, that they were too old for such behavior. Davis never seemed to notice one way or the other.
“His Excellency told me to give you time to get the lay of the land before I came over here to beg for favors,” Gianna said. “Is five days long enough?”
“Long enough being a relative term,” he said, heading down the hallway. Gianna followed, studying her surroundings. She’d been inside the Mid-Town command only once, years ago. It had been renovated and spruced up since then but it still was ugly, in that uniquely governmental, functional kind of way: Fluorescent lighting bounced off the highly polished tile floor, cheap-looking beige paint covering the walls in between. Wooden benches were placed at intervals between the front door and the shoulder-high barricade that separated the public area from the official police area. When Gianna was last here, the barricade had been waist high and had a swinging, cafe style door. Entry now required a code. Davis punched in his, a buzzer sounded, he pushed through, and Gianna followed, immediately recognizing three familiar faces, two sergeants and a civilian. Davis had brought his top staff with him. Smart move if he wanted to get anything accomplished in a hurry, and he did. Was, in fact, under orders to do just that.
“Hello, Mrs. Williams.” Gianna surprised herself and pleased the woman by remembering her name. She was Davis’s administrative assistant and ran his office the way all offices should be run: Effectively and efficiently and with a deep commitment to service.
“It’s good to see you, Lieutenant. I’ve been following your exploits. Way to go, girl!” She shook Gianna’s hand and gave her a quick embrace. “I just made a fresh pot of coffee. The good stuff. I’ll bring you some.”
Gianna thanked her, threw a greeting salute at the two sergeants whose names she didn’t know because the Inspector always referred to them as Frick and Frack, and followed Davis into his inner sanctum.
Controlled disorder ruled. O’Connell’s out-going belongings were boxed and piled on one side of the room, Davis’s stuff on the other. The walls were barren, the outlines of former hangings clearly visible. The desk top was clear except for two telephones, a stack of folders, and the morning newspaper. The computer on a small table behind him was on, the screen saver flashing circus animals. Two chairs faced the desk. Davis waved her into one of them as he dropped down into the one behind the desk. “This is a real mess.”
“How bad?” she asked.
“I’m not ready to be quoted yet but there seems to be a pattern of ignoring certain kinds of complaints and jiggling with the crime stats. Because of the way this thing went down, I think we have a pretty good chance not only to find out how bad things really are, but to make some things right.”
“We can’t make right what happened to Natasha Hilliard and Joyce Brown, or even to Delores Phillips.”
“No, we can’t, and I didn’t mean that. But to citizens who thought they didn’t matt
er, we can show them that they do. We’ve already started. Foot patrols on every shift, squads making regular runs in known hot spots, hard, take-down busts in open street corner drug dealing. And I personally paid a visit to Miss Phillips and Miss Brown, and if I personally have to go undercover to do it, I intend to nail the bastards who brutalized that woman like that.” His jaw muscles worked as he controlled his emotions.
Mrs. Williams provided an assist as she arrived with two mugs of coffee.
“Ethiopian,” she said to Gianna, placing a mug on a napkin before each of them. “Inspector likes it even better than the Kenyan.”
Gianna thanked her—for the coffee and for remembering how she took hers—and the woman left, closing the door firmly behind her. “What would you do without her?” she said to Davis.
“Retire,” Davis said, and his tone of voice said he wasn’t kidding. “Half a dozen of O’Connell’s crew put in transfer papers on Tuesday morning after Miz W showed up with Frick and Frack in tow. I signed off on every one of ‘em. But what they don’t know is that they’re all going to be assigned to the Chief’s office until the dust settles from this thing.” He took a sip of coffee. “So, what can I do for you, Lieutenant?”
“I don’t really know.” She told him everything she did know about the Hilliard and Brown cases, and about the victims themselves and the circumstances that put them in harm’s way. “We might get enough for a sketch from Joyce Brown. Once the shock wore off she realized that she remembered quite a bit. I’ve got a female I can put undercover in the Pink Panther, and I’ll need a couple of males from you to provide back-up for her. But I’m absolutely nowhere on Hilliard.”
He walked her again through what she knew, starting from the night of the murder, the crime scene results, the autopsy results, the street canvas, the family and friends interviews, all the time asking the kinds of questions that required the kinds of answers that served to sift and evaluate information and evidence. She knew that she’d missed working under his direction and supervision; she just hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it. “So you’re not exactly nowhere on this thing, Maglione. You are somewhere, you just don’t like where you are.”
Darkness Descending: A Mimi Patterson/Gianna Maglione Mystery (The Mimi Patterson/Gianna Maglione Mysteries) Page 13
