Forbidden Birth

by William Rubin

  “How do you get botulinum toxin? Is it very difficult to find?” I asked.

  “That’s the beauty of it, Detective. The toxin is used millions of times a year in doctors’ offices. It is known to lay people as Boxin and is used to treat forehead and facial wrinkles, excessive sweating, and intractable headaches.”

  “Boxin killed this gal? Shit, doc, my cousin just had a few shots of the stuff last month. I thought she was crazy, but she said it was real safe,” said Kennedy.

  “Administered in the standard fashion, Boxin is quite safe. Someone either injected a tremendous amount into our victims or got their hands on a super-concentrated version of the toxin. The injection sites you found in the last two victims, both of which were overlying their jugular veins, are where the Boxin injections must have taken place,” McGowan said, pointing to a minute break in April’s skin overlying her jugular vein. “A very small gauge needle was used to administer it, which makes me believe we are dealing with a super-concentrated form of the botulinum toxin. The toxin would not enter the eye so we can’t be sure the first victim died this way, but given the obvious similarities between all the victims, I think it’s a safe assumption.”

  “So any of our three lead suspects—an OB/GYN, a thug with medical training, or a pharmacist—could have gotten or made the toxin that killed all three victims?”

  “Precisely, Detective Ravello.”

  “Well, you haven’t narrowed our field of suspects Doctor McGowan. But thanks to your work, we now know we’re on the right track,” I said with a nod to the ME before turning to my partner. I flicked my head towards the doorway and said, “Let’s go Kev. We’ve got some leads to follow up on before someone else dies in vain.”

  Chapter 35

  Kennedy and I spent the rest of the afternoon into the evening re-examining everything we had on April Cassidy’s murder, the Jane Doe we found last month in Central Park, who we had tentatively identified as Tracey Lin, and our second victim, identified now as Erika Ingi, an Icelandic woman who had briefly worked in this country as an au pair.

  Bodies were rarely found in Central Park. There were just too many people in the park at all hours of the day and night, and too few good hiding places. But Tracey Lin’s killer beat the odds. He—or she—somehow dumped Tracey in the Jacqueline Onassis Reservoir, about midway between the tennis center and East Meadow. Remarkably, the body went undetected for several weeks. As with April, Tracey’s body had been carved up quite a bit. At the time, we figured the killer simply wanted the methane, carbon dioxide, and hydrogen sulfide that formed during decomposition to escape from Tracey’s body so it didn’t float to the surface. But now we knew there was more to it than that.

  Erika’s murder had followed the same pattern: a young, pregnant woman was killed with a super-concentrated version of botulinum toxin, she had her baby and uterus removed, was mutilated, and dumped in a body of water.

  Clearly, abdominal and genital mutilation was our killer’s signature. Did the killer mutilate the bodies to conceal the botulinum poisoning or did he just get off on it? Were the women the intended victims, or was it their babies the killer was after? If so, what the hell would a killer want with babies that were many months away from being born? We knew April’s fetus was fourteen weeks old. Erika’s was identified as nine weeks old. Tracey Lin’s we were less certain about. But my sources in Taiwan said she had not appeared pregnant when she emigrated to the US.

  Kennedy and I followed up on half a dozen dead end leads and wrote up a list of phone calls we needed to make tomorrow. Then we packed it in and headed back to Westchester, stopping off at Jim’s Tavern, a bar in Pleasantville, not far from where Kennedy lived.

  The place was filled with underage college students and nosier than I would have liked, but it was our best local option since my old favorites: Lock, Stock, and Barrel; and Brooksies’s Bite and Bottle, closed some years before. Besides, Kevin and I knew the owner well. In exchange for ignoring the illegal drinking, he set us up at a corner table in the back where it was quiet enough to talk over the case while we downed some beers and tore through some buffalo chicken wings.

  “This place hasn’t changed much since you and I were college kids drinking and picking up women, huh, Kev?”

  “Trying to pick women up, Chris. We struck out more times than Barry Bonds before he started taking the juice.”

  I laughed and it felt good. I had forgotten how to the last few days. I needed to remember that breaks like this were necessary in life, even in the midst of a murder case. “Yeah, you got that right, Kev. We’re both armed and dangerous now and we still can’t get a coed to stand within twenty feet of us,” I said with a smile. “Seriously though, you still seeing Annie?”

  “Nah. She got sick of sharing a cop’s life and took off. I hated to see her go, but I’m a free agent again, man,” Kennedy said with false bravado as he raised his glass for a toast. We clicked our mugs together and drank up. I felt bad for Kennedy. Kev came from an abusive household, his father beating him, his sister, and his mother on a regular basis. Kev had been briefly engaged once years ago, but it had ended in tragedy. Annie was the latest in a string of wonderful women Kevin should have been able to settle down with but hadn’t.

  A couple of minutes passed in silence as we concentrated on our wings and bleu cheese dressing, then I said, “So what do you make of these murders?”

  “I don’t know, Chris. It’s all pretty fucked up.” Kevin licked hot sauce off his large fingertips and then took a swig of his Michelob. “Based on the MO we’ve got, a serial killer for sure. I’d say he’s in the beginning of his run, and we don’t know shit about what his motives are and who his preferred victim type is, other than they’re pregnant females.”

  “Yeah, we’ve got three victims so far and not much to go on.”

  “Maybe up to six if none of the babies are still alive,” Kennedy pointed out while he carefully cleaned his hands with a moist towelette.

  “Jesus, you’re right. Getting back to motive for a minute, it’s hard to figure, just like you said. April’s murder has enough unanswered questions without even thinking in terms of a serial killer. For example, who was he trying to kill, April, the baby, or both? Was the killer the same as the abductor, and if so why was she released unharmed instead of being killed when he had her the first time?”

  “Well, it makes sense if the boyfriend, Johnny, was the kidnapper trying to induce an abortion, and then after that failed, he got antsy and took them both out.”

  “Yeah, but what doesn’t make sense is the murder appearing like a crime of passion, consistent with Briganti as the murderer, when really it was done very covertly, scientifically.”

  “Like maybe the OB set Briganti up? He’d have the technical know-how to cause the abortion and easy access to Boxin to kill her, but his motive is weak, don’t you think?”

  “I’d say so. The entries in her medical records were very judgmental about April’s line of work and lifestyle, but it’s a big step going from that to killing her and her baby.”

  “Not to mention he’s a doctor. Not too many serial killing doctors.”

  “I agree. There have been a few, such as ‘the torture doctor,’ H. H. Holmes, Linda Burfield Hazzard, who starved her patients to death and robbed them, and the most heinous of all physician killers, Doctor Harold Shipman. But as a rule, physician murderers are pretty rare. It’s sorta like a priest bumping people off. It can happen but it’s not what the smart money bets on.”

  “So on one hand we’ve got a doctor with the means to kill April, but who’s shaky on opportunity and motive, and on the other hand we have a gangster boyfriend who’s strong on opportunity and motive, but doesn’t fit too well on means and MO.”

  “To top it off, neither of them has any apparent connection to the Tracey Lin, who we know very little about, or Ingi murders, though that might change as we dig a bit deeper. Or we might be totally off base. The killer could be someone else,” I said with o
bvious frustration.

  “You mean like the love letter writing pharmacist we’ve still got to interview?”

  “Possibly. Or maybe someone we haven’t even thought of yet.”

  “There’s a comforting thought, partner,” Kennedy said before downing the rest of his beer. Streaks of it escaped the glass and dribbled down his cheeks. “So we interview the pharmacist and hope we get more info from McGowan on Tracey Lin or Rakel Ingi. Then what, Chris?” Kennedy said as he wiped the beer off his face.

  “I’m not sure, Kev. But I know this. If we don’t solve this case soon, before too long we’re all going to be standing over another corpse, asking ourselves the same questions.”

  Chapter 36

  Carl Dietz’s stubby, doughy hands moved quickly, sewing up in layers the woman who lay before him. First he used a single, running, absorbable 2-0 Vicryl suture to close her uterus, followed by interrupted 2-0 Vicryl to re-approximate the abdominal muscles. He closed the skin and subdural tissue with staples and 3-0 Vicryl sutures respectively. The emergency C-section had gone quite well despite the difficult breech presentation, the unexpected presence of placenta previa, and the bright red vaginal bleeding that prompted the STAT procedure. Dietz was happy with how the delivery had gone, particularly since his thoughts and his focus had been elsewhere throughout the procedure.

  During the C-section, Dietz had replayed, over and over again, the morning’s conversation with Detective Ravello. It had gone as well as could be expected, and it ended well, but the conversation still infuriated him.

  Ravello didn’t understand him, his patients, or the crap he had to put up with every day while taking care of these degenerates. Young girls coming in to deliver their third child before their twentieth birthdays. Older women having their fifth abortion, using it as their sole form of birth control. Crackheads getting high all the time, resisting his sensible advice to terminate either their poor behavior or their pregnancies before there were disastrous consequences. It was all so pathetic. Who could blame him for becoming a bit jaded and judgmental about it all?

  Ravello could, that’s who. He could screw up everything.

  Dietz had done a good job steering Ravello to Briganti, a classic murder suspect if ever there was one. Dietz hoped Ravello would sink his teeth into Briganti like a pit bull attacking an intruder and not let go until Briganti was securely behind bars, serving a life sentence at a maximum-security prison. That would allow Dietz to continue on, business as usual. He needed that more than ever. His work was far too important to be interrupted now.

  Chapter 37

  Gerry Buehler’s left elbow dangled out of the driver’s side window of his light green 2004 Passat station wagon. He hummed and tapped his hand on the steering wheel as he drove north on Route 9 in Ossining, New York. Bright sunlight poured through the sunroof, bathing Buehler as he approached the pharmacy he owned on Croton Avenue. Gerry wore white seersucker shorts with blue stripes, a light blue polo shirt, and black wraparound Ray Ban sunglasses. His short sandy brown hair was tussled in endearing disarray. Mariah Carey’s Glitter CD played, a nice finishing touch on the All-American image Gerry presented each day from sunrise to sunset.

  The Passat climbed the hill past the public library, a shuttered deli, and what used to be Midge’s Bait and Tackle Shop. Midge was a local legend in the fishing community before poor health overtook him, causing him to close the shop. A few moments later, the Passat made a right turn into the parking lot of a strip mall that housed a C-Town and a small credit union frequented by the local Mexican population.

  Gerry parked his car and walked across the street to his store, Town and Country Pharmacy. There was very little foot or vehicular traffic this early in the morning, but before crossing he still looked both ways, just to be sure it was safe. The store was a local institution. Gerry had run it for the last three years since taking the forty-five-year-old pharmacy over from its original owners, Simon and Louise Frustich.

  In just thirty-six months Gerry had transformed the store from a money pit into a financial powerhouse, all while cultivating the store’s small town feel. He was on a first name basis with all his customers and owned the hearts of each and every hunch-backed old lady who walked through the door, most of whom referred to him as the “cute boy who took over the pharmacy.”

  Gerry thanked God each and every day for the good fortune he enjoyed. Three years ago he had taken a big risk in buying a struggling store just after graduating pharmacy school in the Midwest. But everything had worked out even better than he hoped. On Sundays Gerry displayed his appreciation to The Almighty by serving as a Eucharistic Minister at the local St. Augustine’s parish. His duties were minimal but provided him a wonderful sense of peace and belonging in his new community—not to mention quite a few new customers.

  Buehler checked the answering machine for prescriptions called in overnight, restocked some items that were missing from the shelves, and finished paperwork leftover from the night before. At five minutes to nine, he hid the S & M magazine he had been masturbating to in a drawer and locked it. He then walked to the front of the store and turned over the “Sorry, We’re Closed” sign to read “Yes, We’re Open” and readied himself for the first customers of the day. It was show time again.

  Chapter 38

  It was all bearing down on me. The Daily had gotten wind of Rakel Ingi’s murder and the headline, “COPS IN THE DARK WHILE WOMEN DIE,” screamed out from the paper, as did the accompanying photo of the young woman’s body being fished out of the East River just before sunrise. The article connected the girl’s death to those of April Cassidy and Tracey Lin. It blasted the police department and the mayor’s office for the lack of progress on the cases and the apparent cover-up on our part. The governor and his pet project, the Division of Medical Crimes, were cited in the story. I was singled out as being especially incompetent. I guess my honeymoon period with the press was officially over.

  We sat around a large, cherry wood conference table in one of the rooms the police commissioner, John Kelly, reserved for such high level meetings. I was flanked by Kelly to my right and Mayor Michael Blumenthal to my left. Governor Gregory Spatick sat across from me, his face filled with rage, embarrassment, and disgust. RJ King, the Special Agent In Charge, or SAC, for NYC’s Criminal Division of the FBI, was seated next to Spatick. I felt oh, so vulnerable going into the meeting. My career with NYPD, my ability to provide for my family, hell, my sense of dignity and self-worth were on the line here. Spatick and Kelly made it clear when I was hired; I would only have a short time to prove myself, fail and I was out the door. All of them were looking for an arrest—yesterday—which was unfair to Kennedy, McGowan, and I, given the complexities of these cases. My strategy at this meeting was clear: buy us the time we needed to make an arrest. With clenched fists and sweaty palms, I braced myself for the worst.

  Spatick, a six foot three, broad-shouldered man with light brown hair and a plain vanilla face, spoke first.

  “Gentlemen, our feet are being held to the fire,” he said as he pointed to the newspaper, a copy of which lay in front of everyone at the table. “The question is, what are we going to do about it?” Spatick said through gritted teeth.

  Ignoring the chain of command, Spatick bypassed the mayor and police chief and placed me in his sights. Composing himself, he said blandly, “Chris, is it true we have nothing of value on any of these three murders?”

  “No. I wouldn’t say that at all, sir,” I responded after a glance to my right and left. Neither the mayor nor the police commissioner had anything to say at that point, so I continued, “We have two solid suspects on the April Cassidy murder; a mobster named Johnny “Knuckles” Briganti and the victim’s OB/GYN, Doctor Carl Dietz. A third, Cassidy’s heartbroken ex-boyfriend, is being questioned right now by my partner, Detective Kevin Kennedy. We have also determined that Cassidy died in an unusual manner. As a result we narrowed our suspect list to those with scientific and/or medical training.” />
  “How did she die, Chris?” Spatick asked, his vacant blue eyes staring back at me.

  “Poisoning by injection with Boxin, Governor.”

  “The anti-wrinkle medicine?” Spatick said as his staff looked at each other with surprise and confusion.

  “One and the same, sir, though the murder was committed with a super-concentrated form of the substance. We have also identified the second victim as an Icelandic ex-au pair, Rakel Ingi. Our ME, Doctor Audrey McGowan, just informed us the au pair also died of Boxin poisoning. We are investigating all—”

  “Any connections between the victims other than the Boxin, Detective? Do we have any idea why these women are being killed? The article mentions at least two of them were pregnant. Is that relevant?” Spatick snorted.

  The mayor interceded before I could reply. I could feel my heart start to race. Not now, I thought, I can’t lose control of this meeting or myself.

  Mike Blumenthal was a tall, thin man in his early sixties. He had a successful career as a real estate developer and a minority owner of the New York Yankees before entering public service just after 9/11/01. He was a great stabilizing force for the city: a hard-working, levelheaded mayor at a time the city very much needed one.

  “Governor, I can assure you Detective Ravello, Commissioner Kelly, and my office are working together, doing everything possible to catch this madman before he kills again.”

  “Mike, I’m sure you are all doing what you can, but it’s not enough. It’s a tragedy what has happened to these young ladies. It’s also an election year. As the first and only governor to create a Division of Medical Crimes to date, my neck is on the line as much as anyone’s. The DMC has yet to solve any cases, so if it falls flat on its face again on a high profile investigation like this, so do I, and I’m not willing to take that chance. That’s why I brought the FBI into the investigation,” Spatick said with restraint as he nodded towards Agent King. “We need the added resources the Bureau can provide to squash this story and solve the case before we all become victims as well.”