I smiled at Drusin. “Nice way to get rid of me.”
“You’re too tough to eat, Alex. Though a bit of grilling might tenderize you.”
“Step back, both of you,” the judge said. “Let’s go on the record.”
Officer Dominguez had entered the courtroom. Half a dozen men sat in the front row as he made his way to counsel table to sit beside his lawyer.
I glanced around at the group. Each man had his police officer’s shield flapped over the pocket of his sports jacket. I was not at all surprised that the solid blue line of cops would support a colleague in trouble. I was in for some stonewalling should I need anything from the precinct in which Dominguez patrolled.
“Once again, good morning to you all,” the judge said, after the case was called into the record. “It appears that the issue of bail has been resolved, Mr. Drusin. I’m going to remind your client that there are orders of protection for his wife and child. There is to be absolutely no contact between them. None attempted.”
Gerry Dominguez clasped his hands together in front of him, fidgeting in place, nodding his head to let the judge know that he understood the terms of his release.
The cops in the front row were whispering to one another, trying to unsettle me. Judge Aikens banged his gavel and demanded silence.
“I understand, Mr. Drusin, that you’ve prepared some of your motions already. Quick work.”
“I told you I’d have them to you as soon as possible. First is the motion for the dismissal on First Amendment grounds. All we have here is speech, which is supposed to be free.”
“May I give you examples of the language, Your Honor?” I asked, pulling documents from the folder. “E-mails that said Mr. Dominguez was looking forward to ‘cramming a chloroform-soaked rag’ in his wife’s mouth. A document titled ‘A Blueprint for the Abduction and Devouring of Alba Dominguez.’”
“He was sending these e-mails as part of a fantasy, Judge. A game.”
“His cyber life was bleeding into reality. He wasn’t just chatting with these men, he was the provocateur of the conversations. Mr. Dominguez took overt acts,” I said. “I will respond to these motions with all the supporting documentation so the court can see what the facts are.”
“On an expedited schedule, Ms. Cooper,” Judge Aikens said, playing to the cops in the front row. “I’m not dragging my feet on this one. If Dominguez is a good officer—and if you cannot prove any overt acts in this conspiracy charge—then we need to get him back on our streets as soon as possible.”
There was applause from the defendant’s supporters. I looked over my shoulder. My sole cheerleader was the elderly court-watcher, a staple in my small posse of regulars, who leaned forward in hopes of more specifics from me.
“Thank you for that, Your Honor. And most important, I would very much like to have you remove Ms. Cooper from the prosecution of this case, as I mentioned yesterday. Let me give you some of the reasons I have to add to my preliminary remarks.”
My spine stiffened at the idea of Drusin throwing any more personal venom into the formal court record.
“Actually, Judge Aikens, I’ve just come from Mr. Battaglia’s office, as you know. Mr. Drusin may withdraw his motion and keep his litany of personal peeves to himself.”
“But, Judge, I’m entitled to make a record about Ms. Cooper in support of my application.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ve been assigned to handle a breaking double homicide that will require my complete attention, around the clock, until a suspect or suspects are apprehended and then swiftly charged. I’m in the process of reassigning the Dominguez matter to a colleague in the Special Victims Unit.”
“Very wise of you, Ms. Cooper,” the judge said. “I assume this won’t delay the proceedings?”
“Wait a minute,” Drusin said. He seemed upset not to be able to throw some ad hominem attack about me on the record. “I’m not finished.”
“No, but you’re defanged on this issue, Mr. Drusin,” I said. “By noon today, there will be a new prosecutor handling this matter. And no disruption in the expedited-motion schedule. Anything else I need to deal with, or am I free to step out of the well?”
“We’re officially adjourned,” the judge said, banging his gavel to underscore that point. “Thanks for coming up, Alex. And, you, David, got half of what you wanted right off the bat. You ought to stop being so vituperative.”
I stepped away from the table and turned to walk out of the room as the judge left the bench.
The six officers stood up as I passed them, muttering epithets at me, causing my lone supporter to try to catch up with me.
“Ms. Cooper,” he called after me, “you shouldn’t have to give up the case. You could nail this guy.”
I gave him a thumbs-up as I left the courtroom but walked faster to avoid the conversation he wanted to have. There was still a small pack of men huddled in the corner of the long hallway, and I assumed they were Dominguez supporters. I wanted to get away from the entire crew.
I pressed both DOWN buttons on each side of the elevator bank, hoping one of the eight oversized sets of doors would open before the old guy caught up to me and tried to bend my ear.
The one farthest from the corridor—closest to the window—creaked apart, and I ran to get on it. There were several prosecutors and witnesses in it, descending from one of the higher floors. The heavy steel doors, several inches thick, started to close as I greeted the others and pressed for the seventh floor.
Before the doors could shut completely, a man whose footsteps I’d heard coming up behind me—I thought it was the overanxious court-watcher—thrust his arm between the two sides.
I reached for the OPEN button before the viselike grip of the solid doors could cause any injury to the man’s forearm, which was too well muscled and too dark-skinned to be that of my elderly admirer.
The doors sprung several inches apart. The man withdrew his arm and the doors slammed shut again before I could see his face and apologize to him. But not before I saw the words KILL COOP tattooed on the skin of his hand.
EIGHTEEN
“I’m telling you I came directly back here and asked Laura to alert security,” I said to Mercer. “I wanted Raymond Tanner stopped before he got out of this building.”
“The guy must have moved like lightning. I came out of the conference room and everybody was scrambling.”
Mercer was out of breath, having chased the sociopathic rapist who had somehow gotten himself past security and up to the corridor where Gerardo Dominguez’s case was being heard.
“Tanner’s wanted for a handful of violent crimes and escape from his psych facility. Now he slips into the courthouse,” I said, “to the very room where a cop who stopped him on the street and let him go has his own encounter with the law?”
“Not just with the law, Alex. With you, in particular. That’s why this isn’t any kind of coincidence,” Mercer said. “And now there’s not a sign of Tanner anywhere.”
“Did anyone think to horse-collar David Drusin? He may have set the whole thing up. Or try dragging Gerry Dominguez over to Internal Affairs?” I was shaking, and both Mercer Wallace and Nan Toth were trying to calm me down.
“Dominguez is facing state time. You don’t really think Drusin is going to let him talk to IAB, do you?” Nan asked. “I’m taking the case. You going to let me in on the guy’s recipes, or am I flying blind?”
“That would be a recipe for disaster, Nan. And I know you’re trying to lighten me up, but this case is not for you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s mine.”
“That was before Raymond Tanner showed up today. It has to go to one of the men in the unit. Tanner adds a very sinister undertone of misogyny here. Both he and Dominguez clearly hate women, and touching these case folders is like bringing on a personal vendetta.”
“Alex is right. I got someone at Special Vic trying to dig up a connection between these two men—serial rapist and cannibal cop,”
Mercer said. “Till we find it and can prove it, best you stay out of the mix before you wind up in a microwave, Nan.”
“Give me the folder,” she said. “What if I assign it to Evan?”
“Perfect.”
Evan Kruger was a senior trial lawyer, as smart and even-tempered as they come. He would dive into this case—as he had with many others of the toughest in the bureau—and master the facts and legal issues, steering clear of the baiting that David Drusin had stooped to with me.
“Are you going to be reachable?” Nan asked.
“We’re off to the Waldorf,” Mercer said. “Gonna clear her mind with some old-fashioned murder. Call anytime.”
“You might need to fill Evan in on the facts.”
“It won’t take long to do. All the e-mails Dominguez wrote are in the file, and the grand jury minutes with his wife’s testimony takes it the rest of the way,” I said. “He’s going to get slammed with a bunch of bullshit motions, but the facts hold up.”
“Case of first impression?” Nan asked. “Not quite like the Donner Pass.”
“I was just beginning to research an online encounter. He’ll find my notes. The only case on point is about a decade old, in Germany. A guy who trolled the Web looking for an adolescent willing to be butchered,” I said, stopping to brush my hair at the mirror behind the door—mostly an attempt to see if my arm had stopped trembling. “Miewes is the perp’s name. Cut off his victim’s penis and then fried it. They ate it together before he killed the kid.”
“We don’t need to go there,” Nan said.
“Judge Aikens will actually be looking for some support if he needs to be convinced this isn’t just magical thinking. Drusin wants everyone to believe the eating people part is fantasy. Be sure to tell Evan that the website on which Armin Miewes found his victim is called the Cannibal Café. Check out the menu.”
“She’s stalling, Nan,” Mercer said.
“Damn right. I want to be here when they haul Raymond Tanner back in the courtroom. I can’t believe he got very far.”
“He wasn’t sticking around to get cuffed, girl. That little appearance was well orchestrated. You never saw him coming and you saw only the part of him that he wanted you to see, to scare the daylights out of you,” Mercer said. “Seems to be working fine, that plan.”
“But you agree with me, then? Dominguez is behind this.”
“We’ll sort it out. The last place you need to be is roaming the courthouse when we bring Tanner’s sorry ass in here.”
“Too bad Mike’s not back in town,” Nan said, smiling at me. The senior women in the unit were among my closest friends. They had followed the slow path of my relationship with Mike Chapman for years. “Sounds like you’re in need of a bodyguard. That could take your mind off work.”
“He is back, or did I forget to tell you? Besides, his last babysitting job was a disaster, or don’t you remember?”
Mercer laughed. “Good thing you didn’t go into dentistry, Nan. I think you just hit a nerve.”
I tossed my hairbrush into the bottom drawer of my desk and held up my hands. “I’m cool with it. The man’s a wolverine.”
“Aren’t they part of the weasel family?” Nan asked, poking me in the side.
“If they weren’t, they are now,” I said as I passed by her. “Talk later.”
I opened the door and told Laura that Mercer and I were off to the Waldorf.
“Rose called. She said Battaglia needs to see you. He’s very unhappy that you went to court on Dominguez and set off this firestorm with the fugitive.”
“Tell Rose it’s Evan Kruger’s case. I don’t have time for a dressing-down by Battaglia. Tell her you’ll give me the message when you see me.”
“But I am seeing you, Alex. Don’t cross the district attorney.”
“You thought you saw me, Laura. But it’s just a fantasy.”
“I’ll bring her back to you safe and sound,” Mercer said. “Tell the boss I was ordered to get her out of the courthouse.”
We were downstairs in three minutes and in Mercer’s car, headed uptown to the Waldorf Astoria. By 1:00 P.M., we had parked the car and entered through the rear lobby on Lexington Avenue, now well guarded by uniformed cops and additional private security.
We made our way to the basement of the great hotel, still the headquarters for the investigative team.
One of the Manhattan South detectives, Gary Stryker, saw me coming and cupped his hand over his mouth to shout down the hallway. “Hey, Chapman? Your minder is here.”
Gary high-fived me as I walked past.
“He went out without his leash today, Stryker. I had to bring it along.”
“Mike’s roughing up the video techs something awful, Alex. Better get in there and calm him down.”
“I’m fresh out of calm myself. What’s the problem? Mercer couldn’t even get anyone to tell him what’s the latest when he called.”
I reached the cubicle in which two men from the hotel’s AV system were working with Mike and Rocco Correlli.
“I’ll tell you what the problem is, kid,” Mike said, without even straightening up from his position, leaning over the shoulder of the video operator who was sweating bullets. “There are more gaps in this surveillance system than there were between your front teeth before you got braces, Coop. It’s a joke, this system.”
“How so?” I asked as Mercer crowded into the small room behind me.
“Dr. Azeem narrowed the time frame for us. We actually pulled feed from fifty-two cameras. Decided it would double the work to take off every single floor, because the elevators and stairwells would catch the action going from one to the other. These men have been on this—with teams of six detectives backing up the work—for the last twenty-four hours. Not a thing to show for it. Half of them drew blanks.”
“Blanks?”
“Yeah. Either the cameras themselves weren’t working or the software was so outdated that no images were captured. Not one single frame of any use.”
“Show me what you’re talking about.”
“Bring up Monday afternoon for her,” Mike said, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “High noon, in fact. Show us the elevator that leads to the fortieth-floor suites.”
One of the techs had his nose so close to the monitor that it was practically touching the screen. Mike provided the sound track as the grainy video began to play. I could see Monday’s date and time in the upper right corner.
“First of all, only the newest equipment—like the cameras in the main lobby elevators—have the latest technology. The hallways and stairs are mostly old-fashioned tape. They loop over again and again in twenty-four-hour cycles, and the images are so muddy there’s not much to see.”
I stepped back so Mercer could get a good look. “Useless,” he said. “I can make out movement, and a couple of suited men from time to time, but nothing or nobody you could recognize.”
“Out of the fifty-two cameras we started with,” Mike said, “more than a dozen of them are flat-out broken. Not working. Just there to rope-a-dope any would-be felons into thinking they’re being recorded.”
“Exits and entrances?” Mercer asked.
“I can give you some clear shots of those,” the tech said. He played with the computer and brought up footage from the Park Avenue entrance of the hotel, midday on Monday. “Your detectives have been over these films, reviewing the hours from noon to six P.M., dozens of times.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Different people see different things,” he said. “Your brain gets fried pretty quickly watching so many hundreds of people coming and going. Then the bellman brings the luggage in ten, fifteen minutes later, so you can’t possibly connect it to the people who might own it.”
“But big pieces? Anything like the trunk we think is involved?”
“Not so easy. Around two fifteen that afternoon a group of thirty people arrived from a cruise ship on some kind of package tour. There wer
e trunks the size of my apartment,” Mike said. “Once they got loaded on the luggage carts and hauled inside, it was impossible to see any of the individual pieces. Impossible to tell how and when they got to the rooms.”
“You think someone could have slipped one into the pile?” Mercer asked.
“Hand one of the bellmen ten bucks? You could slip a boatload of contraband right through the front door.”
“But the fancy-dancy suites in the Towers?” I asked. “There must be a real effort at security. I mean, just for antitheft purposes, not expecting this kind of violence.”
“Give her the Towers elevators,” Mike said to the tech.
Again, the young man moved in so close to the monitor that I thought he’d leave some of the hairs from his goatee on the screen.
The tape started to roll. The images were the clearest I’d seen yet. We watched several elevator trips—a tedious task at best—with well-dressed guests going up forty flights, then others leaving their floors to return to the lobby. My yawns were so big they were audible.
Suddenly the screen went white.
“See what I mean?” Mike said. “Is this lame or what?”
Mercer moved closer to the tech. “How long does this go on?”
“I suppose it just died. Must go on this way to the end.”
“You mean no one has watched it all the way?”
“You’ll have to ask the detectives down the hall,” the tech said. “I have no idea.”
“Fast-forward for me. Can you do that?”
“What’s the—?” I started to ask.
Mercer shushed me. We watched for several minutes while the tech kept us informed about the time.
“That’s half an hour since it went dead,” he said. “Now we’re coming up on an hour. I don’t know how long you want me to do this, but personally I think it’s pretty futile.”
“Stick with it,” Mercer said.
At least fifteen minutes went by until the tech told us that the timer showed that three hours of this past Monday afternoon had elapsed.
Terminal City Page 14
