Alone with the Dead

by Robert J. Randisi

"All right," Cindy said, "it's open."

  She backed up and took her share of Keough's weight again.

  "He looks so skinny, Mommy," she said. "How can he be so heavy?"

  "He's a strong man, honey," Nancy said to her daughter. "It's his strength we're feeling, not his weight."

  Cindy frowned, grunted as they started forward, and said, "It sure feels like weight to me!"

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was the beginning of the week, and Det. Len Swann did what he did at the beginning of every week. As the stat man on the Lover Task Force, he went through all the statistics of all of the cases from all the precincts in the city at the start of each week to see if any of them matched the Lover's MO. Since the task force was first formed, copies of UF 61's-the original crime reports-and DD 5's from all the precinct squads were routinely sent to the task force office, no matter what they were about. You never knew if something that was reported as an attempted robbery might actually have been a busted Lover attempt. It was up to Swann to go through the paper trail to look for similarities in the cases, no matter how small.

  Statistics were Swann's strong suit. At thirty-three, he had been a detective for three years, and he always felt that he had been promoted to handle his squad's paperwork. When the Lover Task Force was formed, he was ecstatic at having been picked-until he found that he had been chosen to handle the task force's paperwork and stats. He'd been recommended by his commanding officer, who was friends with the chief of detectives. Every squad needed a good man to handle the paper, and when the chief had asked Swann's CO for a recommendation, the man had given him Swann's name without hesitation.

  "Of course," Captain Hedison had said to Swann, "I told him I wanted you back right after this maniac has been caught."

  "Yes, sir," Swann had said. He hoped that, as a member of the squad who would eventually catch the Lover, when he did return to his own squad, he'd be put on the chart to catch cases of his own.

  That did not seem to be in his future, however. He was doing the same thing here that he had done in his own squad, and he would probably end up doing the same thing when he returned to his squad. Damn it, he knew he was a damned good detective. Why couldn't he convince anyone else of that?

  That was what the civilians-the police administrative aides-had been brought into the department to do, the damned inside paperwork, and here he was, still doing it.

  Frowning, he read the Carradine file again. It had been referred to the squad from the Six-Seven Precinct in Brooklyn during Swann's weekend swing, and this was the first time he was seeing it. He noted that it had been logged in by Lieutenant Slovecky personally.

  After reading the file, Swann stood up and, carrying it with him, walked to Slovecky's office.

  The Lover Task Force had been set up in two rooms on the third floor of the old Property building on Twelfth Street, between Broadway and University Place. One room was Slovecky's office, while the five detectives and one sergeant who were assigned to the squad-all transferred in from different commands-shared the second room.

  It was early, but Swann knew that Slovecky was usually in his office before anyone else arrived. Swann also knew that they had at least another half hour before any of the others would arrive.

  He approached the whip's office door and stopped there. The Lover Task Force had been formed right after the second victim was discovered, one month after the first girl. They had been together, then, for about twelve weeks. During that time, Swann had come to know Lieutenant Slovecky fairly well as a commander. Slovecky did not like to be questioned, and what Swann had to say could only be construed as questioning his commander.

  Maybe, he thought, he could phrase it… differently.

  He took a deep breath and knocked on Slovecky's door.

  "Come!" Slovecky's gruff voice commanded. The lieutenant never "invited" anyone to enter his office; it was always a "command."

  Swann took another breath and entered.

  Slovecky was seated behind his desk. He was a big beefy man who wore his hair in a crew cut and strongly resembled former football great Dick Butkus.

  Even though he was sitting, Slovecky's size was still impressive.

  Swann was intimidated by the man and that irked him, especially since they were very close in age.

  "What is it, Swann?" he asked. Slovecky always seemed to be glowering, even when he wasn't.

  "Sir, I just read the report we got from the Six-Seven?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Well, uh, it came in while I was off, so this was the first time I've read it"

  "Get to the fucking point, Swann," Slovecky said peevishly. "I'm busy."

  "Sir, I, uh, see some discrepancies between this and the other cases."

  "Is that a fact?"

  "Yes, sir. Uh, for one thing…"

  "Swann, are you aware that I logged that fucking report in myself?"

  Swann looked at Slovecky, who was pointing a huge forefinger at him.

  "Yes, sir, I saw that notation."

  "And are you also aware that I spoke to the exec at the Six-Seven on the phone?"

  "Yes, sir…"

  "Swann, was there a fucking rose?"

  "Yes, sir, but it was…"

  "And was she strangled?"

  "She was, but there was…"

  "And was she raped?"

  "Of course she was, but…"

  "Then screw the discrepancies, Swann!" Slovecky said. "There's enough there to match the Lover's MO, and as of now, the fucking case is ours. Is that understood?"

  Swann closed the file folder in his hand, held it down in front of him, and said, "Yes, sir."

  "Have you got a pot of coffee going yet?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Get me a cup, will you?"

  "Yes, sir," Swann said. He hesitated a moment, then turned and left.

  He walked back to his desk and laid the file down on top of it. He kept his hand pressed down on it, then almost picked it up again, but finally he viciously pushed himself away from his desk, picked up the coffeepot, and went to fill it with water.

  ***

  Slovecky stared at the door after Swann had gone through it, closing it behind him. Of course, the lieutenant was aware that there were discrepancies in the case of the latest victim, but another lieutenant and a captain had referred the case to him. Who was he to turn it away?

  Besides, six murders were better than five-and if this case had been left in the Six-Seven, it probably never would get solved. Now, when he caught the Lover, the case would be marked "Solved" and "Closed" and be taken off the books.

  Everybody's stats would be the better for it.

  What the hell was Swann trying to do, fuck it up for everyone? The man was a whiz at paperwork, so why the hell was he trying to act like a real detective?

  AUGUST

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "Six-One Adam, 'kay."

  "Adam, 'kay."

  "Adam, we have a report of a woman down in the park at Bedford Avenue and Avenue W. It might be a homeless person sleeping it off, but check it out, 'kay?"

  "Adam, we'll have a look, Central."

  ***

  Police Officers Jeff Sherman and Frankie Adinolfi had been partners for five years. They knew the signs of each other's moods and rarely read them wrong. For instance, Adinolfi knew without being told that Sherman's ulcer was bothering him tonight. Sherman, redhaired and forty, divorced and bankrupt, always had a frown on his face, but the frown deepened when his ulcer was bothering him. Also, he was silent for long periods of time when his stomach was acting up. If it was Friday morning, Adinolfi knew without being told whether Sherman had won or lost at the precinct poker game the night before. The "I couldn't buy a hand to save my life" frown was subtly different from the ulcer frown. These days, his drink of choice alternated between beer and scotch and milk. The milk was in deference to his ulcer. For years, he had drank only beer, which had earned him the nickname "Sudsy."

  Adinolfi, dark-haired, mustached, thir
ty-four, was called "Big Foot" by everyone in the precinct. The reason was obvious. Six foot two and skinny, his size thirteens looked even bigger than that because of his long, rail-thin legs. He rarely took part in the precinct poker games, but he was a regular around the station house in knock rummy-and rarely won.

  Sherman and Adinolfi were Six-One Adam, and they responded to the park in question to investigate the report of a woman down.

  The park at Bedford, between Avenue W and Gravesend Road, was not actually a park, but a children's playground. At the present time, however, it was a shambles, having been bulldozed and jackhammered into submission and disuse in what was probably an attempt to improve it.

  They were working their third of five midnight tours. It was Sherman's turn to drive tonight, but Adinolfi-reading the signs right, of course-knew that his partner couldn't drive when his ulcer was bothering him, so although he was down on the roll call as recorder and Sherman as operator, it was Adinolfi who had taken the wheel when they left the station house.

  Adinolfi pulled the car to the curb by the playground and he and his partner got out. They put their hats on, adjusted their belts, and palmed their night-sticks before approaching the fence.

  "See anything?" Adinolfi asked.

  "Yeah," Sherman said, "lots of dust and dirt and shit." He paused to belch. "Whataya want to do? Split up?"

  "What for?" Adinolfi asked. "Let's just walk around the park together."

  They started to walk along the fence, squinting their eyes in an effort to see inside.

  "When are they gonna finish fixing this fuckin' place up?" Sherman asked.

  "You worried about the kids in the neighborhood now?" his partner asked.

  "Worried, shit," Sherman said. "If they could play basketball here, maybe they wouldn't be pullin' so many fuckin' burglaries."

  "They play basketball during the day, Sudsy," Adinolfi said, "and rob stores at night. You know that."

  "See anything?" Sherman asked.

  "I can't see shit," Adinolfi said.

  "Let's get the fuck out of here," Sherman said. "Who the hell is around at two in the morning to see a fuckin' body?"

  "Wait," Adinolfi said, moving closer to the fence. "What's that?"

  Sherman moved closer to the fence. All he could see were long-out-of-use swings, seesaws, and monkey bars.

  "Where?"

  "By the monkey bars," Adinolfi said. "See it?"

  Sherman squinted for a moment and then he saw it. It looked like someone lying half in and half out of the monkey bars.

  "All right," Sherman said, "how do we get in there to check it out?"

  "Gate?" Adinolfi said.

  "Let's look."

  They found two gates, both padlocked. Adinolfi, the thinner of the two, was almost able to squeeze through one of them, but in the end, no luck.

  "Hole in the fence?" he asked at that point.

  They walked around the entire playground without finding one.

  "Sure," Sherman said when they had come full circle, "with the fuckin' place out of use, that's what they fix first. What's left?"

  Adinolfi looked the fence up and down and then gave his partner a wounded, puppy-dog look.

  "Forget it," Sherman said. "I ain't climbin' the fuckin' fence."

  "Why do I always have to do all the climbing?" Adinolfi complained.

  "Well," Sherman said, "it could be because you're younger and more athletic…"

  "But?"

  "But it ain't," Sherman said. "It's because I'm the senior man."

  "Old fart, you mean," Adinolfi grumbled, but Sherman ignored him.

  "Gimme your belt," Sherman said.

  "Fuck," Adinolfi said, "I ain't going over this fence without my gun."

  "The park is empty, Frankie," Sherman said.

  "Fuck," Adinolfi said again. He replaced his night-stick into the metal loop on his belt, then removed the belt and handed it to his partner.

  "You get your belt stuck on the damned fence and I got to call Emergency Service to get you down," Sherman said. "How would that look?"

  "Shit," Adinolfi said, and started to scale the chainlink fence.

  "How can you do that," Sherman asked when Adinolfi was halfway up the fence, "with such big feet?"

  "Blow me," Adinolfi said over his shoulder, and Sherman chuckled.

  The truth of the matter was, Adinolfi couldn't get the tips of his feet inside the chain links, so he simply braced his feet against the wire and pulled himself up, like actually scaling the fence rather than climbing.

  "Hey," Sherman shouted when Adinolfi was almost to the top, "you could be on that show-whataya call it? American Gladiators?"

  "Fuck American Gladiators," Adinolfi said to himself, then remembered that he wouldn't have minded really fucking some of those blond female gladiators.

  When he reached the top, Adinolfi swung one leg over the fence and promptly caught his pants on a sharp edge, tearing them.

  "Goddamn it!" he shouted.

  "Quiet," Sherman said. "You want the neighbors to complain?"

  "I tore my pants."

  "So you'll buy a new pair."

  "Fuck I will," Adinolfi said.

  He swung his other leg over and then started down the other side. When he reached the ground, he felt behind him for the tear.

  "How is it?" Sherman asked.

  "Not too bad," Adinolfi grumbled, "but it's still got to be sewn."

  "Walk over to the gate and I'll give you your belt back," Sherman said.

  Adinolfi felt for the tear again, poked his finger in it, cursed under his breath, and then walked along the fence until he and Sherman were at one of the gates.

  Through the padlocked gate, Sherman gave his partner back his belt. Adinolfi put it back on and then settled his gun, nightstick, and radio into place. He also had a compartment for extra bullets and a flashlight.

  "Okay," Sherman said, "check it out."

  Adinolfi took his flashlight in one hand and his nightstick in the other and went to check it out.

  "Six-One Adam to central, 'kay."

  "Go ahead, Adam."

  "Central, we need a sergeant and a duty captain at Bedford Avenue and Avenue W, on that woman down? 'Kay?"

  "What have you got there, Adam, 'kay."

  "We have a deceased female in the monkey bars, 'kay."

  "Say again, Adam, 'kay?"

  "We're gonna need the whole crew, Central. Detectives, ME, oh, and would you ask the house to get somebody from the city on the phone? This playground is locked up tight. We're gonna need somebody with a key, 'kay."

  "Adam, say again? Did you did say you had a deceased monkey, 'kay?"

  "A deceased female, Central, deceased female!"

  "Was that female, Adam?"

  "That's affirmative, Central."

  "Okay, Adam, stand by. They're on their way, 'kay."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Joe Keough had resigned himself to the fact that there was nothing he could do about the murder of Mindy Carradine. It was now part of the Lover Task Force's caseload. That was why he cursed when he saw the story in the New York Post four weeks after Mindy Carradine was killed, on the morning of his first day tour. It was 8:30 A.M.

  He had parked his car in the precinct lot, which meant he had to pass the front desk to get to the squad room. As he passed, he saw two things. One, a woman was standing at the desk, complaining loudly to the desk sergeant, Phil Greco, that someone had done something to her daughter, or somebody.

  "… kept touching your Rosa Mundi, wouldn't you be upset?"

  "Yes, ma'am," Greco said, "I would."

  "I keep calling," she complained. Greco looked over her head at Keough and rolled his eyes.

  The second thing Keough saw was a newspaper on the desk, with the headline facing up: LOVER STRIKES AGAIN IN BROOKLYN.

  "Shit," he muttered. He hadn't bought a paper that day or listened to the radio. This was the first he knew of it. He snatched the paper while Greco wasn't looking
and took it upstairs with him.

  Keough read about the young woman who had been found in the monkey bars of a playground on Bedford Avenue. She was raped, strangled, and a rose was found inserted into her body. That was enough for anyone to conclude that she was the Lover's latest victim.

  "Where are you going?" Pete Huff asked as Keough got up from his desk and headed for the door. He was holding a jelly doughnut as big as a catcher's mitt in his hand, and the powdered sugar was raining down on his pants, tie, and jacket.

  Keough stopped in his tracks. Where was he going? According to the newspaper, the body had been found at about 2:00 A.M., which was only six and a half hours ago. The investigation would still be going on, with detectives, the duty captain, the medical examiner, lab people all still running around like chickens without heads. He knew some of the detectives in the Six-One Squad, but nobody would be ready to talk to him. In fact, it might not even have been detectives from the Six-One Squad who caught the case, unless one of them had been working the night watch.

  "Who worked night watch last night?" he asked, throwing the question out to the room.

  "Beats me," Huff said.

  Also in the squad room were Detectives Vadala and Goldstein, who turned and gave him, in turn, a blank look and a shoulder shrug.

  "I'll be back later, Pete," Keough said.

  "Yeah, but where are you goin'?" Huff asked. "I mean, if we catch a case or somethin', the sarge is gonna wanna know, ya know?"

  "I'll stay in touch," Keough said.

  "Hey, Keough," Huff called, but Keough was out the door and on the stairwell, disdaining the elevator.

  First he went upstairs to the borough office to talk to one of the clerks he knew, a police administrative aide named Dani Rini. Dani handled the stats for the borough, and if there was any information available, she'd have access to it.

  Dani was a young woman in her early twenties, and her tall, full-bodied figure and shoulder-length blond hair made her the object of much lust among the men who worked in the Six-Seven buildingand anyone else who happened to visit. She was also very direct and outspoken and wouldn't take shit from anyone unless she wanted to. It was generally known that she was either sweet as sugar or a ball-buster supreme, depending on whether or not she liked you.