Silent Mercy

by Linda Fairstein

  The bishop hesitated and lowered the paper.

  “Please go on,” I said.

  “‘I do feel so alone here, even though at peace with God. I am hoping to hear from you, as my spirit is heavy and my heart longs to serve the church again, in all the ways that I can be of good use.’ ” This time Bishop Deegan rested the page on his lap. “Must I continue?”

  “That’s not necessary,” Keets said.

  “Do you recall reading that letter shortly after the date it was posted?” I asked.

  “I don’t open my own mail, Ms. Cooper. I never saw this letter. I can’t account for every piece of paper sent to me,” Deegan said, coming to a slow boil. “Father Koslawski was a fine young man. That’s what I know.”

  “And your opinion wouldn’t change, sir, if you believed he had molested seven teenage boys in the rectory?”

  “That never—”

  “Would your opinion change if such a fact were true?”

  “Of course not. I’m a man of my word,” Deegan said, almost shouting now. “Judge Keets, if I may, the district attorney himself promised me I’d be on and off the stand in fifteen minutes.”

  “You have spoken with Paul Battaglia about this matter?” Keets asked, faster than I could form the words myself.

  I stared at the large gold cross on Deegan’s chest.

  “By chance, Your Honor. I ran into him quite by chance.”

  “I have no further questions,” I said, sitting and pushing Barry Donner away as he leaned in to talk to me.

  “Then we thank you for your testimony,” Keets said, standing to excuse the bishop as he stepped out of the witness box and signaling to Enright at the same time to hold her comments.

  The court officer led Deegan out of the room as Sheila Enright got to her feet.

  “Judge, I want to know what kind of contact the district attorney had with my witness. What have we got here—tampering?”

  “Deegan wasn’t even on the witness list you turned over at the start of the case, Ms. Enright,” I said, hoping my shock showed slightly less than hers. “I wouldn’t get too carried away with accusations yet. Ask the bishop which one of them initiated the encounter.”

  “I intend to.”

  “And you, Ms. Cooper,” Keets said. “You’ll inquire the same of Mr. Battaglia, won’t you?”

  He banged his gavel on the bench and frowned at all of us. “Two o’clock. We’ll resume at two o’clock sharp.”

  NINE

  “WHO’S with him, Rose?” I asked, skipping the niceties.

  “Pat came down from court twenty minutes ago, and he called in Brenda Whitney,” she said, referring to the head of Battaglia’s public relations office. “They’re working on a press release for later today.”

  “It’s urgent. May I go in? You don’t need to buzz him.”

  I had passed her desk and was opening Battaglia’s door, startling the threesome as they huddled over the conference table at the far end of the room.

  “You finish with the good bishop?” Battaglia asked, grinning broadly as he sucked on what was likely his third cigar of the day.

  “I figured he’d stop by to tell you himself. Maybe take you to lunch.”

  My old friend Brenda realized immediately that she was caught in the crossfire. I was trying to keep my tone appropriate but finding it difficult.

  “Skipping lunch. Too much to get done.”

  “That’s not my point, Paul. Sounds like Deegan was calling the shots.”

  “You’re mistaken, Alexandra. Badly mistaken.”

  “I didn’t know you had a dog in this fight. Are you on Koslawski’s team?”

  Brenda picked up her pad and started away from the table. “I’ll come back later, Boss.”

  “Don’t leave, Brenda. I’ve got no secrets from you. We’ll need Alexandra for this, too.”

  He usually had secrets from everyone. This time, he didn’t want to be alone in the room with me. He didn’t want to have a private conversation or a chance for me to question him.

  “I gather you know Deegan?” I asked.

  Pat McKinney walked over to the bookshelf and busied himself in the first volume of the Penal Law. He liked nothing better than an argument that might distance me from the district attorney’s favor.

  “We’ve met many times, but fortunately never in the confessional,” he said, laughing at what he must have thought was a joke. “Cool down and sit down, Alexandra. You here about last night?”

  “I’m here because a key defense witness just told the court that he’d been talking to you about the case. Judge Keets asked me to get the details on that.”

  That comment erased Battaglia’s smile. He removed the cigar from his lips. “You tell the judge to invite me to court if he wants to ask me questions. I don’t need an interpreter, even if it’s you, young lady. I’ve got ten thousand cases pending in the office at any given time. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry in town wants a favor. I can’t remember each person I talk to. Goes in one ear and out the other. Where’s Chapman?”

  “At the morgue, I expect. I haven’t been back to my office yet. I came straight here from the courtroom.”

  McKinney turned on a dime. “You haven’t spoken with Mike?”

  “In the middle of my cross, Pat? You saw what I’ve been doing this morning.”

  “Then maybe you haven’t heard. The victim on the church steps has been ID’d,” he said.

  “They’ve found her head?” I asked, adrenaline kicking in to override annoyance.

  “Turns out the fingertips were all they needed.” Battaglia took the reins, glad to be in charge of breaking news. “Naomi Gersh. Thirty-four years old. Have I got that right, Brenda?”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  “What am I missing?” I asked. “DNA? Something in the databank that identified her?”

  “Simpler than that, Alexandra. Seems Ms. Gersh had an arrest record.”

  “Here?” I asked, and Brenda nodded. “What for?”

  “Two collars,” Pat McKinney said, holding up the first volume of the Penal Law. “Both times for OGA.”

  Obstructing governmental administration—usually an action that interfered with a law enforcement function and made the arrestee unpopular with the cops.

  “We’re pulling up the court papers for you,” Battaglia said. “Get to work on this, pronto. Leave the Koslawski business to Mr. Donner. You’re off that case.”

  “I’m what?”

  The district attorney ignored me, and Pat McKinney simply smirked. I bit my lip to stop the venom from spurting out and left the inner sanctum as abruptly as I had entered.

  “Mike called,” Laura Wilkie said as I stormed into my office. “I’ll get him on the line while you take some deep breaths. You look wild.”

  “I’ll get over it.”

  “The other messages can wait,” she said. I heard her talking to someone before she told me to pick up my second line.

  “We got a vic,” Mike said.

  “I know. Naomi Gersh. Battaglia had a call from the commissioner. I should have all the court papers shortly. Where are you?”

  “The autopsy’s over. I’m on my way to notify her younger brother, Daniel. Pick him up at his job—moves scenery at a small theater off-Broadway. He’s next of kin.”

  “If you want company, I’m available.”

  “I assumed you were a full-time trial dog this week.”

  “Battaglia thought I was getting too rowdy in the courtroom. He just booted me off the Koslawski case and told me to work with you on the murder.”

  “Let me start with Daniel. If I get lonely by dinnertime, I’ll give you a shout. Battaglia tell you anything about the obstructing arrests?”

  “He didn’t know facts. Brenda’s digging up the old files.”

  “What’s your bet?” Mike asked. “Antiwar? Pro-choice? Fur coats?”

  “Be serious.”

  “I’m very serious. For one of those causes, she was willing to go to the mats. Pu
shing the envelope to get something she believed in.”

  Laura stood in my doorway, her arm blocking the eager young woman who wanted to enter. “Emily is from IT—with court papers for you.”

  I waved the girl in, took the blue-backed misdemeanor cases from her hand, and cupped the receiver against my neck.

  “Here’s your answer,” I said, folding the disposition sheets over so that I could see the date and place of occurrence on each of the complaints. “Both arrests occurred at the same place. Dag Hammarskjold Plaza. One last December and another in January.”

  The small, tranquil city park on the entire south side of the block between First and Second Avenues on East Forty-Seventh Street had been named for the Swedish diplomat and Nobel peace prize winner who had been Secretary-General of the United Nations.

  “Right opposite the U.N.”

  “Exactly. But it’s not about war,” I said. “Naomi was leading a protest, a day of international solidarity for an Israeli feminist group that has been denied the right to pray, like men do, at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem.”

  “Well, Coop. Maybe we’ve got a holy war on our hands after all.”

  TEN

  MIKE extended a hand to help me out of the yellow cab in front of a recently renovated tenement building on Avenue B at four the same afternoon.

  “What happened to Daniel?” I asked.

  “Strike one. Manhattan South sent a team to his old job, ’cause the commish was afraid he’d hear about Naomi on the news. But he hasn’t worked there lately.”

  “Someone told him?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. One of the guys he used to hang with told him. Good way to piss me off.”

  “So he’s crushed. Give him a break. And let’s get out of the drizzle,” I said, pushing open the vestibule door.

  “Not so broken up as you’d think. He hasn’t seen much of Naomi in almost six years. His buddies at the theater didn’t even know he had a sister.”

  “But this is her apartment.” I knew the address from the court papers. “How did Daniel get in? If he didn’t have much of a relationship, you wouldn’t think he’d have a key.”

  “Nope. The super opened up for him. Now he’s stonewalling me.”

  Mike pressed the buzzer with the paper marker labeled Gersh next to the mailbox for 2D. It took almost three minutes for a voice to respond through the intercom.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m still here, Daniel. I’d like to talk to you.”

  “What about that warrant, Detective?”

  “I got one right here. A living, breathing warrant. Meet Assistant DA Alex Cooper. Open up, Daniel. This is a condolence call, not a strip search.”

  There was another short hesitation before the buzzer sounded. Mike entered, climbing the steps in front of me. When we reached 2D, the door was ajar and the chain was bolted across the opening.

  “Let me see your papers.”

  “I realize this is a difficult day,” I said, “but we don’t need a warrant. You have no legal standing to keep us out of your sister’s apartment. We’re simply here to talk to you.”

  “Me, I’m the battering-ram type, Daniel. Works every time and it gets the neighbors’ attention. Coop here favors the more polite approach.” Mike pressed his arm against the door to test its give.

  Daniel pushed it closed and removed the chain.

  “May we come in?” I asked.

  He shrugged and stepped back to let us enter.

  Mike scoped the room—a large studio apartment lined with brick and board bookshelves, with little more in it than a double bed against the wall, a pair of beanbag chairs, a couple of crates that served as a living area, and a tiny kitchenette. Two doors were opened in the back, revealing a bathroom and a closet. I introduced myself to Daniel, trying to figure whether his reserve was grief or a natural shyness as I expressed my sympathy for his sister’s brutal death.

  “May I sit down?”

  “Yeah, sure.” He motioned to the chairs, but I chose the side of the bed. I knew I would sink into the shape-shifting beans and end up below eye level with him. Daniel wasn’t ready to sit, answering me but keeping a watch on Mike.

  “I’ve got a lot of questions about Naomi that I’d like to ask you,” I said. “Is there anything you want to know before we begin?”

  “Nah. The cops told me the stuff about her body,” he said. “I really don’t want to hear any more of that.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Right now I’m a prop guy. Move scenery and equipment at a theater. I’m supposed to start acting classes in the summer.”

  “Have you worked at the show very long?”

  “It’s a temp job,” he said, scratching his sandy brown hair, which hung below the collar of his sweatshirt in a long, tangled snarl. “I only moved to New York in the fall.”

  “From? …”

  “Chicago. I lived near Chicago with my mother.”

  “Does she know about Naomi yet?” I asked, hoping to distract Daniel while Mike lifted a suitcase out of the closet.

  “She’s my mother. Not Naomi’s,” Daniel said. “You mind leaving her luggage alone, Detective?”

  “All packed up and ready to go,” Mike said. “Your sister do that, or you?”

  “Just don’t touch it, okay?” Daniel Gersh walked toward Mike. He was tall and well built, with a jangly kind of energy that made him appear skittish and nervous.

  “Ms. Cooper’s talking to you.” Mike backed off the suitcase and walked over to the windowed wall that housed the sink and small oak dining table.

  The apartment was neat and clean. I knew it would be gone over by crime-scene detectives and was confident—as Mike was— that Daniel wasn’t leaving with the suitcase or any other property of his late sister’s, if that was what he had come here to do. Nothing appeared to be out of place. It didn’t look like the young woman had been butchered in her home.

  “Can I just get you to focus on some questions that would help us try to figure out what happened to Naomi?” I said.

  “Then stop asking about me, okay? What do you want to know about her?”

  “Why don’t you start with the family background?”

  Daniel had planted himself in the middle of the room. “Naomi’s a lot older than I am. Seven years. My father—our father, I mean—he met her mother in college. Got her pregnant and her family put a lot of pressure on them to get married. So they did. But it didn’t last very long. Like a year after Naomi was born, it was over.”

  I could hear the rustling noise as Mike pulled back the shower curtain in the bathroom, and Daniel hurried over to look at what he was doing.

  “The toilet’s still running,” Mike said. “What’d you flush before you let us in?”

  Daniel held up his arms as if puzzled. “Like, what are you talking about? Maybe it’s just broken.”

  “Drugs? Pills? Why’re you so jumpy, Daniel?”

  “I’m not jumpy, man. I’m still, like, shocked about this.”

  “Then answer Ms. Cooper’s questions.”

  “I take it your father remarried,” I said. “Did you and Naomi grow up near each other?”

  “At first, yeah.” Daniel settled himself in, leaning against the refrigerator and lighting a cigarette. “My mom and dad lived in a suburb of Chicago. Naomi’s mother taught at the university for a while—they lived in Hyde Park. Then, like my dad said, she was always trying to find herself.”

  “Naomi’s mother?”

  “Yeah. Her name was Rachel. My dad used to joke that he was glad she did eventually find herself—and that it was as far away from him as possible.” Daniel inhaled and smiled, his affect as inappropriate to the situation as his remarks.

  “Where did they go?” I asked.

  “They made aliyah, Ms. Cooper. You know what that is?”

  “They immigrated to Israel.” I knew the Hebrew word that was a basic tenet of Zionism and w
ould explain the Israeli Law of Return to Mike later on. It allowed anyone of Jewish descent the right to settle in Israel, to return to the Promised Land.

  “Rachel took Naomi away with her? There wasn’t a custody battle?”

  “Not from what my mom says. By that time my father was already—um, he was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s disease when I was pretty young. He died when I was twelve, and no, he wasn’t really interested in Naomi. Or me, for that matter. He was too sick to do much of anything.”

  “Did you stay in touch with your sister?” I asked.

  Daniel didn’t seem to object to my calling her that, as separate as he tried to paint their lives. He took a deep drag on his cigarette. “Sometimes. She came back to the States when our dad died. Stayed with my mother and me for a few months, but they didn’t have much to say to each other. Naomi went off to college after that, in London.”

  “Do you know what she studied?”

  “Yeah. Philosophy. Philosophy and religion. I think she wanted to—tried to—have some kind of relationship with me. She used to send me things all the time.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Letters. Souvenirs and shit like that whenever she traveled.”

  “Tell me about the letters, Daniel.”

  “I don’t remember much. Naomi was trying to be all grown up and intellectual, and me, I was just a goofy kid. Just read them and threw them out.”

  “Shhhhhhh,” Mike said, placing his forefinger against his lips. “Hear it?”

  “Hear what?” I asked.

  “The quiet.” Mike was getting right up in Daniel’s face. “Think of the money you’ll save, Daniel. Plumbers charge almost as much an hour as good defense lawyers.”

  “So what?”

  “So the toilet stopped running. Not a long-standing problem in the pipes, I wouldn’t think. Why won’t you tell me what you flushed?”

  “Maybe I just had to use the john, Detective. Ever think of that?”

  “I did, actually. ’Cause if you’ve got these tiny pieces of paper coming out your ass, you ought to see a doctor.”

  Something had been ripped into shreds and it looked like Mike had picked up a few damp remains and spread them on the countertop, on paper towels, to dry.