When Laura told me it was time to go, I left all the papers in discrete piles on my desk. We both put on jackets and walked to the elevator. She went into the revolving door first, and we parted on the sidewalk in front of the Hogan Place entrance.
“Good night. Stop pushing yourself so hard, Alex,” Laura said, walking off to head north to the Canal Street subway station.
“Thanks for everything. See you tomorrow.”
I took the shortcut along Baxter Street, crossing to avoid the loading dock that was blocked by a large truck. The small park that separated Chinatown from the courthouse was on my left. Schoolchildren who played kickball and tag there were long gone, and it was too dark for the seniors who did their Tai Chi exercises at the beginning and end of the day.
The wind picked up and shadows from the trees in the park danced under the dim glow of the streetlights.
I held my cell in both hands, texting Mike that I was on my way. I had forgotten that the new security system at One Police Plaza would slow me down by an additional five or six minutes.
I heard the footsteps before the man spoke. He came rushing out of the park after I passed the gate in the southwest corner, running at me from behind.
I turned to look at him and stumbled on the cracked sidewalk, falling to my knees, my BlackBerry skipping off the curb between two parked cars.
He was coming at me so fast that his feet caught on my extended leg and he landed on the ground, half of him squarely on top of me.
“Ms. Alice,” the slight young black man said. “I’m not going to hurt you, Ms. Alice.”
I didn’t realize I had screamed until two uniformed cops pulled the kid off and cuffed him.
TWENTY-THREE
“IT was Luther Audley,” I said to Mike. I was forty-five minutes late for Scully’s meeting, but the commissioner himself had been called to City Hall to explain things to the mayor, so we were all on hold waiting for him.
“How’d you recognize Luther? By the crack in his rear end?”
Guido Lentini, the deputy commissioner for public information, had given us his office to use until Scully arrived. Nan was standing behind me, kneading my shoulders. She knew I was rattled and was just trying to calm me down.
“Where is he now?” Mercer asked.
“I asked the cops not to arrest him. I believe his story. I’m fine. If I hadn’t tripped on that jagged piece of cement, he wouldn’t have become entangled with me.”
“C’mon, Alex. Where’s Luther?”
“I told them you’d call. It’s two guys from the Ninth Precinct,” I said, unfolding a piece of paper with their numbers. “They’re holding him in Central Booking till after we sort this out.”
“What did Luther say to you, exactly?” Mike asked.
“He might have been calling my name to get my attention. I’m not sure, but I thought he said ‘Alice’ so it didn’t concern me. Anyway, I thought it was street noise and I ignored it ’cause I was texting you. I didn’t hear him speak until after—”
“After he brought you down.”
“He didn’t bring me down, Mike. I really don’t think that’s what he had in mind.”
“He was waiting for you, wasn’t he?”
“How could he possibly have known I’d take Baxter Street?”
“Your office is the only place he’d think to find you,” Mercer said. “Maybe he just skulked around till he figured you’d be getting out of work, saw you walk out and separate from Laura, and got lucky when you took the darker route.”
“But he didn’t do anything to me.”
“Tell her, Nan. The kid cost her at least a manicure,” Mike said.
“Twelve dollars, Mike. Still only a misdemeanor.” Nan pinched my shoulders.
My knuckles were bloody from scraping the sidewalk, and several of my nails had broken.
“Here’s what he said, when the cops let him open his mouth. It’s all about his grandfather.”
“I like that old guy,” Mike said.
“The trustees have decided to fire Mr. Audley,” I said. “It looks bad for them that Amos has been letting Luther hang out there. By hindsight, people in the office claim that stuff is missing—cash, some of the silver objects that would bring in a fraction of their worth being sold on the street, books and hymnals.”
“Then keep a leash on Luther,” Mercer said. “Why punish Gramps?”
“He’s the one person in the world that Luther cares about. The one human being who’s always looked out for him. The kid knows that and feels bad about it. That’s why he was trying to catch up with me. That’s all he wanted.”
“He’s not familiar with the concept of office hours?”
“Right, Mike. With his batting average, you think he’s just going to show up for an appointment with an assistant district attorney? Not likely to be his comfort zone.”
“What does he expect you to do?”
“Talk to Wilbur Gaskin. The kid’s not wrong. Luther says Mr. Gaskin’s behind the whole idea. He feels personally embarrassed about what happened in front of us with him and his friends. Gaskin thinks he needs to send a signal to everyone at the church.”
“Ain’t nothing sacred if Amos Audley’s expendable,” Mercer said. “That’ll have everybody shaking in their boots.”
“So you called, didn’t you? That’s why you were so late getting over here.”
“I was late because I had to make the cops understand why I wasn’t pressing charges.”
“But I’ll bet you called Wilbur Gaskin. Fess up, Coop.”
“Sure, I tried to call him.”
“Without discussing the idea with your partners, huh?” Mike gestured at Nan and Mercer. “Without letting us weigh in on whether it was a good plan.”
“Not a problem, Mr. Chapman. I didn’t reach him.”
“Nobody home?”
“Remember, Wilbur Gaskin spends every other weekend in Atlanta? Keeps a place there, where he grew up. Likes to go down to play golf.”
“I’m not surprised, Coop. You scared him out of church on us, just when we could have used his help. Now Amos Audley’s job is on the line, and you’ve run Gaskin right out of town.”
TWENTY-FOUR
GUIDO Lentini cracked the door open. “Everything okay with you, Alexandra?”
“We’re good. What’s with Scully?” It was almost seven thirty.
“Everybody in the room is getting antsy. All I know is that the first dep called to say the mayor has info for Scully, for a change. He asked me to keep all you cats herded in the big office. You ready to join us?”
“Couple more calls, Guido,” Mike said. He had already convinced the pair of 9th Precinct cops to let Luther Audley go and void his arrest for third-degree assault.
“I want you to be in there when Scully shows, okay?”
The office of the DCPI was one of the most high-tech communications hubs in the department. Lentini’s phone bank could auto-dial any bigwig in the city, and the flat screens that hung on three of the walls could call up everything from local breaking news to on-the-ground action in Afghanistan or Israel, Abu Dhabi or Singapore.
“Give me a heads-up when he’s crossing the street, will you?” Mike asked, one hand on the television remote.
I stood up and walked into the restroom to splash water on my face. When I came out, Mike pressed the power button and five of the large screens lit up with Alex Trebek’s face.
“Get ready, Nan. I expect you to ante up,” Mike said.
“What makes this okay, Mike?” she asked. “That the body isn’t actually in the room with us? Or do you just like being the poster boy for bad taste?”
“You know a body wouldn’t stop him,” Mercer said. “Never has done.”
“That’s right,” Trebek said. “Tonight’s Final Jeopardy! category is CRIMINAL SONGBIRD. First time we’ve had this one. CRIMINAL SONGBIRD.”
All three studio contestants laughed and shook their heads.
“Fifty bucks, la
dies and gent. We’re bound to know this,” Mike said. “All crime, all the time.”
“Twenty-five,” Nan said. “I’ve got those little mouths to feed at home.”
Trebek stepped back to reveal the answer. “ ‘ Singer convicted of pinching buttocks of a woman in the Central Park Zoo.’ ”
“I’m going inside. I have no idea.”
“Don’t throw in the towel, blondie. You know every Chester Molester in history.”
“Who is Frank Sinatra?”
“Are you crazy? If you were a player on the show, ninety-nine percent of the viewing public would be throwing rocks at the telly. Ol’ Blue Eyes never had to pinch.”
I was only a bit ahead of the accountant, who guessed Keith Richards. Nan and Mercer—like the other two contestants—threw up their hands without an answer.
“I’m in a cultural wasteland with you mooks. Who was Enrico Caruso?” Mike cheered for himself when Trebek confirmed the question. “In 1906. The great tenor was arrested by the NYPD for ass-grabbing a society dame in the monkey house.”
“You learned that at the Academy?” Mercer asked. “I must have been dozing.”
“Nah. My dad loved Caruso. But Aunt Eunice wouldn’t let him listen to the records ’cause of what he did. She thought he was a perv. Convicted too. He testified at his trial that the monkey did it. How’s that for a new low?”
Mike was gathering up his papers to shift to the conference room adjoining Scully’s office.
“Fits with your orangutan theory,” Mercer said. “Let’s move out, okay?”
Nan and I left first. We had long ago ceased to be surprised by the black humor of homicide work. These were detectives who faced down the darkest corners of the human condition every day and found relief—like small air pockets for someone gasping for breath—in the most unlikely manner.
The group waiting for Scully had grown considerably in number. Lieutenant Peterson led the Manhattan North contingent, chatting with his South counterpart while the men—and one woman homicide cop—stood in clusters around the long table. Somehow, Manny Chirico was still wide-eyed and alert. I recognized guys from Anti-Crime and the Harbor Unit, Highway Patrol and Housing. The only people not invited seemed to be the Counter-Terrorism teams.
Lentini stepped out to make a call, clutching his ever-present clipboard. He was back in a minute. “Take your seats, men. The commissioner’s in the elevator.”
You could almost smell the testosterone in the room as the city’s best murder investigators staked out places and readied their notepads.
Sadly for the victims, not all homicides are created equal. The choice of religious institutions as this killer’s backdrop and tortured young women as his prey ratcheted up the level of interest and outrage of this select team. Gang members, junkies, and the great unwashed dead of the metropolitan area would be shuffled to back burners until this perp was caught.
“Thanks for your patience, men.” Keith Scully entered the room with his first dep and a second man carrying a laptop, and it was as though the spine of each of us around the table automatically stiffened as we mumbled some version of “good evening” to the commissioner. His professionalism was unmistakable, as was the ramrod straightness of his Marine bearing, physically and metaphorically.
I had known Scully for six or seven years, from the time when he had been chief of detectives, on the steady climb up the ladder to the top cop post, which was a mayoral appointment. He was tall and sinewy, with close-cut hair now gone silver, and as many creases etched into his face as there were constant crises thrown onto his lap.
“How many guys you got on this, Ray?” Lieutenant Peterson was the senior man in the room, so Scully started with him.
“A dozen, Keith.” The two privileges the old-timer was allowed were still addressing the commissioner by his first name and smoking his cigarettes inside headquarters. No one else dared do either.
“Double it. By tomorrow’s day shift. Same goes for all of you.”
“Manpower’s an issue,” Peterson said. “My men each got a full plate as it is, and then you sent that new directive about limiting overtime—which, I gotta say, pissed everybody off.”
“Tell them to eat their overtime. Shove it. You’ve got tonight to organize yourselves. Get a good meal and whatever rest you can in the next twelve hours. I don’t expect you to sleep again till you bring this guy down,” Scully said. “Your world turns upside down tomorrow when we let the media know we’ve got an ID on the victim.”
Manny Chirico pushed back from the table. The rest of us were riveted on Keith Scully.
“Her name is Ursula Hewitt.” Scully pointed to his tech aide, who flashed one of the crime-scene photos of her from his Power-Point file onto the wall screen.
If you hadn’t seen the body in the churchyard firsthand, there was nothing like a life-size color blowup to jump-start this crew for a full-on manhunt. I could hear the intake of breath and a few “holy shits” from around the table.
“Female Caucasian,” Scully went on, like he was calling cadence. “Thirty-nine years old. Born in Forest Hills. Flushing Boulevard. Attended church and parochial school there.”
Most of the men in the room were Catholic. That fact was probably intended to juice them a bit more.
“Our Lady Queen of Martyrs,” Mike whispered. He often said that New York and New Orleans were the only two cities in the country in which the devout identified themselves by their parish affiliations, rather than neighborhoods.
The next slide was a photograph of the young Hewitt from her high school yearbook, offering all the freshness and promise of youth. She was slimmer then, and the contrast between her slender neck and the slashed throat of the morning’s scene was horrifying.
“Ursula’s uncle called the mayor’s office at five twenty-three this evening. He lives in San Francisco, but he’s got a high school buddy who works at City Hall. She’d been staying with friends in Manhattan but never made it home last night. It was his birthday, and she was certain to call. Then he heard about the body at St. Pat’s on the radio, but he thought he didn’t have enough reason to call the police. Just that it was one of her favorite churches, which snagged his radar. We went over to compare photographs from the scene with the one from her last visit that her uncle scanned in to his friend at City Hall.”
The next picture went up on the third screen. It was a more recent image of Ursula Hewitt, dressed in flowing clerical vestments. The floor-length alb of white linen was perfectly draped over her, with a scarlet stole on her shoulders that ran down the length of the garment, and a large cross around her neck.
“This is Ursula Hewitt,” Scully said, his lips clamped tightly together as he paused. “Three years ago, when she was ordained as a Catholic priest.”
There was dead silence in the room as we all took in the photo, till a split second later when one of the guys from Manhattan South broke in with a nervous laugh. “Hey, chief. We don’t got lady priests. We got nuns.”
Keith Scully didn’t brook interruptions.
“Ursula Hewitt was a Catholic priest. She was ordained in a neighborhood church in Back Bay, Boston. She even celebrated Mass a few times at Old St. Pat’s.”
Most of the men looked perplexed, as surprised as I was to hear that fact.
“She was excommunicated by the Vatican a year later, because of that ordination. So we’ve got another outcast on our hands, gentlemen,” Scully said. “Another pariah.”
TWENTY-FIVE
“FORM your pods, guys,” Scully said. “Put your working groups together tonight, figure out a way to keep each other up to speed on anything you discover—one from each team who can be the contact person—and report to the first dep every couple of hours, even if to say you’ve got nothing new. Nobody talks to reporters except Guido. Nobody.”
“The vic’s uncle, Keith. He got any ideas?” Peterson asked.
“The usual. She’s had stalkers, hate mail from the faithful, and worse from the Vat
ican. He was keeping close tabs on her because she was getting overwhelmed by the way she’d been treated.” The commissioner was going in ten directions at once. “You’re not only looking for the perp himself—or maybe it’s more than one person. Find me an abattoir—a slaughterhouse, a cage of some kind, a basement or rooftop, maybe a commercial van he’s turned into his chop shop. Check for stolen vehicles. A place these killings happen without this bastard calling attention to himself.”
“One more thing, Keith, if you don’t mind,” the lieutenant said. He had earlier told Scully and the group about Mike’s coup on the Fordham campus. “Do like Chapman today. Think outside the box for a change.”
The sergeant from Mounted slapped Mike’s back. “He’s lived an entire life outside the box. That’s all this guy knows. Don’t start giving him credit for it.”
“This wasn’t my original plan for the six o’clock meeting,” Scully said. “But the ID changed the whole point of having you here. Let’s hit the ground running at daybreak.”
Mike, Mercer, Nan, and I huddled with Peterson. He wanted us to have someone familiar with the waterfront, at least two men from South, and anyone Chirico could spare from the Night Watch crew.
“Can you step out for a minute, Alex?” Scully asked.
“Of course,” I said more eagerly than I meant. I figured that he wanted to get some assurance from me that he—not Paul Battaglia—would be calling the shots in this investigation. “Nan too?”
“No. Just you.”
I looked over at my friend for support. She could do no more than raise her eyebrows.
Scully took me into the hallway and around the corner so our voices wouldn’t echo. “I need you to step down from this case, Alex.”
“I can’t believe you just said that. You’re joking, aren’t you?”
“You know me better than that. Step down. I don’t want any further discussion.”
Silent Mercy Page 17
