Redeemer (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #3)

by Kennedy, J. Robert

  Trace fidgeted with her gloves, trying to get them to fit properly over a new ring she was sporting.

  Shoulda taken it off first!

  Shakespeare walked through the entranceway and down the short hall. Nothing was amiss. He rounded the corner and shook his head. Across the back of the couch lay the naked body of their victim. She hadn’t been positively identified yet, but according to the records search a Constance Reilly lived here.

  Alone.

  Which was just the way Wayne Cooper liked them. Alone. Defenseless.

  Coward.

  He stopped himself from jumping to the conclusion it was Cooper. He had to keep an open mind, otherwise he may miss some critical piece of evidence.

  He stepped further into the room allowing Trace and Vinny to follow.

  “Oh my,” said Vinny, making the sign of the cross. He stepped forward, beginning a cursory examination of the body without touching it. He pointed at her back. “Multiple stab wounds, pre, peri and post mortem by the looks of it.” He stepped around the couch and knelt down to examine her head. He stood up quickly, his eyes wide.

  “What is it?” asked Trace.

  But Shakespeare already knew what Vinny was going to say. And he didn’t know how to feel about it.

  “She’s been shot in the back of the head. Exactly like the first six victims.”

  Shakespeare took a deep breath. “Okay, take notes,” he said, glancing at Trace who already had her notepad out and ready. He smiled—on the inside. She had been a reluctant partner at first, a last minute replacement for Eldridge after his death, but after their last case together he had “proposed” to her, and she had accepted, and the LT had made it official. She now occupied Eldridge’s old desk, and now that he was taking his career seriously again, and actually sitting at his desk on a regular basis, he found he was slowly getting used to seeing her there.

  When he had told Louise about asking Trace to be his partner, he had half expected her to be jealous. After all, Trace was mid-thirties and quite attractive if in a bit of a Tomboyish way. Shakespeare had seen her done up for some undercover work once, and she definitely cleaned up nicely, but when on the job, she was all business, and that meant pant suits and jeans if need be, but never skirts or dresses. Makeup was scarce, though she hardly needed it, and her hair was kept short, a look he had come to appreciate more after he had asked her about it.

  “I chopped it off after some perp got a hold of it and nearly yanked my block off. I said ‘never again’.”

  He surveyed the room, ignoring the victim. “Nothing’s out of place. Television is on showing the menu of some homemade DVD by the looks of it. ‘Vacation to Dominican’ is the title displayed. Happy couple shown, probably our victim with a husband or boyfriend.”

  “Husband,” said Vinny, pointing at a mantle with wedding photos.

  “Husband,” repeated Shakespeare. He pointed at Trace. “Let’s find out who and where he is.”

  “Will do.”

  “No signs of a struggle. Nothing broken, nothing out of place.” Walking around the room slowly he examined the shelves, and all of the surfaces, along with the walls. “Nothing seems to be missing, no evidence of pictures or objects taken or moved.” He looked back at the entranceway. “Hall light is on, but only one light here in the living room. Suggests she was watching the home movie, then went to answer the door.” He looked at Vinny. “Have your guys pay particular attention to the door, doorbell, everything.”

  Vinny nodded. Shakespeare knew he didn’t need to tell Vinny how to do his job, and just a few weeks ago would have expected some snide remark from him about just that, but since they had patched things up, Vinny didn’t even seem to be biting his tongue, instead taking things in the spirit in which it was given.

  Shakespeare rounded the room again, flashlight out, examining the floor. “No evidence of any furniture being moved except for the couch. Looks like it’s been moved forward about a foot on one side, six inches on the other. Probably moved as our victim was sexually assaulted.”

  He pointed at the table. A drained wine glass stood beside a bottle of Merlot, half empty. “Check the glass, our perp might have finished off her wine, could have left prints or DNA.”

  “Good thought,” murmured Vinny as he too took notes.

  Shakespeare picked up the cordless phone sitting on the table, sitting parallel to the remote control for the DVD player. He hit redial.

  9-1-1.

  “She called nine-one-one according to this.” He turned to Trace. “Find out if that call went through, and if it did, what came of it.” Trace scribbled on her pad as Shakespeare returned the phone to the table. He stood behind the victim, her naked body, draped over the back of the couch, gave the impression of something discarded carelessly.

  A life.

  She was naked, head to toe. He pointed at the floor. “Looks like the victim’s pants—make that track pants—and panties are here on the floor, behind the couch.” He leaned over. “A sweatshirt is on the couch.” He frowned. “No evidence of a bra anywhere.” He motioned Trace over. “Woman’s opinion. Was she expecting someone?”

  Trace shook her head. “No way. Not a guy at least. She was wearing comfortable pants, comfortable sweater. Not sexy. No bra. Single glass of wine—”

  “Good catch,” congratulated Shakespeare.

  “In my opinion, this girl was sitting down for a night alone.” She pointed at the table. “Box of Kleenex. Home movies.” She pointed at a waste basket sitting beside the couch, several wadded Kleenex inside. “She’s been crying, blowing her nose.”

  “Breakup?” suggested Vinny.

  “Could be. But this girl was married. Usually a marriage ending builds over time. If it’s abrupt, it’s usually someone leaving to hook up with somebody else. If she’s sitting here crying over it, then he would have had to leave her. If he left her for another woman, I can’t see her leaving the photos up. She’d have taken them down, maybe even destroyed them in anger.”

  Shakespeare nodded, not sure he agreed with everything being suggested, but impressed with some of the conclusions she had come up with based upon the evidence in front of her.

  “Okay, we’ll talk to the neighbors, see if they know anything, saw anything.”

  “If it wasn’t a breakup, then what was it?” asked Vinny.

  And then it hit Shakespeare, sending his heart racing in excitement.

  “She’s a widow.”

  Trace’s jaw dropped.

  “Just like the first six victims!”

  Frank Brata looked up from his workstation to see who had knocked on the door. It was Harold Nonkoh, NYPD Homicide’s newest addition. He wondered for a moment if Eldridge’s death had created the opening that Nonkoh had filled.

  He waved him in.

  Nonkoh, early thirties, black, and if Brata remembered from an overheard conversation, a childhood immigrant from Ghana, opened the door, a seemingly permanent smile still on his face.

  “What can I do for you, Detective?”

  Nonkoh carefully closed the door, as if he didn’t want to make any noise that might disturb others in the various labs in Jamaica, Queens.

  “Good evening, Frank, I’m glad to find you here. I’ve heard a lot of good things from the guys at the squad, and was told if I ever needed anything done, to see you.”

  Frank looked away, uncomfortable with the praise. He pointed at a chair then winced, his recent gunshot wound still not healed completely.

  “Have a seat.”

  Nonkoh sat and drew the seat uncomfortably close. Frank pushed back slightly, leaving his legs extended so Nonkoh couldn’t close the gap.

  “How can I help you?”

  Nonkoh gestured at Frank’s shoulder. “How are you healing up?”

  Frank shrugged then winced. “A little better each day. I just started back today”—he looked at his watch—“yesterday. Doctor said I should take it easy, but”—he motioned at his computer—“my Inbox is so full, I st
ill haven’t cleared it out.”

  Nonkoh frowned. “Perhaps I should come back another time?”

  Frank shook his head. “No, no, no, I’m okay. Just tired. My girlfriend’s been badgering me to come home and get some rest. I promised her I’d be out of here in fifteen minutes, and I don’t like to break my promises, so tell me what you need, and I’ll get on it in the morning if that’s okay.”

  “Absolutely. I’m hoping it’s simple.”

  “Me too,” said Frank, smiling.

  Nonkoh laughed, and leaned forward. “Listen. I had an idea. It’s pretty out there, I haven’t even run it by my partner. Shakes has me looking for similar cases going back to Wayne Cooper’s youth, and as I was entering search criteria into the computer, it suddenly dawned on me, that maybe we’ve missed something. Something big.”

  Frank leaned forward, closing the gap himself.

  “What?”

  Nonkoh looked around the room, as if he wanted to make sure no one overheard his outrageous idea.

  He lowered his voice. “What if the last victim, Sandra Gray, was a mistake?”

  Frank popped back in his chair. A mistake? Frank’s brain was running a mile a minute as he tried to process this new idea. It had always been the outlier. A piece of DNA evidence found, when no other scenes had any, no gunshot wound, a gun left behind. All those though could be explained away by the husband coming home.

  “The husband! She wasn’t a widow!”

  “Exactly,” whispered Nonkoh, looking over his shoulder after Frank’s outburst.

  It had always been known that Sandra Gray wasn’t a widow and all the others were. This was a well-known fact, and it had been assumed that she had some personal connection to Cooper that had made him single her out, to deviate from his pattern. They had tried to find this connection, but Frank wasn’t sure how much effort had been put into it, once the weapon had been traced back to Cooper’s mother, and his DNA had been found. But now that the DNA was tossed, Frank was certain the detectives would redouble their efforts to find that link.

  But what if they were wrong?

  “So you think that he killed the wrong woman?”

  Nonkoh’s head bobbed furiously, touching his nose then pointing at Frank. “That’s exactly it.”

  Frank could feel his blood pound in his ears at the idea. It was incredibly exciting, because it was so plausible. It would explain the one discrepancy that couldn’t be explained.

  Why had Wayne Cooper killed a married woman?

  “What do you need from me?”

  “I need you to run a records search to see if there are any widows, or more accurately, were any widows, living on Gray’s street or in his apartment building, at the time of her murder.”

  Frank spun in his chair and began to hammer at his keyboard. “I’ll call you as soon as I have something, Detective.”

  “Thanks, Frank.”

  Nonkoh stood up and left the lab, again carefully closing the door.

  Frank pulled his phone off his belt and quickly typed a text message.

  Sorry sweets emergency came up. Going 2 B late.

  Shakespeare pulled up beside Walker and Curtis’ car as Trace rolled down the window. He leaned over, across Trace’s lap. “You’re sure he’s in there.”

  “No way anybody’s leaving that place,” replied Walker, pointing at the camera crews camped on the front lawn.

  Shakespeare frowned. “Okay, you guys stay here, we’re going to see if he’s taking visitors.”

  “At three in the morning?”

  Shakespeare shrugged his shoulders. “They say there’s no rest for the wicked, so this guy should never sleep a wink.”

  He pressed the accelerator and moments later pulled up to the curb in front of the house. They were immediately assaulted with a dozen cameras and lights, the sleepy reporters trying to fire themselves up at the unexpected arrival.

  Shakespeare climbed out of the car with a grunt, the shocks popping up too many inches once his bulk cleared. He barreled through the reporters, with the comparatively tiny Trace in his wake, and rang the doorbell.

  No answer.

  Did you expect one?

  He rang again, this time adding several hard knocks.

  “NYPD, we need to speak to Mr. Cooper.”

  A window-well to their right was suddenly bathed in light as somebody in the basement stirred. A few moments later the door opened, but it was still dark inside. A dozen camera lights quickly fixed that and both Shakespeare and Trace gasped.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  THREE

  Shakespeare stared at the man standing before them, his eyes bloodshot, his breath reeking of alcohol, sporting pajama bottoms that barely covered his equipment, and a wife beater t-shirt that completed the classy ensemble.

  “Who the hell are you?” he asked in return.

  Shakespeare produced his badge. “Detective Shakespeare, Homicide. And I ask you again, who are you?”

  “None of your business.”

  The man’s words were slurred, and Shakespeare wasn’t entirely convinced he knew what was really going on. But there was one way to cut through the BS.

  “I’d like to speak to the owner of the house.”

  The man paused for a moment, looking from Shakespeare, then to Trace, then to the potted plant on the doorstep. He leaned over and heaved, most likely killing the plant. He stood back up, wiping his mouth and chin with the back of his hand, then smeared that across his wife beater, leaving a distinct yellow stain.

  Shakespeare heard Trace mutter, “Classy.”

  “Are you the owner of the house?”

  The man shook his head.

  “I’d like to speak with them, please.”

  Again the head shake. “Not here.”

  “Is there anyone else here besides yourself?”

  “N-no,” he gulped, as if trying to hold down another batch of spew.

  “Can you provide proof that you are on these premises legally?”

  The man’s eyes shot open. Slightly. “Wh-what?”

  “Well, sir, you refuse to identify yourself, you are clearly intoxicated, and you are inside a residence I don’t believe to be your own. Unless you can prove you are legally here, I’ll be forced to arrest you for trespassing.”

  The man gripped the doorframe with both hands, his knees shaking as he eyed Shakespeare.

  “Roger Nickel.”

  He leaned forward and heaved all over Shakespeare’s shoes.

  “Hey, MJ, how they hangin’?” greeted Vinny.

  Miles “MJ” Jenkins, one of New York City’s Medical Examiners, cocked an eyebrow at Vinny as he came through the door.

  “If I answered that honestly, you’d never feel adequate as a man again.”

  “Hey, new material!” laughed Vinny with a half-smile. His eyes narrowed. “You been practicing your standup on your customers again?”

  MJ glanced around the room. “Has Trace been talking?”

  Vinny ran his fingers across his lips as if fastening a zipper.

  He tossed away the key.

  MJ looked at the victim splayed across the couch and became all business.

  “What’ve we got?”

  Vinny’s lips unzipped.

  “Female, late twenties, multiple stab wounds, single gunshot to the head, evidence of vaginal and anal intercourse.” He pointed at some of the stab wounds in the back. “Look pre, post and peri to me.”

  MJ pursed his lips and grunted. “How about we let the expert determine that?”

  “You mean you?” asked Vinny in mock surprise, leaning back with his hands on his hips.

  “Wise ass. Sometimes I wonder why Shakespeare didn’t beat the shit out of you over the years.”

  Vinny laughed. “Shakes may be able to kick my ass, but I’ll always be able to outrun him.”

  A smile spread across MJ’s face as he nodded, examining the wounds.

  “That man needs to get himself in shape, or I’m afraid
we’ll be attending another funeral too soon.”

  The smile left Vinny’s face. He could tell from MJ’s tone that he was serious. And more serious than a doctor making a general observation about an overweight man.

  “Do you know something?”

  MJ shook his head as he used his gloved hands to spread apart wound after wound.

  “No, just a suspicion.”

  “What?”

  MJ looked over his shoulder at Vinny.

  “I think he needs a friend to tell the truth to.”

  Vinny’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. “Hey, just because we buried the hatchet in the ground instead of each other’s backs doesn’t mean we’re friends. We used to be, and maybe we’ll be again, but we’re a long way from that.” Vinny paused for a moment as MJ examined the head wound. “Come to think of it, you’re probably the one he’s closest to.”

  It was MJ’s turn to be surprised, his hands freezing as he looked over at Vinny. “Not sure about that. If it’s true, it’s sad. A cop should be close to his partner. Hopefully in time he’ll confide in Trace.”

  “Confide what?” Vinny was getting a little frustrated. There was a secret out there, and like a child he wanted to know what it was.

  MJ winked. “Can’t say, Doctor-Patient privilege.”

  Vinny flipped him the bird.

  “What the hell!”

  Vinny took the two paces to MJ’s position quickly.

  “What is it?”

  MJ pulled a pair of tweezers from his kit and gently inserted them into the gunshot wound. Squeezing, he slowly pulled something out, finally working it loose, a piece of all too familiar plastic emerging.

  A computer memory card.

  Shakespeare held his hands out. “Come on, guys, do you really need to be filming this?”

  A round of oh yeah’s, absolutely’s and highlight of the night’s erupted from the assembled camera crews as Trace hosed off Shakespeare’s pants and shoes with a garden hose that had been sitting at the front of the house. Roger “The Hurler” Nickel sat in the back of a cruiser, Officer Scaramell watching him as Officer Richards and two other uniforms searched the house.