by Dana Donovan
“Yes. So, Ida called the landlord, who used his key to enter the apartment and….”
“And they found Anna in the tub.”
“That’s it. No signs of foul play, forced entry, struggle—nothing.”
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“Nothing about this case makes sense,” said Carlos. “That’s why I asked you here.”
I felt myself shrinking back in my chair. “Yeah, thanks for the vote of confidence, but I’m not sure we’ll ever put the pieces of this one together.” I turned to Spinelli. “Nice work, kid.”
“Thanks.”
“Got anything else?”
“Just that you asked me to work on getting that videotape.”
“From Dean’s office camera.”
“Right, so I located a copy at the coroner’s office. Again, my girl Theresa is working on getting it sent up.”
“How long will that take?”
“It shouldn’t take—”
“Spinelli!”
We all turned at the same time. A uniformed officer from downstairs hailed us from the hall. Spinelli waved him into the work area. “Bruce. Hey! Let me introduce you.”
No need,” he said, smiling. “I know Detective Rodriquez.” He put his hand out and they shook. “And Detective Marcella, how are you? I thought you retired to Florida.”
“Officer Bruce Burke,” I said, smiling. I stood and gave him a hug, remembering the circumstances surrounding our last meeting. “I’m fine, and I did,” I said. “I came back to see if Rodriquez would take me fishing at his cottage. How’s things with you?”
“Better.”
“The wife and kids?”
“All fine. Thanks.”
We stood a moment longer, lost in an awkward silence. Then he mentioned the one damn thing I didn’t want anyone to mention as long as I was there.
“Listen, about Doctor Lieberman,” he said. “I know we never caught his killer’s accomplices. I just wanted to say….”
“No, don’t. It wasn’t your fault.”
“But I left my post that night. I should have….”
“You followed procedure. You radioed in; you received permission to terminate your watch. You did everything you could. I don’t want to hear another thing about it.” I looked down and noticed him carrying a large manila envelope. “What do you have there?”
He looked at the envelope and then at Spinelli. “A courier from the Coroner’s office left this downstairs for you.”
“The tape!” Spinelli said. “Thanks.” He took the envelope and tore into it like a kid on Christmas morning. “Yes! It’s the Dean tape. All right!”
“Bridget Dean?” Burke asked.
“Yes,” I said. “You know anything about the case?”
He scoffed openly. “Just that I don’t think it was suicide.”
We three exchanged glances before turning our curiosity back to Burke. “Why do you say that?”
“Well, forget that it was one of three suicides in as many weeks. That alone is strange. But everyone knows how badly that guy, Rivera, wanted the promotion that she got.”
I agreed, adding, “That’s why we have the tape. We want to take a closer look at it ourselves. What do you know about the other suicides?”
“Ha! Funny you should ask. I know that Karen’s death occurred in precinct one’s jurisdiction, but as you know, we all work out of the same building now. The precincts are all going to melt back into one super-precinct soon anyway.”
“I heard that,” I said, “but continue.”
“My buddy, Mike, got the call: a woman jumper. He recognized the address as Karen’s. He phoned me on my cell and alerted me right away. We arrived at the scene together. I took one look at the woman. We found her face-down, but neither Mike nor I had any doubts.”
“Did you go up into her apartment?”
“Yes. About then two more units rolled up. They secured the scene while Mike and I went upstairs. A man identifying himself as the building super approached us. He recognized Karen’s body, too, and offered to let us into her apartment.”
“The door was locked from the inside?”
“Yes.”
“So he unlocked it and you went inside.”
“He unlocked it, but Karen had the security chain latched. I had to throw my shoulder into it—busted the doorjamb all to pieces.”
“Guess that answers that,” said Carlos.
“What?”
“We were wondering whether someone could have broken in, forced Karen off the balcony and then locked the deadbolt behind him when he left. But if that chain was already in place when you arrived….”
“Oh, it was on there, sturdy too. I got the bruises on my shoulder to prove it.”
“Then there couldn’t have been anyone in the apartment when she jumped,” I said.
“Not unless he went over the balcony after her.”
“And that’s impossible,” Carlos added. “The kids out in the street who saw Karen jump would have seen someone climbing down behind her.”
“Maybe the kids did it!” Spinelli offered. God love him for trying.
“Yeah, and maybe Karen just jumped,” I said. “You know, cops do have one of the highest suicide rates in the country.” I reached out and shook Burke’s hand. “Thanks for the info, Bruce. It’s good seeing you. Give my regards to the misses, will you?” He promised he would, and then said his goodbyes to Carlos and Spinelli.
I had been on cases before that offered high hopes, but delivered dead ends. This one was different. This one offered no high hopes, only the dead ends. At the risk of setting ourselves up for another fall, I suggested we look at the videotape. Carlos told me about a room down the hall where they set up all the latest in audio-video technology. It was a good thing, too, because the videotape I expected wasn’t videotape at all. It was a memory cartridge, of sorts, with digital video imprints copied from a hard drive down at the Hartman, Pierce and Petruzelli building. The concept proved completely foreign to me. It’s not that I’m opposed to new technologies, but things like that make me glad I retired from detective work when I did. Carlos claims to understand it all, and probably does, somewhat, but it was Spinelli who wheeled total command over the complex high-tech equipment there.
“They gave us a lot of footage,” he said. “But I’ve got a queue-up number here, so it’ll get us right to the target point in no time.”
I turned to Carlos. “Do you understand what he just said?”
He nodded and made a face designed to make me feel stupid. “It’s child’s play, Tony. Anyone can figure it out.”
“Sure,” I said. I had him figured out. And I figured I’d see him pay for dinner before the night was through.
In a matter of seconds we were watching high resolution colored video of Bridget Dean working behind her desk in her office. The camera angle, as was the case in Rivera’s office, appeared just above the door, facing her desk. The time and date stamp in the corner indicated April, 7th 9: PM. No sound accompanied the video, but none was needed.
“Look at her,” said Carlos. “Nine o’clock on a Friday evening. What a workaholic.”
“The coroner’s report said she was working alone in the building that night,” Spinelli mentioned.
“Unless she’s writing a suicide note,” I said, “she doesn’t appear to me like a woman about to commit suicide.”
Then a strange thing happened. The video image shuddered and went static, though it didn’t black out completely. It only lasted a couple of seconds, but at that instant Bridget Dean stopped and looked up from her work. She stared toward the door and appeared to mouth the words, ‘Who’s there?’ Carlos and I leaned in closer to the screen. Bridget put down her pen, opened a desk drawer and took out a gun. We watched, awestruck, as she came around the desk, the gun clearly pointing in front of her. She stepped hesitantly, almost tiptoeing. Before long, she had walked out of the camera’s view. Next, we saw a muzzle flash reflecting off the blacken
ed window behind her desk, and then her body fell to the floor, just partially within camera view again.
Spinelli let the video run another thirty seconds or so before shutting it off. “That’s it,” he said, leaving us both speechless and numb. “She lay there another five hours before a cleaning crew came in and found her.”
“There has to be more,” I said. “Bridget Dean definitely saw someone.”
“Maybe so,” Spinelli replied. “There are more videos. Investigators have pored over hours of tapes from dozens of cameras, including the ones out in the hall and the offices adjacent to hers. Bridget Dean was alone in that building up until the moment she died.”
“Damn it!” I said, almost without realizing it. I reeled around and punched a hole in the wall out of sheer frustration. Spinelli sprung back, shocked. Carlos hurried to me. He tried putting his arm around my shoulder, but I shrugged it off.
“Tony! What’s gotten into you?”
Already, I had forced composure upon myself. “I’m fine,” I told him. “Leave me alone. I’ll pay to repair the hole in the wall.”
“But, I don’t get it.”
“What’s to get? I told you I’m fine.” I crossed the room, pulled up a chair in the corner and sat down with my head in my hands. Spinelli started to follow, but Carlos held his hand up to stop him. He gave me a minute, then came over and pulled a chair up next to me.
“You want to talk?”
I didn’t look at him. I just shook my head and kept my eyes on the diamond patterns in the carpet. “No. I’m fine now. I lost my cool. I’m sorry.”
“You’re not fine, Tony. You’re like an old snapping turtle. You almost took Lilith’s head off at The Percolator today. That’s not like you.”
“She got on my nerves.”
“She gets on everyone’s nerves. She’s Lilith. But she’s never riled you like that before. So come on, we’re buddies. We’ve worked together for what, thirty years? Why don’t you tell me what’s up?”
“I can’t. I don’t know what’s up. That’s the problem. You remember how bad it got right after our last case.”
I saw him nod through the corner of my eye. “Oh, it wasn’t that bad.”
“Not after we freed Leona, maybe. Hell, I was on such a high after that. But later, when I realized I had nothing on Lilith, and we failed to find Doctor Lowell’s remains.”
“But we know what happened to the doctor and Jean Bradford.”
“We couldn’t put it in the report. Gordon killed himself, so we couldn’t put him on trial for murdering Doctor Lieberman. Then there were Michael and Valerie’s mutilated bodies in the woods. They disappeared. None of that ever got resolved, on paper anyway. As far as the people of New Castle are concerned, we still have a serial killer out there somewhere.”
“But we don’t, and we know it.”
“Yes, but they don’t know it.”
I felt his hand on my back. “I see. So, that’s it.”
“What’s it?”
“It’s a legacy issue. The Surgeon Stalker was your biggest case ever, and on paper you couldn’t solve it.”
“No, Carlos. That’s not it at all.”
“Well, what then? Why the hell are you so irritable? Why can’t you eat or sleep. Why can’t you give Lilith that stupid witch’s ladder?”
I turned sharply at him.
“Yes,” he said. “I know you still have it. But you heard Dominic. It’s just a string of beads now. It’s useless except that it reminds you of the Surgeon Stalker. If not for that, then maybe you could get some sleep. Unless you want to remember the Stalker, is that it? Is that why you still have it? You need it?”
“No! I don’t need it, and it doesn’t remind me of the Stalker.”
“Then whom? Leona? Are you holding on to it because it reminds you of her? Are you clinging to the memory of a sweet young woman who, if not for you, would have suffered a fate worse than death?”
“No!”
“Is it Lilith? Are you….”
I turned my eyes away in guilty denial.
“You are! You’re holding onto that ladder because it’s the only thing tying you to Lilith Adams. But why, Tony? Why can’t you let go?”
“I don’t know, Carlos, damn it! Don’t you see, I just don’t….” I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Look. Whatever my issues, I’ll work through them. In the meantime, we have to decide if there’s a case here or not.”
“Fine,” he said. I watched him mentally wrap up my troubles and stash them aside. If only I could do the same, I thought. He waved Spinelli over, and together we formed a loose huddle. Carlos said, “So, what do we do?”
“For now,” I said, “let’s assume we have a case. We’re totally lacking in evidence, but we have suspects, motives, victims and opportunities. What we need to do is build a scenario and then try to fill in the blanks. Any ideas—anyone?”
“I’ve been working on one,” Spinelli offered.
“Let’s hear it.”
“All right. It goes like this. Ricardo Rivera decided to kill Bridget Dean because she got the promotion he felt he deserved. So he recruited someone that he knew could get the job done.”
“Piakowski,” said Carlos.
“Right, Gregory Piakowski, his old high school pal, whom, it just so happens, owes Rivera big for getting him off on charges of capital murder. You with me so far?”
“Yes, I think Carlos and I have entertained that much already. How do you figure Anna Davalos’ death in all of this?”
“Jealousy: the oldest motive in the book. The way I see it, either Rivera told Courtney about his plans for Bridget Dean, or Courtney overheard him and Piakowski planning the murder.”
“I’d believe the latter,” Carlos remarked. “Ricardo Rivera is too smart to let anyone in on a secret like that, even a lover, and especially a flake like Courtney. Look how much trouble she had keeping information to herself when questioned by you and Tony.”
“I’m good with that,” Spinelli said. “The important thing is that I believe she found out. Once armed with that knowledge, she blackmailed Rivera into killing her rival, Anna Davalos. That way she could have Rivera all to herself.”
“Excuse me,” I said, “but why wouldn’t Rivera just kill Courtney, instead? You get rid of her; you get rid of a loose cannon and silence a potential tattletale.”
“Are you kidding? Have you seen Courtney Lusk? Killing her would be like destroying a Michelangelo. The girl’s a work of art.”
“More like a piece of work,” I replied. “I’m sorry, but I don’t give Courtney that much credit. She lacks the initiative. I’d sooner believe that Anna Davalos found out Rivera murdered Dean, and then she tried to blackmail him into leaving Courtney. Faced with blackmail, Rivera had no choice but to kill her.
Carlos and I differed on that view, but we had seen wilder outcomes in affairs of the heart. Love, sex and all matters in-between often yield unpredictable consequences. Regardless of technicalities, I apologized for the interruption and asked Spinelli to continue. He cleared his throat and proceeded.
“One suicide may look perfectly innocent to the average cop—especially if it appears cut-and-dry on video. But add another suicide: a woman from the same office building, and a cop like Karen Webber will start asking questions. When that happens, you have another problem. And if you’re Ricardo Rivera and Gregory Piakowski, you do what you have to do; you make the other problem go away.”
“By killing Karen Webber,” Carlos concluded.
“Exactly!” Spinelli stood with arms splayed to receive his review. I looked at Carlos, whose face I can usually read with no problem, but this time I had nothing. I asked him, “So, what do you think?”
He gestured ambiguously, and for a moment I thought maybe he didn’t want to speculate. Then he turned his palms up empty and said frankly, “It beats what I had.”
“Which was?”
“After watching the video, I thought the three probably did com
mit suicide, but what Dominic says isn’t bad. It’s got me thinking again.”
I turned to Spinelli. “Not me. Nice try kid, but your theory is full of holes. You have to plug some of them up. Why don’t you go through that video again and see if you can’t find something else we can use.”
“Got it,” he said, and he turned and walked off in spirited strides.
I waited until he was gone and I said to Carlos, “He acts as if I handed him a compliment. Does he get it that I just shot him down?”
“Did you?”
“I thought I did.”
“So, you have a better theory?”
“No.”
“But you did say nice try.”
“Yes.”
“Well then there you have it. If I were Spinelli, I’d take that as a compliment, too.”
I stared at him a while, blinking back my disbelief. “Does the city actually pay you to do this job?” I asked.
He laughed. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I wasn’t kidding. I felt the stress and fatigue beginning to work on my last nerve, so I decided to call it a day and find a hotel room where I could grab a hot shower and maybe something to eat. Yeah, eat, I know. The thought of it still made me queasy. But you can’t think straight on an empty stomach, and every indication told me that I definitely wasn’t thinking straight. Carlos offered me a bunk at his place, but I knew better. He liked to stay up late watching infomercials, crunching potato chips and picking at his feet. When he did finally sleep, he snored like a bear. I thanked him for the offer and headed out.
In the old days, we had only one real hotel in town, called the Minute Man, which offered a pool with Jacuzzi, cable TV and a view of the swamp. Now there are lots of places to stay—places where the air-conditioning works and hookers don’t. But they aren’t for me. I don’t need AC in April, and though I don’t employ them, the hookers don’t bother me. I even know most by name. So I took a taxi to the Minute Man and I booked myself a room.
I ran into an old acquaintance there: a guy named Mike Riley. He recently married, but his marriage was on the skids now. Can’t say I was surprised to hear that. A while back, he blew up his farmhouse and burned his girlfriend’s house to the ground. Doctors said it was something in the water and that he was okay now, but you could have fooled me. We ate dinner together in the hotel restaurant. The entire time he kept disciplining his little brother, Patrick. Harmless enough, you might think. Except that his little brother has been dead for over thirty years. After dinner, he offered to buy me a couple of drinks at the bar. I respectfully declined, explaining that I had business to attend to in the morning. He said he understood. Then he did something I’ll never forget. He leaned his ear down to…well, to his brother, I suppose, and he came up with a word of advise. “Don’t let it eat at you,” he said.
