Rocco crooked his finger at me and walked away from Toby Straight, telling him to stick around. Straight tipped his cap, kept a tight rein on Bertie, and rejoined the other hunters.
Mercer and Mike followed us toward the deputy medical examiner.
“How’s that for a bunch of sick fucks?” Rocco said. “The rat brigade.”
“Tell me the truth, Coop, was that guy at your deb ball? Your coming-out party? Tallyho and all that?”
“Sorry to disappoint again, Mr. Chapman. Never was a deb,” I said. “I would, however, dearly like to take Mr. Straight’s pants off.”
“Here and now?”
“Didn’t you see the blood on his pants leg? And his shirtsleeves?”
“He dragged the dead guy, who’s oozing from a stab wound,” Mike said. “Or maybe it’s rat blood. What’s your point?”
“Who are these men and why are you treating them so lightly?” I said. “Because they’re rich white boys from the burbs?”
Mike was standing behind the deputy ME, who was on his knees next to the corpse, looking over the young doctor’s shoulder.
“Anybody home? They’re into blood sports, Mike.”
“Relax, Alex,” the lieutenant said. “We’ve got all their names and numbers.”
“What’s with those marks?” Mike asked the doctor.
“Postmortem scrapes. No active bleed.”
“Never helps when somebody moves the body before you see it,” Mike said. “The man’s stabbed in the back. How come the blood’s on his sneakers?”
“The fellow who found him,” the deputy doc said, “told me he dragged him out of that passageway over to here while his friends called 911. Turned him over first to see whether he was still breathing, so the blood got all over his hands. I had to get him facedown again to examine the wound. Then one last turn so Crime Scene could photo his face.”
It was impossible to know what amount of trace evidence had been lost in all that movement. That, coupled with the fact that the outdoor location—impossible to scour in the dark—would be teeming with commercial workmen by daybreak and any efforts to retrieve more clues of value would be futile.
“The fingernails?” Mercer asked.
“Chipped and full of dirt to begin with. I don’t think there was any kind of struggle.”
It looked as if the man’s pants legs—the only thing the deceased was still wearing—had been pulled up to his knees during the move, and his skin had abrasions from being dragged across the pavement.
“I’d like to get the body out of here.”
“We need to see the marks on his skin,” Mike said.
“That means I have to roll him again?” the doctor asked.
“I’ll scope it when you lift to put him in the body bag. How’s that?”
“Better for my purposes. Would you call in the attendants to get to work?”
Mike signaled to the uniformed cop who was standing with the ratters. “The morgue van out on the street? Get those guys in here, stat.”
“Are you swabbing the hunters for DNA?” I asked, seemingly to anyone who would listen to me.
“Last thing on my mind, blondie,” Mike said.
The two attendants trudged in from the street with the large vinyl sack that would carry the remains to the autopsy room.
“You want to see the clothing before I pack it up?” the doctor asked, unfolding a stack of brown paper bags, each one of which would hold a separate item.
Mercer stepped in. “What have you got? The jeans look pretty raggedy.”
“He was wearing this,” the deputy ME said, holding out a dirty men’s sport shirt, pale yellow with long sleeves and a button-down collar. “I had to cut it off him to get at the wound, but otherwise it’s in pretty good shape.”
Mercer put the tip of his pen under the shirt collar and held it up, turning it around slowly so we could look at it. The rear panel was blood-soaked, and there were some pulls in the fabric that had probably been caused when Toby Straight pulled him out onto DePew Place.
“Looks almost new otherwise, unlike the denim, which is full of holes,” Mercer said. “It’s got a Gap label.”
“And this,” the doctor added. “A baseball cap. Mr. Straight says it was on the body when he first saw it but fell off while he was dragging the man.”
I looked at the shaggy brown hair that reached the dead man’s shoulders. There seemed to be the slight indentation of a cap mark.
“What’s his team?” I asked.
Mercer, having put the shirt in the paper bag and closed it, held up the cap with his pen. It was navy blue but didn’t bear any sports logo.
“Poor guy didn’t even have this long enough to get grease marks in the lining,” Mike said. “Looks like one of those generic hats from a tourist stand in the city. At least we didn’t lose a Yankees fan.”
The attendants got in place on either end of the corpse. As they lifted him to put him into the bag that would lie on the stretcher for the ride downtown, the three of us squatted.
Mike shined a light on the man’s back. The wound was wide—probably deep—and had caused blood to spurt and drain all over the skin. Then, in an almost v-shape design leading down to the waist, were a series of evenly sketched ladders—or train tracks—just like the ones on the body of Corinne Thatcher.
“Got it,” Mike said. “He’s all yours.”
“Hey, Officer,” the doctor called out to the uniformed cop who’d been standing beside Toby Straight and his friends. “Would you mind giving us a hand?”
The cop walked over to help lift the stretcher into place as the taller attendant was pulling the zipper up to the top of the bag.
“Holy shit,” the cop said, as the man’s face disappeared. “I think I know this guy.”
Mercer raised his hand like an officer stopping traffic on a freeway. “Hold on.”
The attendant stopped and opened the bag again.
“That’s Carl,” the cop said. “I’ve been on this beat for more than ten years. Known him the last three or four.”
“You’re sure?” Mercer said. “No ID on him. We were thinking homeless. But you know his name?”
This was a great stroke of luck—for the dead man and for our work. One of the traditional reasons for cops working neighborhood patrols was about to pay off. The beat cop knew his territory and knew the people who lived and worked in it.
“Carl. He once told me his name was Carl. So my partner and me, we called him Carl Spackler.”
“Carl Spackler?” Mike said, the irrepressible grin reemerging on his face. “The same name as the Bill Murray character in Caddyshack? The guy who killed gophers on the golf course?”
“Yeah, that’s why we called him Carl Spackler.”
“You mean that’s not his real name?” I asked.
“Like I said, it’s how we knew him. First-name basis, and my partner likes to goof with all the characters we meet around here. This Carl guy, he’s sort of homeless.”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean he killed gophers? What does that have to do with the fact that his name is Carl?”
The cop was as impatient with me as Mike was. “I mean he’s like a gopher, Counselor. We don’t got gophers in the city.”
“And this guy,” I said. “This—this—Carl?”
“He lives underground, Ms. Cooper. He lives in the train tunnels right below us,” the cop said. “Pops up every now and then from underground. That’s how come we know he’s one of them moles.”
FOURTEEN
At six forty-five on Thursday morning, I met Mercer and Mike at the information booth on the main concourse of Grand Central Terminal. As directed, I was dressed down in my shabbiest jeans, old sneakers, and a polo shirt.
Sergeant Hank Brantley of the Transit police had been assigned to accompany P.
O. Joe Sammen—the cop who had recognized “Carl” the evening before—and us into the community of tunnel dwellers referred to as “mole people.”
In the pecking order of the homeless in New York City, moles had been given the most pejorative name. They were likened to animals, while others who slept in church doorways or on park benches were not.
Hank was stationed in Grand Central, with a specific duty to do outreach to homeless people in the area.
“Take a look around, guys,” Hank said. “You won’t see too many people dressed for success where we’re going.”
Morning commuters were beginning to swarm past us. They came up from subways that deposited them on the lower-level concourse, and from suburban trains north of Manhattan.
I grabbed Mike’s arm so I didn’t get separated in the flow. “How many people pass through here every day?”
“Seven hundred and fifty thousand of them daily,” Hank said. “Maybe half a million going in and out on trains, and the rest just tourists, now that it’s been restored. After Times Square, Grand Central is the most popular tourist attraction in New York.”
“That’s a staggering number of people. I remember coming here as a kid,” I said. I had grown up in Westchester County, and riding to the city with my mother for adventures—to see the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center, ice-skate in Central Park, visit the great museums, savor an ice-cream soda at Serendipity, and shop in the wonderful stores that lined the broad avenues—was always a memorable experience. “Grand Central was our gateway to Gotham.”
“It was built as the Gateway to the Continent, more than one hundred years ago,” Hank said. “You weren’t the only one to find this place magical.”
“There’s almost a choreography to this flow of people.”
“You nailed it, Alex. During the morning and evening commutes, everyone’s making a beeline for an office or rendezvous, everyone’s in motion. They know exactly where they’re going and how to crisscross this place to get there. In between, we’ve got the tourists. Almost as crowded but moving at a much slower pace. Two entirely different dances, depending on the time of day you’re in here.”
“The ceiling has always been my favorite.”
“If you slow down to look up, Coop, you’ll be trampled,” Mike said.
The aqua-colored celestial ceiling with its golden constellations and stars stretched across the entire vault of the terminal. As a child, I’d been mesmerized by the sight of it whenever I emerged from the train. I had declared it my favorite work of art when I was six years old—the familiar signs of the zodiac played out above me but close enough to see in detail. I loved it.
Hank was leading us across the floor, to a wide ramp that led to the lower concourse. “Take a last peek.”
I looked up and practically gasped again. Artists had restored the enormous scene to its original vibrant coloration, and it sparkled above us like the heavens.
“At some point,” I said, “I remember visiting here and the ceiling was entirely black. I guess that’s what decades of railroad traffic did.”
“Turns out it had nothing to do with soot from the trains or steam engines,” Hank said. “It was completely the result of nicotine from the millions of cigarette smokers hanging out here.”
“Seriously? Nicotine blackened the painting?”
“All those mad men smoking while they waited for the last train to Scarsdale. Slurping down shellfish and martinis in the Oyster Bar, going through half a pack at the end of the day. That’s what did it.”
“Well, it’s glorious again. The entire station is,” I said, looking around.
“Ten constellations up there—the zodiac. Twenty-five hundred stars in an October night sky scene,” Hank said. “The only catch is that it’s all backwards.”
“What?”
We had lost sight of the great barrel-vaulted painting now, down on the lower level. “When the painters created the ceiling back in 1913, they misinterpreted the design, which was meant to reflect the sky from above.”
“You mean it’s a mirror image of what it should be?” Mike asked.
“First day the place opened, a commuter who was an amateur stargazer looked up and saw they got it wrong. He even wrote to the Vanderbilts, who owned the joint, to complain.”
“That must have gone down well.”
“They didn’t bat an eyelash. Told the media that they’d planned the whole thing that way—backwards—so it would be the view that God had, looking down at Grand Central.”
“I guess when you’re the richest family in America, you can plan for God, too,” Mike said. “You’re telling me Pegasus should be flying the other way?”
“For sure. The winged horse is prancing to the west, when he should be going east, in the other corner of the sky,” Hank said, stopping at the bottom of the long ramp. “So this is how we get into the tunnels, lady and gentlemen.”
“What about the trains?” I asked.
“Here’s the deal, Alex. When the station was opened in 1913, all the long-distance travel originated on the main concourse, whether you were going north to Canada or west of here to Chicago.”
Mercer interrupted, his transportation “gene” going into gear. “Now those were the glamorous runs, my dad used to say. Twentieth Century Limited, right?”
“Grand Central to Chicago’s LaSalle Street Station,” Hank said, “starting in 1902 and advertised as the most famous and luxurious train in the world. The New York Central provided a red carpet every night when the rich people boarded, and that expression—rolling out the red carpet, which originated right in this spot—stuck as a fancy way to treat people.”
“Never knew that,” Mercer said. “Wasn’t there an Owl, too?”
“Overnight to Boston,” Hank said. “I grew up on this stuff. The Yankee Clipper, the Detroiter, the Green Mountain Flyer, the Hendrick Hudson.”
“Used to be my old man could call out every train and all the stops it made.”
“Worked for the railroad?”
“No. For the airlines. That’s what put these great iron horses out of business after the Second World War. My old man loved train travel and everything about it. Always made him a bit melancholy that the work he did for Delta helped kill long-distance train travel.”
“I get that,” Hank said. “Like I was telling you, when this station was constructed, all the fancy out-of-town travel operated from the main concourse. This lower level was only for the commuter trains. Once those routes were shut down over the years, the locals moved upstairs. This area, as you can see, became a major food court and commercial zone, and most of the tracks down here have basically been closed off.”
We made our way around the various cafés and restaurants and the automated information booth that sat directly below the one on the main concourse. Hank Brantley had a plan and a path. The rest of us followed him.
We stopped in front of gate 100, its wrought iron grating shut tight. Hank had radioed ahead to get a Metro-North security guard to meet us and unlock the metal barrier. The guard had brought along four hard hats for us to wear.
“I need this?” I asked. “What are we expecting?”
“I’d prefer it, Alex. Never know what’s up ahead. Things leak, they drip, they fall from work areas above. It’s precautionary, okay? Just humor me.”
I put the hat on, increasing my discomfort and making me sweat before I even left the shelter of the building.
Once inside, there was another long ramp that led off to the side of the railroad tracks, those thick dark lines that appeared to stretch out endlessly in the tunnel ahead.
“Stay close, mind you,” Hank said. “There are loads of syringes and crack vials underfoot. And I heard you had your first close encounter with some track rabbits last night. We’ve got plenty of ’em down here.”
“Track rabbits?” I asked.
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“Rats. That’s what we call them in the tunnels. They’re so used to seeing moles—underground people—that they’re more likely to run towards you than away.”
“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”
“You’ll see some fires, too. Don’t be alarmed.”
“Fires in the tunnel? I can barely breathe now,” I said.
“Lots of the moles scavenge for pieces of old wood. Keep fires lit even in this intense heat ’cause it keeps the rodents away.”
He started to walk along the narrow ledge to the left of the last set of tracks. Mercer followed, and I was next in line. “I always thought the tunnel-people stories were urban legend. All the stuff about a city beneath the streets.”
Hank Brantley shook his head. “I asked to work in this building thirty years ago, Alex. It was the height of the city’s homeless problem. I came here because I loved trains, and then I had this awfully rude awakening. Grand Central was one of the meccas for the homeless.”
“The station itself?” I asked.
“There used to be a waiting room,” Hank said. “A huge space that’s completely empty now. In fact, it’s rented out for private parties. But it was quite the sight in its time. Marble walls and oak flooring, with wainscoting around the entire room. Maids standing by for women who were traveling without help. When train travel hit the skids, that waiting room became the finest free hotel space for the city’s homeless, sleeping on the long wooden benches that lined the room.”
“I can’t imagine it.” Though the homeless—whether mentally ill, victims of domestic violence, or returning veterans without resources—were still a big problem in the city, there were now entire departments of government and nonprofit agencies that tried to work with the struggling population.
“Vagrants is what we called them back when I was a kid. Got here to find out that Grand Central’s public areas were considered the safest places for them to seek shelter from the wild streets of the eighties,” Hank said. “That was the city’s decade lost to crack and homelessness.”
“They could remain inside all night?” Mercer asked.
Terminal City (Alex Cooper) Page 11
