Outrage bkamc-23

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  Meanwhile, his daughter Lucy’s summer nuptials had been postponed-apparently indefinitely. The reason given when Lucy showed up suddenly in New York from her home in New Mexico was that her fiance, Ned Blanchett, had been called away on “business,” which was code for an assignment with the antiterrorism agency they both worked for. However, Karp had been told by his wife that Lucy was having second thoughts about getting married.

  On a brighter note, their twin sons, Isaac and Giancarlo, were at long last going to have their bar mitzvah, a rite of passage that had been interrupted and delayed by a seemingly constant stream of “mayhem,” as Marlene referred to it. Although a couple of years beyond the usual age for the ceremony, they were now aiming at late summer/early fall.

  The boys were currently working on a Jewish history report that the rabbi of the bar mitzvah class was requiring, as well as the traditional reading of the Torah. Karp was pleased that they’d decided to interview his friend Moishe Sobelman, a Midtown bakery owner, about his horrific experiences as a prisoner in the infamous Nazi death camp at Sobibor, Poland.

  Karp leaned forward and pressed the button on the intercom again, smiling as he did at Marlene, a petite beauty with dark curly hair who carried herself with a grace and charm that still enraptured her husband. “Send her in, I guess,” he groused good-naturedly. “And thank you, Darla.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Karp,” his receptionist said with a tone that indicated she would have rather told the visitor to take a hike.

  The door to the office opened and a tall, redheaded Valkyrie in a lime-green dress blew into the room like a force of nature. “Very funny, Karp,” Ariadne Stupenagel said, rolling her eyes at Marlene. “You really know how to make a girl feel welcome… Oh good, I see that your only redeeming feature-your wife-is here.” She crossed the room and embraced Marlene, giving her a kiss on each cheek that left a smudge of her trademark crimson lipstick.

  Marlene laughed. Loud, abrasive, and one tough investigative journalist, Stupenagel had been her roommate in college at Smith and they’d remained friends ever since. She reached for the reporter’s left hand, whistling at the diamond ring perched there. “That’s some rock,” she said. “You and Gilbert set a date yet?”

  Karp groaned loudly, drawing glares from the two women. Gilbert Murrow was Karp’s office manager. He kept his boss’s appointment calendar, tried to steer Karp away from political pitfalls, and handled most of the administrative duties so that his boss could concentrate on his office’s efforts to mete out justice to the guilty and ensure that the unjustly accused would be exonerated. Bookish, pear-shaped, balding, and four inches shorter than his fiancee, Murrow had surprisingly won the heart of Ariadne, who by her own estimation had amorous relations with the Fidel Castros of the world if it helped her get a story.

  The reporter held the ring up to be admired. “It is a beaut, isn’t it? The poor dear probably had to save for a year, considering the wages his miserly employer”-she gave Karp a sharp look-“pays him for all his hard work and loyal service. We are thinking a winter solstice wedding.”

  “Then there’s still time for Gilbert to recover his senses,” Karp said hopefully.

  “Watch it, buster, I know where you live,” Stupenagel answered, turning back to Marlene. “And don’t worry, honey, I also know lots of good-looking, eligible, and civil men, should some unfortunate accident befall your husband.”

  After a little more of the pointed but friendly verbal jousting that was the hallmark of the relationship between Karp and Stupenagel, the three sat down. A freelance writer at the moment, Stupenagel wanted to pen a feature story for the Gotham City weekly magazine, tentatively titled “New York’s Number One Crime-fighting Couple.” Karp had cringed at the concept, and only Stupenagel’s blatant appeal to his sense of fair play and Marlene’s intercession had convinced him to go through with it. He’d been a little surprised that Marlene had been willing to do the interview-she’d never been one to seek publicity-but he was sure that Stupenagel had twisted her arm using whatever means she had available.

  Of course, he’d set some boundaries. He wouldn’t discuss open investigations or current cases, except in the most general terms. Nor did he want her writing about his children except in passing.

  The interview lasted nearly three hours. They discussed several of his most recent cases, including that of a college professor who’d killed her children because she said God told her to, a famous theater producer who murdered an actress and tried to claim she committed suicide, and, of course, the case against the Harlem imam Sharif Jabbar. They also covered several terrorist plots that, despite being outside the realm of their “official duties,” Karp and Marlene, as well as other members of their family and friends, had a hand in thwarting.

  Finally, Stupenagel appeared to reach the end of her questioning by asking Marlene about the case of Dirty Warren and her possible new career as a crusading defense attorney/private investigator. After Marlene answered the questions, Karp pointedly looked at his watch. “Anything else?” he asked.

  Stupenagel smiled. “Well, since I’ve got you here, I am working on another story about unsolved murders in the greater New York area,” she said.

  “This sounds like a story more for the police than the DAO, but go ahead,” Karp said.

  “Oh, I’ll be talking to the cops, too,” Stupenagel replied. “But I’d like your opinion as the chief law enforcement official in Manhattan. To start, I think there’s something like ten thousand unsolved murders in New York City going back to 1985, and roughly two hundred more go cold every year. In fact, at a rate of six hundred or so murders a year, almost a third of them will go unsolved.”

  “I’m aware of the statistics,” Karp replied. “More than half of all homicides committed are solved within a year; after that, the chances diminish. Still, with an overall clearance rate of about seventy percent, which last time I looked at statistics compiled by the FBI beats the national average by eight percentage points, New York’s finest are to be commended.”

  “Yes, but many of the unsolved cases are the unusual ones,” Stupenagel said. “And by that I mean most of the time the killer and the victim share the same background, come from the same neighborhood, and are even the same race and approximately the same age. Black gangbangers shooting other black gangbangers. Not only do the killers have criminal records, their victims usually do as well. More often than not, the killer and victim knew each other; only about a quarter of all homicides are between strangers. And of those, most are the result of a dispute-somebody gets pissed off when someone cuts him off in traffic, pulls a gun, and shoots. Granted, stranger-to-stranger homicides have nearly doubled from what they were fifty years ago, but still, if you’re not involved in criminal activities, your chances of being killed by a stranger in New York City are small.”

  “You’re well versed in the statistics,” Karp said. He realized that the long preamble was leading to something, putting him on his guard. “So what’s your point?”

  “I’m thinking more about the sort of unsolved cases that don’t fit the statistical pattern,” Stupenagel said. “Those are the ones that the public remembers.”

  “Are you talking about any case in particular?” Karp asked, knowing that she was going there.

  “Well, yeah,” Stupenagel admitted. “I’m thinking about the Yancy-Jenkins double homicide-the so-called Columbia University Slasher case-from last July. Somehow a killer got into the apartment of Olivia Yancy, killed and raped her, and also killed her mother, Beth Jenkins.”

  “I’m well aware of the case,” Karp replied warily. “However, this is one of those ongoing investigations that are off-limits in this conversation.”

  “Is it true your office has an ADA assigned to the case? One Raymond ‘Formerly Known as the Italian Stallion’ Guma?”

  “Couldn’t tell ya,” Karp replied. “And why ‘formerly’? He’d resent that.”

  “Couldn’t or won’t?” Stupenagel shot back. �
�And ‘formerly’ because that bout with cancer a few years back turned him into a gelding from what I hear.”

  Karp rolled his eyes and said, “That’s out of bounds, even for you, Stupe. I thought you and Guma were old friends.”

  “Hey, Guma dishes it out as much as he takes it,” Stupenagel said. “He as much as told Gilbert that he boinked me back when we were both young and dumb. Now he’s just old and dumb, and he’s messing with my love life, so if I want to spread rumors about him, I will.”

  Karp shook his head and said, “Let’s stick to the subject. As I said, the Yancy-Jenkins homicides are part of an ongoing investigation, and I’m not answering those questions. What else you got?”

  “Are you familiar with the Dolores Atkins murder in the Bronx about a week ago?” Stupenagel said, and then shrugged.

  “Only what I read in the newspaper, why?” Karp asked.

  “Because the killer was another slasher/rapist, which I know are a dime a dozen in these parts. But just like in the Yancy-Jenkins killings, this guy also struck in broad daylight, and it appears that Atkins had just returned from grocery shopping, like Yancy. And the killer didn’t just cut her up and rape her; he tortured her and then took the time to clean himself up before leaving.”

  “So, Ariadne,” Marlene said, interrupting, “what’s your angle here?”

  “Well, I’ve been doing some digging and I think whoever killed Olivia Yancy and Beth Jenkins also killed Dolores Atkins,” Stupenagel said. “I think he already escalated, and I don’t think he’s going to stop.”

  “What makes you say that?” Karp asked.

  “Like I said, I’ve been doing some digging into a series of violent rapes-mostly in Manhattan, but some also in the Bronx and Brooklyn. Same description of the perp: slightly built, dark hair, brown eyes… maybe Hispanic… talks with an accent. Talks his way into the apartment by offering to help the women with their grocery bags or, in the case of a couple of students, their books. Pulls a knife and rapes them.”

  “You said he escalated,” Marlene said.

  “Yeah. If it’s the same guy, and I think it is, the first couple of times he mostly threatened. Then he started hitting and kicking. Finally, there’s a case where he actually cut the victim’s neck-not seriously, but enough to draw blood. And according to the police accounts taken from the victims, he seems to get aroused by the violence.”

  “You believe that he’s now gone from rapist to cold-blooded murderer,” Karp said.

  “I do,” Stupenagel said. “It’s my understanding that the Atkins crime scene was even worse than Yancy-Jenkins, which I heard was pretty gruesome.”

  “Couldn’t tell you,” Karp replied. “And wouldn’t.”

  Stupenagel laughed. “Of course not. But whatever makes this guy tick, it’s getting worse, and he will do it again unless he’s stopped.”

  “Then let’s hope he gets stopped,” Karp said.

  Stupenagel looked at him for a moment, then shook her head and closed her notebook. “Yes, let’s,” she said, standing to let herself out. “Well, if anything turns up…”

  “You’ll be the first to know,” Karp said, finishing her sentence.

  The reporter smirked. “Yeah, I’m sure you have my number on speed dial,” she said, and turned to Marlene, who also stood. “At least it was a pleasure to see you, my dear.”

  “As always,” Marlene replied, giving her friend a hug.

  When Stupenagel left the room, Marlene turned to her husband. “You have to admit, she may be on to something there. Violent sex offenders do tend to escalate. Do you think NYPD has made the connection?”

  Karp shrugged and pressed the button on the office intercom. “Darla, would you see if you can track down Ray Guma and ask him to come to my office please?”

  Marlene smiled. “So maybe Ariadne Stupenagel isn’t as bad as you make her out?”

  Karp grinned back. “She’s a reporter; she’s still the enemy.”

  4

  “Mierda! Who in the hell took my last goddamn beer!”

  Even shut up in his tiny bedroom with the door closed, Felix Acevedo cringed as if he’d been struck by the sound of his father’s fury coming from the kitchen of the family’s tiny apartment. He’d been happily dressing for the night’s outing to the Hip-Hop Nightclub, trying to decide which hooded sweatshirt and baggy jeans looked best. He squinted at himself in the mirror and practiced the rap songs he planned to perform. But now he flinched as his father yelled again.

  “Felix! Get your skinny culo out here, goddamn it, or I swear to God, I’ll-”

  The man’s swearing stopped for a moment as a woman tried to calm him. She spoke soothingly but her voice was obviously tinged with fear. For good reason. She’d hardly said five words when there was the unmistakable sound of a slap followed by a cry of pain.

  Felix clenched his fists in anger and for a moment imagined storming out of his bedroom to the kitchen and beating his father, Eduardo, unconscious, as he’d seen the old man do to his mother on more than one occasion. He hated Eduardo-he was a mean drunk who hadn’t worked a steady job in years but drank and gambled all day, sometimes all night, before eventually coming home. If Felix and his mother were lucky, Eduardo would then continue drinking until he passed out. However, if they crossed him, or if he simply felt like it, he’d take out his anger on them with his fists and feet, and sometimes a leather belt.

  Eduardo Acevedo had brought his family to New York from Puerto Rico when Felix was a young boy, but his sloth and drinking prevented him from ever realizing the American dream, and his wife and son paid the price. Felix’s mom, Amelia, was the sole support for the family. She worked nights cleaning offices in Manhattan. She left each evening after fixing her husband and son dinner and then didn’t return until early the next morning.

  “Felix, I’m gonna count to three and if you’re not…”

  It was no use. Felix relaxed his fists and felt his shoulders sag in defeat. He did not have the courage to confront his father, much less attack him. He’d just have to take his medicine for whatever he had, or more likely had not, done.

  “I’m coming,” he shouted. He put his glasses back on and gave himself one last look in the mirror, contemplating the piles of secondhand clothes he’d left on the floor of his messy room, wondering if there was a better combination than what he was wearing. But another bellow from his father reminded him that the longer he took to respond the worse it was going to be.

  As he approached the doorway leading into the kitchen, he considered bolting out the front door. If it wasn’t for the fact that his mother would then have to take whatever punishment his father thought necessary, he might have fled. He certainly had no idea what his father was screaming about regarding beer. Neither Felix nor his mother drank alcohol, having witnessed its effect on the other member of the household for so many years. If the beer was gone, it was because the bastard drank it, but the truth wouldn’t matter to him now.

  Felix shuffled into the kitchen with his head down so that he wouldn’t have to look into the angry, bloodshot eyes of his father. But as if against his will, he eventually glanced up.

  Dressed in a dingy wife-beater undershirt with yellow stains beneath the armpits, Eduardo stood glaring at him from the open refrigerator. His hairy arms were covered with faded green-black tattoos from two stints in Rikers Island prison. His mother, a tiny woman with a strawberry-shaped birthmark on her right cheek, sat mutely in a chair at the small kitchen table, using a tissue to dab at the blood that trickled from her mouth.

  Eduardo caught Felix glancing at his mother and the look of sorrow that passed between them. He pointed at his wife as he snarled at his son, “See what you made me do, you little hijo de puta?!”

  Felix nodded his head. “Yes, sir. I… I… I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? Sorry don’t cut it. Where’s my fucking beer, pendejo!”

  The words slammed into Felix like fists. His father rarely spoke unless it was to yell with the occ
asional Spanish curse word tossed in. “I don’t know,” he said, lowering his eyes again. “I didn’t take it.”

  “Liar!” Eduardo screamed, slamming the door and moving toward Felix with his fist raised. “There was one more in the fridge when I left for work this morning! You took it, fucking thief!”

  By “work” Eduardo meant gambling and boozing, but Felix wasn’t about to throw gasoline on the fire. “Okay, okay,” he cried. “I took it. I… I… I’ll go buy you-”

  The attempt to mollify his father was cut off by the backhand blow across his face that knocked his glasses off. “I’ll teach you to steal my beer!” Eduardo started to remove his belt.

  Amelia Acevedo jumped up from her seat and darted behind her husband to look in the refrigerator. “Look, Eddie, there is another beer, it was behind the carton of milk,” she said, holding up a forty-ounce bottle of cheap malt liquor.

  Eduardo looked at her suspiciously. Then he nodded as if he’d just realized some great truth. “Puta!” he spat. “You bitch! You hid it on purpose! What? You got some asshole over here doing you all day while I’m at work? You giving him my beer?” He raised his hand again and started for the cowering woman.

  “No! It was me, I hid it,” Felix said. Without his glasses his dad’s face was fuzzy, but he knew it would be a mask of rage. “I was going to the park, and I wanted to bring some beer so that the other guys would think I’m cool.”

  Eduardo stopped and looked back and forth from his wife to his son as if he couldn’t figure out which one to hit first. With a snort of disgust, he reached out and grabbed the bottle from his wife. “You owe me a six-pack for trying to steal my beer,” he snarled at Felix, though he stopped shouting. He then turned to his wife. “This ain’t gonna last, bitch.”