Outrage bkamc-23

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  “Where are we going?” Marlene asked.

  Lydia wiped her nose with the back of her hand and half-grinned despite her tears. “Why, to see my elderly mom in Yonkers, of course.”

  They started to leave the apartment but suddenly Lydia returned to her husband’s body. She leaned over and removed something from the top pocket of his overalls. She then pressed her fingers to her lips and his head. “Mama’s gonna take care of this for you, baby,” she said. “Then I’ll see you on the other side.”

  25

  Preoccupied by Kadyrov’s latest mess-up, Detective Joey Graziani didn’t bother to pick up the receiver when the newspaper reporter called his number at the Two-Six detective squad that afternoon and left a message. “I need to talk to you about the Yancy-Jenkins case,” the woman, who had identified herself as Ariadne Stupenagel, said.

  He started to erase the message-there were a lot of reporters who called wanting an “exclusive” interview with the heroic detective who caught the Columbia U Slasher, an “officially off-the-record, but…” privilege he gave only a select few he trusted. However, what she said next made him stop and reconsider. “I might have some information about who killed that Bronx detective who was working on the Felix Acevedo case. Phil Brock.”

  With his gut clenching, Graziani called the reporter back and nonchalantly asked her to elaborate.

  “I got a call yesterday from a guy named Vinnie Cassino,” Stupenagel explained. “He said he told Brock something about the real killer in the Yancy-Jenkins murders in Manhattan and the Atkins case in the Bronx, and the next day Brock gets murdered. He said the only other person who could have known about what he told Brock would have been another Bronx cop.”

  “So why call me?” Graziani asked, trying to keep his voice calmer than his wildly beating heart.

  “Well,” she said, her voice trembling, “it was you and Brock who caught the Columbia U Slasher and I thought you ought to know. I mean, you could be in danger, too, and if something happens to me tonight, at least I told someone.”

  “Tonight? What’s tonight?”

  “I was supposed to meet Cassino this morning,” Stupenagel told him. “He said he was going to bring me something that would prove the case against the ‘real killer,’ whatever that means; he didn’t elaborate. And he said he wanted the reward money so he could get out of town. But he didn’t show, so I thought it was all a bunch of bullshit until his wife called and said her husband had been murdered. But she still wants to meet tonight and give me this ‘evidence.’ Well, ‘give’ as in I give her two thousand dollars and she gives me what she calls ‘the story of the century.’”

  “You trust her?” Graziani asked.

  “No,” Stupenagel admitted. “To be honest, I’m scared. And that’s really why I’m calling you. Even if she’s legit, it means that two men have been killed over this already, one of them a cop.”

  Graziani thought quickly. “You did the right thing. If it’s okay with you, I think I should tail you to this meeting tonight. If it’s legit, then the worst thing that happens is she gets a couple thousand bucks out of the detective bureau kitty. But if there’s a bad cop, and something goes down the wrong way, I’ll be there.”

  “Oh God, I was hoping you’d say something like that,” Stupenagel replied, the relief in her voice palpable. Then she hesitated. “I still get to break the story,” she said. “I’m not risking my neck with no payoff.”

  Graziani agreed. “Of course. You’ll deserve it.”

  Deserve a bullet between your eyes, he thought six hours later as he checked the chamber of the. 380 before screwing the silencer onto the gun. You and the Cassino bitch.

  The night was dark and the lighting sparse near the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument in Riverside Park. It was easy to remain in the shadows as the tall female reporter paced about waiting for her meeting with Lydia Cassino. He shook his head; it was surreal, though necessary, that he was contemplating murdering two women with no more conscience than he’d feel killing a couple of alley rats.

  Just to get out of the Bronx? The words continued to mock him. No, he thought, now it’s more than that, and he was too far down the road to turn back.

  The night before he’d met, as arranged, with Kadyrov at Grand Central Terminal. That’s where he heard the story about Vinnie Cassino’s death but that Lydia Cassino was alive.

  “These other two women got there ahead of me,” Kadyrov said. “Probably from the city, slumming and looking for a little meth for a night on the town. So I had to wait until they left, but they took Cassino’s ugly bitch wife with them. So I went and did Vinnie and waited for her to come back. She’d be dead too but the cops showed up at the door.”

  Kadyrov was adamant that Lydia Cassino had not seen him before he knocked her out. He saw her get dropped off and then hid in the bedroom until she was distracted by her husband’s body. “Dealers are getting whacked all the time,” he said. “It was just a robbery killing for all she knows. Somebody must have heard her scream and called the cops.”

  “Yeah, I checked,” Graziani had replied. “Someone called nine-one-one. They must have seen you going down the fire escape, too, because they got a physical description. So what about the shirt?”

  “I couldn’t find it,” Kadyrov said.

  Graziani cursed the murderer. “That shirt can sink us both,” he said.

  “She’ll get the hint,” Kadyrov said. “Stay out of this or you’ll get the same thing your husband got. And maybe they don’t even have the shirt anymore. I went through everything.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s too many maybes,” Graziani said, handing Kadyrov an envelope. “I think it’s time you took a little trip upstate. There’s four hundred bucks and a bus ticket in there. As well as instructions on where I want you to stay so I can reach you. Do what you’re told and there’s more where that came from, and I’ll keep our asses out of hot water.”

  Kadyrov reached out and grabbed the envelope, but Graziani held on for a moment as he looked in the younger man’s eyes. “Don’t fuck with me, Ahmed,” he said. “Get on that bus and you be where I can find you. Or if they don’t get you for the Yancy-Jenkins murders, I’ll kill you myself.” He released the envelope. “And I know you’re thinking, They get me, I’ll turn on him. Just remember who’s the cop here when it comes to your word against mine. You’d never live to testify against me anyway.”

  With the envelope clutched in his hands, Kadyrov disappeared into the bowels of Grand Central. Meanwhile, Graziani had spent another sleepless night wondering how to find Lydia Cassino and the blue silk shirt.

  Then the reporter called with the answer. He was sure Lydia Cassino would be showing up with a blue silk shirt. A couple of bullets at close range, and he’d have only one more problem to deal with. And that would entail only a quick trip to upstate New York and another bullet for Ahmed Kadyrov.

  Then the Acevedo trial would proceed unabated. He’d be a hero, doted on by the public, the NYPD brass, and his young wife. It’s all under control, he told himself for the thousandth time as the small dark figure approached and walked up to Stupenagel.

  The weight of the. 380 in his hand was a comfort as he crept forward. He regretted that after tonight’s business, the weapon was going in the East River, since it could tie him to Brock’s murder as well as these women. He’d have to pick up another one to finish Kadyrov.

  Graziani waited until the two women had talked for a moment. When the smaller woman handed Stupenagel a package, he moved. The shirt, he thought with satisfaction as he stepped from the shadows with his gun trained on the women.

  “I’ll take that,” he said.

  “What’s going on?” the short woman exclaimed in fear.

  “It’s okay,” Stupenagel replied. “He’s a cop and he’s with me.”

  Graziani snorted a humorless laugh. “That’s right, we’re together, but not for long, I’m afraid,” he said as he trained his gun on Stupenagel’s face.

&nb
sp; The reporter looked stunned. “I don’t understand,” she said, and then a look of understanding came across her face. “It was you.”

  “It was him what?” the other woman cried out.

  “He’s the one who killed Brock and your husband,” Stupenagel replied.

  “As usual, the press gets it wrong,” Graziani said. “If you want to be accurate, I finished off Brock when my boy Kadyrov messed up. But Ahmed is the one who sliced and diced that pig husband of yours, Lydia.”

  “Lydia?” the woman said, suddenly standing up straighter and looking him in the eyes as she smiled. “Actually, the name is Marlene Ciampi, you son of a bitch, and your ass is under arrest. Put the gun down unless you want the sharpshooter who has a nice little red laser light from his scope trained on the side of your head to pull the trigger. Clay, you want to come get this asshole?”

  His mouth hanging open, Joey Graziani slowly lowered his gun at the sound of running feet. “How?” he asked.

  “A little detective work,” Marlene said. “I talked to an officer, Dave Drummond, who confirmed Cassino had wanted to talk to Brock about a blue silk shirt. Then you were seen talking to Brock at the Lino Tavern. My guess is you didn’t like hearing that your case was about to go down the tubes, though to be honest, it was already finished. We found out about the ring, you dolt. But now it’s over. Detectives working for my husband followed you to Grand Central, and they picked up Kadyrov as soon as you were out of sight. I just don’t get it-was it really worth killing another detective, much less Vinnie Cassino and, what… two women?”

  Graziani looked down at the sidewalk but he was seeing Brock’s scornful face. Just to get out of the Bronx? Then the image of his wife in bed with another man came to him, followed by the image of himself in prison and what that would be like for a cop, especially a cop who killed another cop-even the guards would enjoy making his life hell. He raised his gun to shoot Marlene.

  Instead, a rifle shot rang out in the night and Graziani’s head exploded from the force of the fifty-caliber bullet, his gun striking the pavement only a moment before his body did. Even so, Clay Fulton kept his gun trained on the lifeless man as he kicked the. 380 to the side. “Bag that,” he told another approaching officer before turning to Marlene and Ariadne.

  “Boy, I didn’t like using civilians on that one,” he said.

  “Too much of a chance he might have seen Ariadne’s photo in a newspaper,” Marlene said insistently, repeating the argument she’d used earlier that afternoon in her husband’s office. “And there was no way you were keeping me off this one.”

  The three looked down at Graziani. “I wonder what pushed him down this road,” Marlene said.

  There was a moment of silence before Stupenagel cleared her throat and responded. “I guess he just lost his mind,” she said solemnly. “Too bad, he had a good head on his shoulders.”

  Marlene groaned. “Oh God, Ariadne! I’m going to try to forget you said that.”

  26

  Ahmed Kadyrov sat at the defense table watching the twelve jurors as they filed back into the courtroom. He hoped to see some small sign that they would declare him not guilty. A faint smile, perhaps, from the pretty, young brunette who he’d fancied thought he was attractive, to let him know that after several months since his arrest, he would soon walk out of the Tombs a free man.

  What I’d do to you if I got the chance, eh, sooka? he thought, staring at the brunette. But she merely looked him in the eyes once and then turned her head toward the judge as a wave of revulsion rippled across her face.

  Next to Kadyrov sat Mavis Huntley, one of the two lawyers who’d been appointed to represent him from a pool of attorneys qualified to argue death penalty cases. A slender blonde, Huntley pretended throughout the trial that she actually believed he was innocent-smiling and laughing, or nodding in agreement, at everything he said, lightly touching his arm on occasion. That was her job. However, he could tell that she was scared to death of him and was repulsed, despite her plastic smile. He wanted to kill her, too.

  On the other side of Huntley was the lead counsel, Stacy Langton, who had achieved early success in her career and was noted as a top-flight courtroom strategist. Both of his attorneys’ demeanor just prior to the arrival of the jurors reminded Kadyrov of refugees that he’d known from his childhood in Chechnya, shell-shocked and stupid as cattle as they fled the Russians and their burning villages.

  However, when the jurors began filing in, Langton assumed an air of what she probably thought of as “quiet dignity.” She nodded to the jurors with a half smile, as if to say she’d performed as had been required of her but understood if they had not been convinced. There was nothing anybody could have done, her body language suggested.

  Kadyrov loathed Langton, too, and the judge, Timothy Dermondy, who was “prejudiced” against him, ruling against his lawyers and in favor of the prosecution at every turn. Of course he despised the jurors as well, especially the women, and had spent quite a bit of time during the trial fantasizing about what it would be like to rape and butcher each and every one of them.

  However, for the moment, he was looking at them with puppy-dog eyes and a tiny, doomed smile, as if he could somehow persuade them at the last moment to alter the verdict he was sure they were returning with. But there was another reason for the pitiful look. Before the jurors entered, Langton had leaned over and said, “I think we have a good chance here,” which they both knew was a lie. “But even if for some unfortunate reason they come back with a guilty verdict, we need to remember that we will go immediately into a death penalty trial, where we will be arguing to save your life. We’re going to need at least one of those jurors on our side.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to be saved,” Kadyrov had replied. He didn’t mean it. He was a coward and the idea of being strapped down and injected with deadly chemicals like some pound dog terrified him.

  “You can’t let yourself think like that,” said Langton, who’d explained when they first met that she was taking the case because she didn’t believe in the death penalty “for philosophical reasons. The state cannot prevent murders by murdering citizens, and in so doing give official sanction to the barbarism of inflicting death.”

  It all sounded like tripe to Kadyrov, who had no qualms about murdering. But if Langton believed it and could keep him from a similar fate, he was all for it.

  Of course, the worst of his malevolence was reserved for the two men who sat at the prosecution table. The two men who were trying to kill him.

  The old white-haired son of a bitch, Guma, stared somberly at the jurors. He’d tried to get Kadyrov to confess after his arrest at Grand Central and then laughed when he refused and demanded a lawyer.

  “Good,” Guma had said, smiling. “I want to take you apart in a courtroom so that the entire world sees what a piece of crap you are.”

  Next to him sat the worst one of all, the district attorney himself, Butch Karp, whose decision to take the case himself was further proof that the system had it in for poor Ahmed Kadyrov. When the defense lawyers originally approached Karp with the proposition that Kadyrov would plead guilty to two counts of murder in exchange for a sentence of life without parole, the district attorney had not even considered it for a moment. “He can plead guilty and face a death penalty hearing” was the only counteroffer.

  It was so unfair. Even though he understood that his evil nature suggested that he deserved to die, he hoped to manipulate the system and count on good-hearted people who believed in “deterrence” and “rehabilitation.”

  During the trial, Karp had come after him like a pit bull in a dogfight. It started with the blue silk shirt, which his victim’s husband, Dale Yancy, had identified on the witness stand as a shirt taken from the apartment by his wife’s killer. It even bore the brand name as it had been recorded on the original police report.

  Assistant Medical Examiner Gail Manning was called to the stand to explain how DNA skin cell analysis identified flakes of
skin on the shirt belonging to Dale and Olivia Yancy, Vinnie Cassino, “and the defendant, Ahmed Kadyrov.”

  Under cross-examination by Langton, Manning agreed that if Kadyrov visited the Cassinos, “it was possible” that some of his skin cells could have been deposited on “anything in the apartment, including the shirt.” However, on redirect by Karp, the AME explained that the only skin cells found on the inside material of the shirt were those of Dale Yancy and Kadyrov.

  “And what does that say to you?” Karp asked.

  “That the shirt was worn by Mr. Yancy and Mr. Kadyrov.”

  “And were you able to find any other DNA evidence on the shirt that would be of interest to this case?” Karp asked.

  “Yes, using the chemical luminol I was able to detect trace amounts of blood belonging to Olivia Yancy on the inside material of the sleeves.”

  “Again, suggesting what?” Karp asked.

  “Well, because there were no skin cells from Mrs. Yancy on the inside of the sleeves, it suggests that her blood was transferred there from the arms of someone who did wear the shirt, either Mr. Yancy or Mr. Kadyrov.”

  The most damning testimony had come from Lydia Cassino, and, in a way, her dead drug hustling husband, Vinnie. Not long after his arrest, Kadyrov heard that Graziani had been killed. His initial thought was that it was bad news, as he couldn’t turn on the detective to try to save his own skin. But then again, he figured that with Graziani, Brock, and Vinnie dead, the only witness against him would be Lydia, and she had a rap sheet nearly as long as her husband’s. It would be “he said, she said” and he was certain he would come off better in that exchange.

  He was wrong. Lydia Cassino took the stand barely able to control her hatred for him, which at first he thought would be her undoing. He knew that his lawyer had made sure that she would not be able to voice her suspicions that he’d killed her husband. If in her anger she did, it would be grounds for a mistrial.