by Steven Henry
But sometimes a really bad scene pierced the armor.
Erin felt it like a physical blow. When they saw the apparatus, and what had happened to Kathy Grimes, the three detectives just stood there. None of them said anything. None of them moved. Time stopped for a little while. Erin couldn’t hear the chattering audience members on the other side of the curtain. Her vision went dark at the corners. For a second, she genuinely thought she might faint.
Vic finally broke the silence. “Shit,” he said in a calm, thoughtful tone.
Webb sighed and adjusted his necktie. He didn’t give any outward sign of being upset. If anything, he just looked a little more tired. “Levine’s on the way,” he said.
“The hell for?” Vic demanded. “Cause of death? Pretty goddamn obvious.”
“Can it,” Erin snapped.
Vic looked at her in surprise. “What?”
“This is bad enough without your attitude,” she said. She’d have a hard time explaining it, but she was suddenly finding him irritating.
“What’d I say?” he shot back.
“Both of you, quiet,” Webb said softly. “I want the ME’s report before we move the body.”
“Which half?” Vic replied.
Erin tried to think objectively. This wasn’t the first time she’d seen a gruesome body. Hell, some highway accidents were as bad as this, or worse. She’d seen severed limbs thrown out of cars, corpses burned to a crisp. There wasn’t anything special about this.
Maybe it was the way it’d happened. A young woman had been cut to pieces in front of hundreds of people, and no one had stopped it happening. Not even the man who’d been standing right there.
She turned away from the horrible sight and faced The Great Ronaldo. “Why didn’t you do something?” she demanded.
“Like what?” Ronaldo sounded surprised.
“Like stop the damn saw!”
“It happened so fast,” he said. “It’s never happened that way before.”
Erin wanted to punch him. If he’d reacted properly, just maybe the victim could’ve been saved.
“How does this work?” Webb asked. “You said it was a real saw blade.”
“That’s right,” the magician said. He took a deep breath. Apparently, giving up one of his tricks bothered him as much as having his assistant bisected in front of him. “There’s a lever there, on the back of the apparatus.”
“This?” Vic gingerly stepped around pools of blood and poked the toe of his shoe at a well-concealed section of machinery, being careful not to touch anything.
“That’s it,” Ronaldo said. “But when I pressed it, nothing happened.”
“That’s the only thing that keeps you from turning a girl into cold cuts?” Vic said in disbelief.
Erin gritted her teeth.
“There’s a backup safety catch,” Ronaldo said. “A locking pin engages and guides the blade onto a lower track. The blade slides under the table while a pyrotechnic effect creates a shower of sparks and smoke.”
Vic bent down to look under the machine. “Doesn’t look like there’s room.”
“There’s a mirror,” Ronaldo explained. “It uses forced perspective to make the blade appear to run on its original track. It appears to be passing directly through the assistant.”
Vic moved his head from side to side, trying to make it out. “Okay,” he said doubtfully. He rapped his knuckles on the glass under the slab to make sure it was real and solid.
“But the locking pin didn’t engage,” Ronaldo said. “I’m not sure why.”
“You test this equipment before the show?” Webb asked.
“Yes,” Ronaldo said. “Something must have gone wrong.”
“Obviously,” Webb said dryly.
Out of the corner of her eye, Erin saw a new arrival come onto the stage. For a moment, she didn’t recognize her; a slender brunette in a black evening dress with a glamorous hairdo.
Then the woman walked briskly forward and peered at the ghastly scene with professional interest, pulling a pair of rubber gloves out of her handbag. “Give me some room,” she said.
Vic and Erin did a simultaneous double-take. “Levine?” they echoed one another.
Sarah Levine, Precinct 8’s Medical Examiner, nodded absently.
“You look... good,” Vic managed to get out. To the best of Erin’s knowledge, no one at the Eightball had ever seen Levine in anything but a lab coat, surgical scrubs, and the most basic hairstyle.
“I didn’t have time to change,” Levine answered without looking at him.
“Must’ve been a hell of a party,” Vic said. “Sorry we called you out before—”
Levine didn’t even let him finish. “Victim is a Caucasian female, aged early twenties. No lividity or rigor. Probably less than an hour since TOD, definitely less than two.”
“We’ve got time of death,” Webb said. “Pretty much to the second.”
Levine kept talking without looking up. “Blood spatter indicates a living body. We have definite arterial bleeding from the lower body. Initial cause of death appears to be lateral traumatic bisection of the pelvic region and abdomen, beginning in the pelvic region and ending above the left shoulder. By the time the blade transited the thoracic cavity, the damage was already mortal. However, you can see from the spatter pattern that the heartbeat did not entirely cease until the heart itself was bisected.”
“Jesus,” Vic muttered. “We get the picture.”
“The blade continued its transit, but did not contact the cranium,” she went on, “likely due to muscular contractions at the moment of death. The blade exited the body just above the left scapula, bisecting the clavicle. I’ll need samples for the bloodwork, of course.”
“That shouldn’t present a problem,” Webb said with quiet understatement. “Where’s CSU?”
“Getting their gear,” Levine said. “The team from the morgue is here, too.”
“Oh, no,” Erin said. “Not them.”
As if on cue, the two guys from the coroner’s van showed up in the wings. They couldn’t move the body until the Crime Scene Unit took pictures, but they apparently had nothing better to do than hang around until then. Ernie was the tall, thin one and Hank was the short, stocky one. They had a knack for saying the absolute worst possible things.
She was in no mood to deal with their bullshit, not with something that horrible right next to her. “Not a word,” she said, taking a threatening step toward them.
Hank spread his hands, the picture of innocence.
Ernie, staring at the scene, was quietly singing. “Take time with a wounded hand ‘cause it likes to heal, I like to steal... I’m half the man I used to be...”
Hank joined in. “This feeling as the dawn it turns to gray...”
“Well, I’m half the man I used to be,” Ernie went on.
Vic caught Erin’s wrist, spoiling the fist she was getting ready to launch into Ernie’s jaw. “Hey,” he said. “Don’t.”
She spun around. “Let go,” she growled.
Rolf, picking up on her mood, started a low rumble in his chest. His hackles went up. He liked Vic, but he wasn’t about to let anyone manhandle his partner.
Vic let his hand drop. Then he turned to the two guys who drove the meat wagon. “And if you two assholes don’t shut it, I won’t stop her next time. Hell, I’ll join in.”
Ernie grinned, but he trailed off into silence.
“What’re you talking about?” Hank asked. “It was just our halftime show...”
Erin moved too fast for Vic this time. She didn’t punch Hank. She used an open hand and shoved his shoulder, spinning the little guy almost halfway around. Then she walked off the stage into the wings, found a dark corner, and put her hands over her face. She was trembling with adrenaline, anger, and residual shock.
Rolf nosed cautiously at her. He wagged his tail and stared with his serious brown eyes.
She rubbed his ears without really thinking about it. After a while, she felt
a little bit better. But she knew, no matter when she got to bed, sleep would be a long time coming. What the hell was the matter with her?
Chapter 3
The sky was just getting light when Erin dragged herself into her apartment. Webb had sent her and Vic home to catch a little rest. The Lieutenant was still at the theater, overseeing a bunch of uniforms and taking an endless stream of witness statements. For a burned-out old veteran, Webb had an awful lot of stamina.
Rolf hopped up on her bed, curled into a ball, and went to sleep. Erin took off her Glock and gold shield and laid them on the nightstand. Then she went back to the kitchen, where the liquor cabinet was waiting for her.
The whiskey was a micro-brand called Glen Docherty-Kinlochewe. Since no one west of the Atlantic knew how to pronounce that, it went by the abbreviation Glen D. She hardly glanced at the beautiful, transparent amber fluid as she poured herself a double shot. It was high-quality liquor and went down easy.
The first drink took the edge off her anger. She paused for a moment in the act of refilling her glass. The Glen D was running pretty low. This was her last bottle, and it was less than a quarter full. That was a problem. Her supply had dried up.
Glen D was an exclusive import of an Irish organization, specifically, the O’Malley crime family. She’d had a great line on as much of the good stuff as she could drink, free of charge, ever since she’d saved Carlyle’s pub from getting blown to bits. But she’d screwed that up.
Maybe it was just as well to go back to drinking Jameson, she thought morosely. The Glen D tasted like Carlyle. So smooth, with that hint of exotic foreign flavor. A girl could get drunk on it without even noticing.
She curled her hand into a fist around her glass and poured the second drink. Carlyle had called her cell phone eight times, without getting an answer, until she’d blocked his number. Of course, being Carlyle, he hadn’t let that stop him. He’d gone to a burner cell. The unknown number on her caller ID had gotten him as far as her saying “O’Reilly.” The moment she heard his voice, she’d hung up on him and blocked that number, too.
He’d gotten the message and hadn’t tried to contact her again. Carlyle wasn’t the kind of guy who’d keep throwing himself at someone. He had his pride. But so did she, damn it.
How could she have let herself be so careless? She was a detective with the NYPD. He was a mid-level mob boss. Who he was didn’t matter. What he was, that was the issue. Maybe he’d been using her the whole time, playing a long game, getting closer. Grooming her. Or maybe he really had fallen for her. But that wasn’t the point.
The point was that Erin had been trying to block out what had happened for two and a half months. Fortunately, she had her work to keep her mind occupied. And when the work ended, she had her cache of Glen D.
“For a little longer, at least,” she muttered, glaring at the almost-empty bottle. She was feeling the comfortable, warm numbness starting to spread out from her stomach. Maybe she’d be able to get some sleep after all.
Erin woke up with her head pounding. She rolled over, groaned, looked at the clock, and groaned again. She still didn’t know whether they were investigating a terrible accident or a homicide, but either way, it was time to get on it. She pulled herself out of bed.
Rolf was a lot perkier than she was, probably because she hadn’t given him any whiskey. He was up and alert, eager for their morning run.
She didn’t want to go. Hangovers and cardio didn’t mix, and it was way too cold out. But force of habit got her into a set of NYPD sweats and out the door.
It was a bright, sunny January day. The light drove spikes of pain straight up her optic nerves into her brain. Every running footstep jarred up her spine. But she kept going, ignoring the pain, running through it. By the time she got back to her apartment, sweat soaking into her clothes, her head was a little clearer.
As she climbed the steps to the front door, she paused. Something tugged at her Patrol instincts. She had the feeling someone was watching. She turned and gave a quick scan to her surroundings. The apartment fronted on a small park across the street. She saw a few pedestrians, some passing cars, but nothing out of the ordinary.
Erin shook her head. She’d been ambushed by Russian hitmen, stalked by a serial killer, and shot at more than once. That was no excuse for being paranoid. If she started imagining dangers outside her door, she’d never leave her apartment. She went inside to grab a quick shower before heading to work.
Webb had beaten her to the Precinct 8 Major Crimes office. He didn’t look any worse than he had the night before. He didn’t look any better, either. Erin imagined she didn’t look so good either. She hadn’t slept nearly enough.
“Morning,” Webb said, without offering any opinion on whether it was a good one or not.
“Morning, sir,” she said. “Where’s Vic?”
“Still asleep,” Webb said. “Or maybe dead.”
“Speaking of which...” Erin prompted.
Webb pointed to the department’s whiteboard. He’d put up pictures of Kathy Grimes and Ronald Whitaker that he’d clipped out of a theater program. Whitaker was listed under “Suspects.”
“So, homicide?” she asked.
He nodded. “A couple of our tech guys took the machine apart overnight. I just saw their report. The device was sabotaged.”
“They’re sure it wasn’t an accident?”
“A chain link was filed through and the gap filled with wax,” he explained, picking up a folder from his desk and flipping through it. “CSU found the residue. Someone wanted it to pass inspection. The magician, Whitaker, said they ran the saw a couple minutes before doing the trick. But running the motor created heat, which softened the wax. Then the chain parted and you can guess how things went from there.”
“Ouch,” Erin said.
“So, we need to find out who wanted to kill Kathy Grimes,” he said. “Specifically, someone who wanted to kill her publicly and horribly, and was willing to go to considerable lengths to make that happen. Then we need to figure who on that list had access to the machinery and the knowhow to set it up.”
“The Great Ronaldo, of course,” she said.
“What about him?” Vic asked from the stairwell.
“Damn,” Erin said. “You look like I feel.”
Vic took a long pull from the gigantic soda cup in his hand. Erin knew better than to ask what was in it.
“Whitaker’s our only suspect so far,” Webb said. “He certainly understood the device. He and Grimes worked together, so there could be any number of reasons he might want to kill her.”
“Yeah,” Vic said. “Except that he’d have to be a total moron. Think about it, Lieutenant. What sort of oxygen thief decides to kill a woman in front of six hundred witnesses, every one of which is guaranteed to be looking right at him while he does it? Hell, we’ve even got a couple videos of it happening off smartphones, don’t we?”
“We do,” Webb sighed. “I’m not used to having too many eyewitnesses.”
“How many did you talk to?” Erin asked.
“Enough. For once, pretty much all the accounts agree. It’s like music. Get enough people singing together, it averages out on key.”
“So what do we do now?” Vic asked.
“Our jobs,” Webb said. “Erin, you do background on Grimes. Find out who she was, what made her tick. I got some info from Whitaker, but it’ll need to be verified. The file’s on your desk, along with emergency contact info. She had parents in Detroit.”
“Family notification?” Erin asked, her heart sinking. It was one of the worst parts of the Job.
He nodded. “Someone has to. Neshenko?”
“Yeah?”
“I want a list of everyone who works at the theater. Whether they were on the clock during the show or not. Ushers, stagehands, concessions, everyone.”
“I miss Kira,” Vic muttered. “She actually likes this shit.”
“Excuse me?” Webb inquired politely. “I may have misheard
you, but I think you just said something about requesting a transfer to permanent traffic duty?”
Vic twitched but didn’t say anything. He went to his desk and sat down heavily.
Erin took a seat at her own desk with about as much enthusiasm. She missed Kira Jones, too. They hadn’t seen much of her since Kira had transferred to Internal Affairs at the end of their last big case. Erin had the feeling the other woman was avoiding her old colleagues. It was a real shame, especially when there was research to be done. Kira was a master at wading through data.
Erin looked at the Kathy Grimes folder. The top sheet had the names Bernard and Loretta Grimes and a phone number. She was about to dial when she remembered Webb had said they were from Detroit, where it was an hour earlier. She’d be ruining their day no matter what, but she could at least let them wake up first. She set the phone number aside and started running computer checks on the victim.
Some interesting things turned up when she did a search on the National Crime Information Center database. A Kathy Grimes had pled out on a burglary charge in Detroit four years ago. The same person had gone to trial for grand larceny but had been acquitted. Apparently, she’d been accused of stealing from a low-level manager at General Motors the year before her burglary bust. Erin wasn’t sure whether any of that was pertinent, but figured she’d better add it to the file. Maybe someone Grimes had ripped off had decided to go outside the law to get even. She found a few other hits on the name, scattered around the country, but they might just be people sharing a name.
Then it was time to make the phone call. Erin took a deep breath and dialed Detroit.
She’d just about resigned herself to leaving a voicemail, but someone picked up on the fourth ring. A noncommittal male voice came on the line.
“Yeah?”
“Sir,” she said, “I’m trying to reach Mr. and Mrs. Grimes. My name is Erin O’Reilly. I’m a detective with the New York Police Department.”
There was a pause. “You got the wrong Grimes,” the guy on the other end said. “Don’t you guys check your area codes? I’m in friggin’ Detroit.”
