A Killer's Essence Read online

  “Fuck,” I said.

  “That’s exactly what I said when a call came in for a homicide and I found one of my detectives absentee while his name is written in big bright letters on my board. Where the fuck are you?”

  “Midtown.”

  “Get your ass over to the corner of Chambers and Church Street. I needed you there ten minutes ago. And with Grissini out of commission, starting tomorrow you’re back to eight to five.”

  I hesitated for a moment. Bambi had shifted her position on the bed so she was now sitting rigidly with her knees pulled up to her chest. A tenseness showed on her face as she listened to my end of the conversation. “You can’t find anyone else to cover for me—” I started.

  Phillips hung up on me. I looked away from Bambi for a moment. When I looked back, her beautiful face had scrunched up, her eyes squinty, angry.

  “You’ve got to be effing kidding me,” she said, disgusted.

  I shrugged. “I’m sorry. That was my boss. I have to go.”

  “No, you don’t,” she said. “Call him back and tell him you’re tied up.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Of course you can. If you want to badly enough, that is.”

  I scratched my jaw. A tired sigh eased out of me. “It’s not like that,” I said. “I’m on duty. I have people counting on me. I had no right doing this in the first place.”

  I retrieved my service revolver from the safe. While I checked to make sure it was fully loaded I could feel Bambi’s eyes boring holes into my back.

  “You’re effing pathetic,” she said.

  I turned around to muster as apologetic a smile as possible. “Look, I’ll be back when I can. In the meantime, enjoy the room, order room service, do whatever you want.”

  “Oh, you bet I will,” she said. Her eyes flashed angrily as she stared at me, her skin smoldering. “I’ll be ordering room service for two. Maybe I’ll invite that desk clerk up here. He’s better looking than you. A lot younger too.”

  I met her hard stare. “Do whatever you want,” I said, and then left the room.

  Chapter 3

  It had been six thirty when Phillips called. While the intersection of Church and Chambers was in Tribeca and less than three miles from where I was, at that time of day the traffic was brutal all along Broadway. Hell, it’s brutal any time of the day, but then in particular. Even after attaching the flashing blues to the outside of my department-issued Chevy Impala, the other drivers didn’t want to give me a break and I had to nudge a few cars to pull over so I could squeeze past. What should’ve been a two-minute drive took fifteen, and during it all I was cursing out everyone—the other drivers, Winston Harris for ever mentioning that free room, myself for being too conscientious about leaving my cell phone on, Bambi for not being able to give me a break, and even my partner, Rich, for letting himself get clipped crossing Seventh Avenue and breaking a hip.

  I had worked myself into a pretty rotten mood by the time I reached the crime scene. There was already a mob there. A dozen uniformed officers were keeping the news media at a distance, and several forensics investigators and members of the evidence collection team were examining the area.

  When I saw the body all of my self-pity from before bled out of me and was replaced instead by a soul-deadening sickness over what had been done to the victim. She was a middle-aged woman who had been shot once in the face and twice in the chest, and judging by the damage done to her something with a high caliber had been used, maybe a .45. She was lying on her back like a rag doll that had been tossed to the pavement, her legs twisted unnaturally behind her, her arms askew, one positioned over her head, the other at her side. The little that was left of her face stared blindly upward, her half-opened eyes dull and not much more than glass. I sat down on my heels so I could get a closer look. From the amount of damage done to her face the injury there looked more like an exit wound from a hollow-point bullet. I lifted her head up and, sure enough, found a small hole in the back of her head. I gently lowered her back to the concrete and continued examining the damage done to her. Both earlobes were torn, and three fingers on her left hand had been cut off, one on her right. From the quality of her blood-splattered designer clothes, my guess was she had been well-off when she was among the living. I focused my attention back on the missing fingers of her left hand.

  “He did it for the jewelry.”

  One of the forensic investigators had walked over to me. He nodded grim-faced at the mutilated left hand. “He cut off her fingers for the jewelry. I guess it was faster for him than pulling them off her fingers. Same thing with her ears. He ripped the earrings off of them. We found one of her fingers discarded twenty yards up the street from here. From the skin abrasions it was clear he pulled two rings from it.”

  He pointed out where the finger was found. The area had been marked.

  “Which finger?”

  He smiled grimly. “Third. Left hand.”

  “Anything else found?”

  “Three .40 caliber shell casings.”

  “That’s it? No handbag? Identification?”

  He shook his head.

  Fuck. With more than half her face blown off an ID was going to be a problem unless we got lucky with her fingerprints being in the system. I’d have to have forensics work on a facial reconstruction drawing, but even if they came up with an exact likeness an identification probably wouldn’t happen until we received a call from a concerned relative.

  “From her chest wounds and the way she fell it looks like she was shot first from the front,” I said, “but the head wound makes it look like she was shot from behind.”

  “That’s what it looks like,” he agreed. “There are no powder burns on her front, but if you lift up her head you can see the residue near the entrance wound. After she was on the ground he must’ve lifted up her head and shot her from in back with the muzzle pressed against her skull. The blood splatter indicates that also. From the size of the entrance and exit wounds, hollow-points were used.”

  I didn’t bother lifting her head up again. I’d seen the powder marks the first time I did.

  “What was the point?” I asked. “All three shots were probably kill shots. Why shoot her three times? And why in the back of the head?”

  The investigator continued to stare grim-faced at the body. “The head shot was probably done to remove her face. But who knows? Maybe it was all just sport. Fun. Maybe he was out hunting and found an easy target and went overboard.” He turned from the victim to look at me. “But you’re the guy who’s supposed to be answering those questions.”

  I stood up slowly, feeling both my knees and my back creak as I straightened them. “You take pictures yet?”

  He nodded.

  “You guys need anything else?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  “How about the collection team?”

  He peered over at the three members of the team who were working their way down the street.

  “Maybe twenty minutes.”

  “All right, then, let’s get the body moved to the medical examiner.”

  I left him and the dead woman to walk over to the spot where the severed finger had been tossed. The area had been marked with chalk. There was nothing special about it. The perp must’ve pulled off her rings and tossed the finger in the gutter as casually as someone else would have tossed away a gum wrapper. I squeezed my eyes tight for a moment and rubbed a hand across them. This was not good. A wealthy woman who we might not be able to identify, at least not without someone coming forward, shot dead and her body mutilated in this type of neighborhood. Fuck. While not the West Village, and with nowhere near that type of foot traffic, this was supposed to be a safe area for tourists. It was only several blocks from City Hall and another few from the WTC Memorial. The street itself was not that far removed from the Village, with the same type of offbeat stores littering it. This type of shit wasn’t supposed to happen here. It wasn’t supposed to happen anywhere in Manhattan anymor
e. The Bronx, maybe, but not here.

  I thought about the finger that had been left. The third finger on her left hand would be where she’d been wearing an engagement ring and wedding band. Did the perp leave it so we’d suspect she was married, or was it just a random act? I didn’t have a feel one way or the other. All I knew was my head was starting to hurt thinking about the shitstorm that was going to come down because of this murder, especially given the savagery of the crime.

  If she was married, statistically the husband would be the best bet for her killing, but given the brutality of what had been done to the body, there would have to be a tremendous amount of hatred involved, even if it was all done purposely to look like a robbery. There was a deep stench of a pure psychopathic personality behind this. It could be a hit man, but why so violent, why such overkill? Using this type of firepower? A .40 caliber is a military weapon, not something usually used for street crimes. I called my department and talked with Thomas Jones, our computer research specialist, and gave him what I had—the caliber used, a description of the victim, what was done to her, the time and area of the shooting. He promised he’d make this killing a priority and get back to me with any profile matches.

  One of the uniformed officers wandered over to me and introduced himself as Patrolman Dave Stevens from the Ninth. “You took your sweet time coming here,” he complained. He gestured toward a crowd of TV cameramen and reporters that had gathered up the street, all of whom were being kept back by a line of uniformed cops. “This has turned into a zoo.”

  I peered up ahead. “The hyena exhibit.”

  That cracked a razor-thin smile from him. “You got that right.”

  “Who called this in?”

  He consulted a notepad and read me the name on it. “James Longo. He owns Longo Books over there.” Stevens nodded towards a quaint bookstore two doors over from where the killing occurred. “Called it in at six fourteen. Thought he heard gunshots. Claims that by the time he looked outside all he saw was the dead body.”

  “How long did it take between hearing shots and looking outside?”

  Stevens shrugged, rolled his eyes. “Claims a couple of minutes. He said he’d hang around until we told him otherwise. He looked shaken up by the murder.”

  That got my pulse racing a bit. “Does he know the victim?”

  “Claims he doesn’t.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “None yet. We’ve gone door to door. Some people heard the gunshots but didn’t make the connection to what they were. No one yet is ready to say they looked outside and saw anything. What about the media? You want to talk to them?”

  “Not me. I’ll get someone from media relations for that. Anything else you can tell me?”

  He shook his head, his lips pushing into a bitter smile. “I can’t believe this shit going down here and in broad daylight. You see what that animal did to that poor lady?”

  “Yeah.”

  Both of us turned to watch the dead woman carried into the back of an ambulance. I told him we’d probably need the block closed for another twenty minutes. He nodded and left to join the other patrolmen keeping the media at bay. I then called for a media relations officer to be sent to the scene, giving the dispatcher a rundown on what we had. After that I made my way up and down the block talking with tenants of each store. No one saw anything. As Stevens had told me, some of the tenants admitted hearing noises but claimed they hadn’t made the connection that they were gunshots. In a vintage clothing store I noticed a security camera that was angled to capture the front of the store. Giving it a closer look, I wondered if it would also pick up part of the front sidewalk. I asked the girl working there if the system was active. She told me she’d check and left to go to a backroom. When she came back she was holding a videotape, her eyes wide under a circle of black mascara and her chalk-white face even paler than before.

  “This is what’s been recorded so far today,” she said, handing me the tape.

  I thanked her, finished checking the rest of the businesses on that side of the street, then worked my way down the other side until I reached the bookstore. By this time the media relations officer had shown up and was giving a briefing. Lieutenant Irving Stone. I knew Irv from my old Brooklyn neighborhood. He was Mike’s age, and back in the day he could hit a baseball a mile. We all thought he’d end up in pro ball. His joining the force was what got me thinking about doing the same.

  Irv must’ve sensed me watching him because he turned from the crowd he was addressing and gave me a pained grimace once he recognized me. Yeah, I was sure he was having fun stonewalling their questions about a violent killing none of us had any knowledge about yet. I nodded toward him, and his grimace deepened before he turned back to his audience. I think at that point I was grimacing too as I made my way up the steps to the bookstore.

  The owner sat in an overstuffed leather chair that was situated near the children’s book section and faced the front of the store, his eyes jerking to the door as I walked in. Longo was maybe in his mid-forties and was a large man with stooped shoulders. He had long, reddish hair and thick sideburns, and this gave him a shaggy appearance. His face was long and lean, his cheeks hollowed, and his nose angled sharply like an eagle’s beak. He wore a tweed jacket complete with leather patches and a pair of rumpled corduroy trousers as if he was trying hard to play the part of a college professor. I introduced myself. He was nearly out of breath telling me in a stilted voice how he’d been waiting for someone from the police to show up. When he tried to explain how stunned he was when he heard the gunshots, he had to stop for a moment to drink some water before he was able to find his voice again.

  “I was in the back room working on next month’s newsletter when the shots were fired,” he said. “It was maybe two minutes after that before I was able to get up and look outside.”

  “You knew they were gunshots right away?”

  He nodded. “Yes, certainly. When I heard those shots I went numb. I wish I hadn’t, but I did. By the time I looked outside whoever killed that woman was gone.”

  “Did you see anyone else?”

  “Only her.” He looked away and shook his head. “Simply awful what was done to her. Barbaric.”

  “Please describe the shots.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Were they fired close together or was there some time between each shot?”

  He looked away from me, a constipated look pinching his face as if he were trying to replay the event in his head. Half a minute later his eyes shifted back to meet mine.

  “The first two shots were bang-bang, no time between them,” he said. “The third came about ten seconds later.”

  “What time were the first shots?”

  “Six ten.”

  “Did you hear anything else?”

  He shook his head.

  “No one yelling anything beforehand or afterwards?”

  “No.”

  This was consistent with what I had already been told in the other stores along the street. Two loud noises close together—the shots that were fired into her chest, then ten to fifteen seconds later for a third shot that was fired into the back of her head. Nothing else distinguishable heard before or afterward.

  “Was anyone else in the store?”

  An apologetic smile. “We close at five-thirty on Wednesdays unless I have a signing scheduled. The store was already locked up when the shootings happened. I was ten minutes away from leaving when I heard them.”

  “You didn’t answer me. Anyone else in the store at the time?”

  “Just myself. Normally my wife would’ve been with me. She manages the children’s book section, but she left early today for an errand. Thank God.”

  “How about when you closed up?”

  “I had three employees leave then. No customers at that time. Why?”

  “I’ll need their names,” I said. “They might’ve seen someone suspicious loitering outside.”

  He accepted that a
nd told me he’d get that for me. While he was copying his employee information onto a sheet of paper I asked him if he knew the victim.

  He gave me a confused look. “No. Why would I know her?”

  “I thought maybe she might’ve been a customer. The officer you talked to felt you were shaken up pretty badly.”

  His lips pressed into a harsh thin line, his color not much better than what the dead woman’s had been. “Of course it shook me up,” he said. “A woman was shot to death right outside my store. I was the one who checked to see if she was still breathing. I saw up close what was done to her. But no, I didn’t recognize her. Even with what was done to her face I think if I had known her I would’ve recognized her.”

  He handed me a sheet of paper with his employees’ names and phone numbers while I handed him a card with my contact information. I asked him to call me if he remembered anything or if he or his employees saw anyone suspicious hanging around. I gave a quick glance towards the aisle of mystery books that I stood next to and, before leaving, suggested that maybe someday he’d be selling a book based on this murder. He made a face as if he just tasted something unpleasant.

  “Maybe,” he said. “But to be honest I never much cared for police procedurals.”

  Once back outside I was swarmed by news reporters and cameramen and had to wait until I was safely back in my car before I could call my department. Phillips had left for the day and I got Captain Joe Ramirez instead. I filled him in on what I had so far. “I’d like to get back to the station and see if there’s anything on the surveillance tape. Maybe we’ll get lucky. In the meantime we need to expand the canvass outward at least four blocks and see if we can find any of the other missing fingers. Also we need to talk to workers and transit police over at the Chambers Street and City Hall subway stations. Maybe one of them saw someone suspicious pass through.”

  “What about your partner, Grissini?”

  “He’s at St. Vincent’s with a broken hip.”

  “You’re kidding! I didn’t hear about that.”

  “I don’t know the story yet either, but that’s what Phillips told me. What about it, Joe? I could use some help.”