by Owen Parr
“Be here at nine tomorrow. I’ll have the team assembled, and we’ll do the photo shoot in our brand-new office, which finally got new flooring today.”
“What should I wear?”
“Bring a change of clothes. We need various pictures. Be sure to bring your Miami Beach, beach wear.”
Smiling she said, “That fits in my little purse. Is your brother, the priest, going to be here?”
“El Padre Dominic, yes. But, I’ll make sure he leaves before the photo shoot if that makes you feel better.”
“It would, Sí. You know, Joey, I could bring some of my photos of me in bathing suits.”
Yeah, but that would not be as much fun, I thought to myself. “You could, but then we have to crop and play around with Adobe Photoshop. We’ll just do new photos.” Now, who’s the pervert? I asked myself.
“Are you taking them?” she asked, mischievously.
“No, Agnes will. I’ll direct,” I said, trying to sound toneless.
“Great. Tell me a little about your background. How did you end up owning an Irish pub?”
“My background you ask, huh. So far there are three chapters, and we’re on chapter three,” I said, taking a sip of my beer. I went on, “Chapter one, I guess I’ll call it, was growing up to an Irish mother, and an Italian father. A loving family; that’s my recollection.”
“Chapter one ended with my father getting shot in a bar in Little Italy when I was sixteen,” I replied, in a low voice glancing around.
“Oh! I’m so sorry to hear that. You don’t have to go on,” she said, shaking her head.
“It’s okay. I’ll give you the short version. My Dad, second generation Italian, born like myself in Little Italy, followed his dad’s chosen profession back then. I was headed in the same direction, until that day.”
“So, what happened?” she asked, leaning forward on her stool.
“Father Dominic happened, that’s what happened. Dom, is my Mom’s first born, in her first marriage to Brandon O’Brian. Father Dom became my surrogate father from that point on. It was his persistence that started me on the right path, and the start of chapter two.”
“That’s when you joined the NYPD?”
“Exactly. And for sixteen years I did that, until—” I paused, not wanting to get into too many details, “Dom and I, took over for his Dad, running and managing the pub. And here we are, in chapter three.”
Angela began putting her coat back on, “Chapter three could be interesting. I mean, you guys are running a pub and a cigar bar, and as private investigators, consulting for the NYPD.”
“Could get very interesting, yes. We’re also going to be taking cases from a criminal law firm here in New York, so, it could be a fun chapter,” I said, dropping our bottles in a recycling bin below the bar.
“Okay, hasta mañana baby,” Angela said, in her smoky voice while buttoning her coat.
“Thank you for volunteering for this, Angela. We have to stop this guy quickly.”
“I know. Listen, I’ve been seeing your manager make espressos. Would you mind asking him if he can make me a cortado?”
“You mean steamed milk and expresso?”
“Yes, why? What do you call it?”
“I call it a macchiato, and Marcy calls it a cortadito. All the same, I guess. I’ll make it. One cortado, coming up.”
As she began her walk to the front door, the pub went systematically quite again. It was seven in the evening, as the front door closed erasing all traces of Angela, the crowd erupted with “New York, New York.”
12
I love taking my Shelby Mustang out on weekend drives—the only time I get to enjoy it. Since parking during the week is at a premium in New York City, particularly in the Financial Center, where the pub is located, it makes a lot of sense for me to use a car service. Today, I was in a Toyota Corona. My Uber driver, Lucio, was dealing with a thin layer of snow on the ground, which was a carryover from the early morning precipitation.
I was looking forward to reaching the pub and setting up for the photo shoot with Angela. My instinct kept telling me that planting the fake profiles on the social media pages would generate a lead for us. It was a risky proposition, especially if it stirred public apprehension over the idea that a serial killer was running rampant terrorizing the city. My cell phone rang unexpectedly, startling both Lucio and me. The ID caller read Capt. Alex. “Good morning, Captain.”
“Not quite. We have another victim.”
“Shit,” I said, looking at the phone. “Where?”
“West 8th and 32nd.”
“That’s just east of the precinct?” I asked, looking out the window, but not focusing on anything in particular.
“Can you go there, now?”
“On my way; text me the exact address,” I replied. I asked Lucio to change course and take me to the new scene of the murder. Next, I called the pub and alerted everyone as to where I was headed and why, and asked them to stay put for a bit.
The entrance to the small apartment building was taped off with the all too well known yellow crime tape. I inspected the exterior. Sure enough, there were no cameras of any kind visible on the exterior of the building. Walking up two flights of stairs, I only found Patrolman Sanchez, and his partner Edwards, standing outside the entrance to the victim’s apartment, the same two officers that had been first on the scene at the last murder.
I don’t believe in coincidences, but they do occur. So, I asked as I walked in, “How come you guys are here?”
Sanchez, the tall and gangly one, replied, “We got the call, sir.”
“Are you guys out of Midtown South Precinct?”
“Yes, we are, sir.”
I replied, “I see.”
Edwards, the hefty one with another tight tapered shirt, noticed that I had become pensive. He quite frankly said, “This is not just a coincidence, Mr. Mancuso. This is our shift and our area of patrol, plain and simple.”
I turned to look at him, “Got it. Tell me what we have here.”
Sanchez swallowed hard, and replied, “The precinct got an anonymous call, about a possible dead body at eight this morning, and we responded to the call. The building super opened the door, and that’s what we found.” He pointed to the inside.
I stuck my head in and saw a small studio apartment. Again, as in the others, the room temperature was frigid. A window was opened, allowing the outside temperature, which was in the thirties, to invade the interior of the studio apartment. The bed was towards the back and in the middle of the room. Two doors on the right of the bed, one of which I assumed to be the closet, the other, the bathroom. A small kitchenette area towards the front left. On the right; a sitting area, consisting of a settee, coffee table, and lounge chair in front of desk positioned by the wall, with a small television. The body of our victim lay on the bed, naked, facing down, and with her legs dangling down at the end of the bed. Same MO, I said to myself. “Did you guys go in?”
“I did, sir,” replied Edwards. “I wanted to see if our victim was dead.”
“I assume she was.”
“She was,” said Edwards.
“Where did you step?” I asked, looking at Edwards.
“Yes sir, I went in, and purposely walked close to the walls on the right side.”
“Excellent, Edwards. Were you wearing gloves and booties?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Any sign of forced entrance?”
“No, sir. The door was locked.”
“Let me see,” I said, closing the front door halfway while bending down to examine the lock. It was a Schlage antique brass lock that had accumulated a thin layer of rust and turned darker with the passage of time. I noticed small scratched lines around the entry area of the key, which revealed the original antique brass coloring. I looked closer to examine the lock.
“Do you need a magnifying glass, sir?” asked Sanchez.
“Sanchez, I have an app for that,” I said, smiling and pulling out my
phone.
Both patrolmen glanced at each other and chuckled.
I activated my “Mag” app and, not only enlarged the view of the lock to see new markings but also snapped some pictures. “One could only imagine to what extent Sherlock Holmes would have gone to obtain an app like this.”
“That’s cool,” Edwards said.
I finished taking a few pictures of the lock when the posse, consisting of Captain Alex, Farnsworth, and Charles, arrived.
Farnsworth was the first up the steps. “Mancuso, how did you get here so quick?”
I wasn’t stuffing my face with jelly doughnuts at the precinct, was what I would have loved to have said, but didn’t. “I was a few blocks away,” I replied, instead.
The captain asked, “What you got, Joey?”
Before I was able to respond, Detective Farnsworth said, “Let me in there.”
“Just wait for a second,” I said, blocking the entrance, like a left guard protecting the quarterback.
“Mancuso, don’t forget who’s lead here,” Farns said sternly, trying to push through my block to look inside. “My God, this lady has a big ass.”
Ignoring that incredibly disrespectful comment, I spouted, “Just wait a moment.” I stood tall in front of the door. Farnsworth was so close to my face that I could smell the onion bagel on his breath again. “Captain,” I added, “I noticed some fresh footprints on the carpet. Moist prints. This door was picked opened.”
The Captain grabbed Farns’ left arm and pulled him back from me. “You’re saying our unsub was just here?”
I quickly shifted to a parade rest stance before replying. “Someone was just here, and they picked their way in. So, more than likely, yes. Our unsub may have been just here.”
“But, the killer would have risked running into the uniforms when they arrived,” Detective Charles said.
I replied, “Not quite. Our unsub made the call himself after he left.” Then I asked,” Did they trace the call?”
“No, it was very quick,” Johnson replied.
I queried, “He called the precinct, not 911, right?”
Charles replied, “Yes, our precinct. What’s the difference?”
Detective Charles, you dumb ass was at the tip of my tongue before I came back with, “Had he called 911, there would be a record of where the call came from.” I knew the moment the words left my mouth that Charles would get flack for raising the question. I suddenly felt bad for making Charles look like a fool. “I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts that if we could locate the source of the call, it would be from one of the few remaining public phones on a nearby street.”
Farnsworth was breathing heavy, like a racehorse just moments before the gates open. His nostrils expanded and contracted. I think foam was forming around his mouth. He couldn’t wait to get in the studio apartment.
Captain Johnson noticed the same thing. “Detectives, take a walk outside and locate public phones within a two-block radius. Tape them, and have a forensics team check for prints.”
Farnsworth erupted, “Captain, we can have uniforms do that. This is where we need to be.”
Raising his voice, Johnson said, “Get to those phones, before we lose any good prints. Take Sanchez and Edwards with you. I’ll take over this scene.”
Huffing and puffing, Farnsworth walked down the stairs, followed by the others.
“The CSU team should be here momentarily,” said Johnson, “how did you notice the moist footprints?”
I was more relaxed now that it was only Johnson and I. “When I bent down to examine the lock, I noticed a certain glimmer on the carpet. Upon further review, I could see wet footprints going from the front door to the bed, then back.”
“Do you think this murder just took place?”
I replied, “I think the coroner is going to tell us it happened late last night or early morning.”
“So, why’d he come back?”
“My guess is he left something behind and came to retrieve it. Fearful it might expose him.”
“Very possible, did he finally make a mistake?” The captain asked.
I wanted to reply that, yes, he had finally made a mistake. But, I wasn’t sure if that was indeed the case. “Captain, I’m going in to photograph the footprints before they dry up. Otherwise, we’ll lose them.”
“Do it.”
I walked in wearing my booties and latex gloves, and turning back to Johnson; I said, “Have CSU check for prints on the lock and knob. He might have left without cleaning that, although, I doubt it.” Kneeling down and bending over, I tried to get as many photos of the moist prints as I could. Hopefully, they could lead to a clue later.
“I’ll wait here.”
The freshest footprints were the first ones our unsub made as he walked in. If he forgot something, and then went outside before coming back in, he would have stepped on the thin layer of snow the city had received overnight. The glimmer, I noticed on the carpet, was, in fact, shoe prints.
The small studio apartment mimicked the same scenario from the previous murders: clean and undisturbed, everything was in order, no clothes laying anywhere. Even though I wanted to inspect the lady’s breasts to see if she had been cut, I waited, instead, for the crime scene unit to arrive. I decided in the meantime to check her mail that sat on the small kitchen counter.
“Captain, come in. Look for her purse, while I check her mail,” I said, perusing her stack of mail. Examining the opened mail on the counter, I said, “Her name was Darlene Rogers.”
Johnson wearing his booties and gloves opened the closet and found her purse hanging from a hook. Other empty bags and boxes of shoes were lined up above the clothes. “Joey, she’s twenty-nine, and she’s DEA.”
I lifted my head from the stack of mail. “She’s an agent with the Drug Enforcement Administration?”
Johnson walked over to me, and showing me her shield; he replied, “Yes, she is.”
“Dammit, we’ve got to get this fucking guy.”
The captain glanced around at the whole studio, as he stood next to me. “You were right. I think we pushed him to strike again this quick.”
“Belford called it.”
“Belford?” Johnson queried.
“Yeah, Special Agent Belford, he’s the one helping us with the profiling. He’s been right on, so far.”
The Coroner and the CSU crew arrived, and we stepped aside. “Guys, I need to see if her breasts are cut, and I need a TOD,” I mentioned to them. “Also, make sure you check for prints on the lock, and immediately measure the wet shoe prints on the carpet. There,” I said, pointing. “I marked them where my pen is.”
They looked at me with absolute disdain. It was apparent I didn’t need to tell them what to do. These guys and gals are professionals. I was just trying to be extra careful with the little evidence we had. I overheard one of them tell the other; ‘This guy is going to tell us to hold our dick when we piss, next.’
“Excuse me. Did you get the measurement of the shoe prints?”
“Thirteen inches, sir,” a CSU member replied.
After completing the preliminaries, taking photos, and videoing the scene, two of the members of the crew turned the body on the bed facing up, as others began checking for prints.
Sure enough, our victim had two crosses. One on each breast, but, not much blood on her, or the bed.
Alice Winfield, the coroner, said, “Same MO, guys. Superficial cuts on the breasts.”
“How come there’s so little blood?” I questioned.
The coroner replied, without raising her head, “The blood coagulates within minutes of death, and, based on her position, the blood flowed to her lower body. I have a feeling they had sex, then he strangled her during sex, as he did the others. But, he cut her a few minutes after she was already dead.
“What about a time of death?” Johnson asked.
“This asshole knows what he’s doing,” the coroner began, “I can only guess it happened late last night, or the ear
ly morning hours, based on her body temperature, which is cold right now. She’s still not in full rig.”
I said, “Correct me if I’m wrong. Rigor Mortis starts about two hours after death, from the neck down. And you said she is not in full rigor. So, is it possible that she was killed four, or five hours ago?”
Alice, the coroner replied, “I’d say between midnight and four in the morning. But, again, with the temperature in the room being so cold, it affects all my calculations.”
“What about COD?” asked Johnson.
Alice motioned with her right hand to the neck area. “I’ll know better when we do a full autopsy, preliminarily, same as others; strangulation. Same size contusion around her neck, and you can see the little red satin fibers.”
“Alice, we need to know stomach contents as soon as possible,” I said.
“Mancuso, we’ll do an autopsy as soon as we can. Unfortunately, this is not the only body we have to deal with today,” Alice replied, as she leaned down and took a closer look at the right breast. “Look here,” she pointed with her right index finger, “there seems to be some indentation on the left side of the right breast.”
Both Johnson and I moved in closer to observe. “That’s weird, an oval shape?” I queried.
“Let me see how big it is,” Alice replied, as she measured the oval indentation. “It’s one and a half inches, by an inch. It has a little marking in the center.”
“Allow me to take a picture with my magnifying app,” I said, as I pulled my phone out and photographed the indentation. I took various photos, some standard size, others magnified.
Johnson moved back, “What could that be?”
Alice called for one of her guys to take pictures. She observed, “She’s still wearing her earrings. Maybe a ring, or a broche?”
“No, no,” I said, “whatever it is, it belongs to the killer. That’s why he came back. He left after killing her, then realized it was missing, whatever it was, and he came back to retrieve it. Otherwise, he was leaving us a clue.”
“Fuck,” the captain said, “we need this guy to make a mistake.”
“Yeah, well, so far he’s five to zero.”