Outrage

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  When Dolores Atkins was murdered nine months later, however, good fortune smiled on Graziani. He’d gone out for a beer with his only friend at the Forty-eighth, who happened to be the sergeant in charge of homicide, Jon Marks, a tall, good-natured cop with a receding hairline and a habit of snorting when he laughed. Actually, “friend” may have been a stretch. They’d been partners many years earlier while working uniformed patrol. Graziani had actually saved Marks’s life when he shot and killed a whacked-out biker intent on stomping Marks into the hereafter. So they occasionally went out for a few drinks though they didn’t have much in common.

  Over beers, Graziani had learned some of the facts about the Atkins case that weren’t general knowledge to the public or even the rest of the detective squad. The brass had wanted to squelch loose lips from slipping information to the press, so it was supposed to be “need to know” only. But a third beer got Marks talking.

  And as he talked, Graziani heard a familiar story. The killer got into the apartment with no sign of forced entry, and no one heard or saw anything. The victim had been gagged and bound faceup on her bed, and she’d been raped, possibly when she was dead or dying. She’d been robbed, but again only of easy-grab cash and jewelry. And the killer had used a very sharp knife and used it extensively.

  “You don’t even want to see the photographs of the crime scene,” Marks said. “It was a bloodbath, and he took his time. Then when this guy got done, he washed up.”

  Graziani was convinced that Atkins’s killer was the same lunatic who murdered Yancy and Jenkins. But he didn’t say anything to Marks. Nor did he say anything over the weeks that passed, hoping the Manhattan homicide detectives back at the Two-Six wouldn’t pick up on it either given that the brass at the Four-Eight kept such a tight lid on the details. He couldn’t believe his luck that the Columbia U Slasher had reappeared in the precinct where he’d been exiled. If he could just figure out which tweaker liked to cut up women, Graziani would have his ticket punched back to Manhattan. Maybe finally be promoted to detective first grade, he thought.

  Now apparently Brock had stumbled onto his suspect. But that’s only for the Atkins murder and this assault, he thought. I can still be the one who ties it to Yancy and Jenkins.

  Graziani stood up from his desk and worked his way over to where Brock was being congratulated. He spotted Marks and sidled up to him with a smile. “Hey, can I have a word with you, old buddy?”

  “Can’t it wait?” Marks replied. “We got the guy who did the Atkins murder. The captain and the assistant chief are here, and they’re happy with the Forty-eighth detective squad right now.”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about,” Graziani said quietly. “I think this could be even bigger than that.”

  “Okay, shoot, whaddaya got?”

  Graziani shook his head. “Not here,” he said. “Too many ears.”

  Marks looked back at the circle around Brock then nodded toward an empty office. “Give me a minute, and I’ll meet you there.”

  When Marks entered the office, Graziani shut the door behind him. “You know I was part of the task force looking into that double homicide near Columbia last July,” he said.

  “Yeah, what about it?” Marks asked suspiciously. Although easygoing, he had a well-deserved reputation for not tolerating idiots, bigots, and fools. It was no secret that Graziani wanted back on Manhattan, preferably his old precinct.

  “Well, ever since that night you and I went out for beers after the Atkins murder, I’ve been thinking that the same guy also did Yancy and Jenkins,” he said. “Same MO—weapon, bloodbath, and cherry on top, the killer cleans up in the apartment after bloodlust.”

  “You think our perp is the guy?” Marks said doubtfully.

  “I think there’s a good chance,” Graziani said. “I’d like to ask him a few questions before he’s arraigned and gets a lawyer. Can we put the arraignment off until late this afternoon?”

  “Yeah, shouldn’t be a problem,” Marks said.

  “Do you know if a quickie indictment is in the offing?” Graziani asked.

  “Not sure,” Marks replied. “They had some assistant DA take a statement from him last night after Brock got him to confess. They have our reports; now it’s up to them.”

  “Then I should do this quick,” Graziani said.

  The sergeant thought about it. “You know, I should probably call homicide at the Two-Six. It’s their case.”

  Graziani felt his chance slipping away. “C’mon, buddy,” he said. “I worked for the task force. I know the details of the case, stuff only the killer would know. You call the Two-Six and they’ll take over the case. They’re Manhattan and this is a double homicide. The Four-Eight probably won’t even get credit for Atkins, not until they’re done with him. The brass here won’t be happy with that either.”

  Marks considered Graziani for a minute. He didn’t believe that his old partner gave a lick about the Forty-eighth getting credit, but what he said was true. NYPD worked all five of the boroughs, but everybody knew that Manhattan got preference and everybody else was a red-haired stepchild.

  “Okay,” he said. “But I’m calling Brock into this with you. It’s his guy. If you can make the case for Yancy and Jenkins, you’ll both get credit for it.”

  Graziani laughed. “Hey, no problem. Not trying to hog the glory.”

  11

  FELIX SAT DEJECTED AND ALONE WONDERING WHAT HE could say that would convince the police to let him go home. He glanced around. At least there wasn’t a mirror in the room now that he was in the jail instead of the police station—just four stark walls. But there was still a camera mounted high in one corner aimed at the table where he’d been told to sit and wait.

  When the door to the room swung open, he hoped to see his mother. She would probably scold him, but she’d let him know that it would be okay. Then they’d go home and she’d fix him something good to eat. He’d have even welcomed the glowering face of his dad, knowing he would receive a beating later, if they’d just let him leave.

  After he took the detectives out to “find the knife,” he thought they’d let him go. When he couldn’t find it he figured they’d realize that he wasn’t the man who attacked those women. It would be just like when he’d gotten in trouble for admitting to things he didn’t do. But this time, they told him he was under arrest for murder.

  Of course there was no knife, never had been. He’d just wanted out of that room, and the idea had come to him. He felt bad that he lied to the detectives. But once they were in the car—the detectives in front and he in the backseat wearing handcuffs—he thought he’d better continue to play along or they’d get mad.

  Detective McCullough drove while Detective Brock sat in the passenger seat; they went to an alley near his home. They got out of the car and he made a show of looking under a Dumpster for the knife. The detectives had also got down on their hands and knees to help look.

  “You sure this is where you left it, Felix?” Brock had asked when nothing was found. “Maybe this is the wrong alley? Or you left it somewhere else?”

  Felix thought about it and agreed. He said that maybe he’d left it in Mullayly Park. But when it didn’t turn up there, and the detectives were obviously getting angry, he claimed he couldn’t remember where he put it. He hoped that they’d then let him go. But that’s when they told him he was under arrest for murdering Dolores Atkins and put him in jail.

  Of course, he had no idea who the woman was—though he now had everything he’d been told about her memorized. His ability to remember things was his “gift from God,” his mother said, but now he wasn’t so sure. He’d have rather not remembered some of the things they accused him of doing.

  They reminded him that he could have a lawyer and that he wouldn’t have to pay for one. But he knew when someone didn’t want him to do or say something—and although the detective had said he could have a lawyer, it was clear that Brock really didn’t want him to have a lawyer. So he said
no. And when the detective asked if he was still willing to talk to him, he politely agreed.

  So they talked for a while longer before Brock said he needed to go to the jail. “Then they’ll take you to court and probably appoint an attorney to represent you.”

  Although Brock had not let him go and had yelled at him some, Felix thought he was a nice man. When the detective took him over to the jail, he seemed like he even felt sorry for Felix, or like he had more questions but didn’t know how to ask them.

  As the detective turned to go, Felix asked if he would be allowed to go home in the morning. The detective furrowed his brow and looked at him for a long time without speaking. But then he shook his head. “I don’t think so, Felix.”

  The horrible fact that he wouldn’t get to go home in the morning either rattled around in Felix’s head all night long as he lay terrified on his cell bunk. Jail was nothing like he’d seen on television. Here men screamed and yelled and cried and prayed all night long. There were sounds of struggle and sounds of sorrow.

  Although alone in his cell, Felix had not been able to block out the sounds and had not slept. He’d gone to breakfast and then was allowed to return to his cell alone again, where he wondered what he could say to get himself out of trouble. Then he went to lunch, which actually wasn’t bad, though a large man who sat down across the table kept making kissing gestures at him until the guard walked over. “You have visitors,” the officer said as he escorted him to the interview room.

  By “visitors,” Felix hoped the guard meant his mother, so he was disappointed, though he tried not to show it, when Brock walked into the room accompanied by another man, who was younger and looked more like the detectives he saw on the television.

  “Good morning, Felix,” Brock said. “This is Detective Joey Graziani. He’d like to ask you a few questions, is that all right?”

  Felix gave a worried smile. “Okay.”

  The new detective swung a chair around so that he could sit in it backward as he leaned toward Felix over the table. “Thank you,” he said. He was smiling, but the way he looked at him reminded Felix of how a big alley cat looked at a rat just before he pounced. “But before I ask you my questions, I want to make sure that you understand your rights.”

  “I do,” Felix said agreeably. “Detective Brock told me about them already. ‘You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?’ That’s what you meant?”

  Graziani glanced at Brock, who was looking at Felix with a frown, then shrugged. “Yeah, pretty much word for word. So?”

  “So … what?” Felix asked, confused.

  “So do you want an attorney present?”

  Felix felt the detective tense when he asked the question.

  “No?” he asked.

  The detective smiled. Felix did, too. He’d guessed right.

  “And you’re willing to talk to me, is that correct?”

  It almost wasn’t even a question. “Sure,” Felix answered. “I just want to go home. My parents will wonder where I am.”

  “Your parents have been told,” Brock said, not unkindly.

  “They have?” Felix cringed. “My dad’s going to kill me.” But then he brightened. “Is my mom here?”

  “No, but maybe you can talk to her later,” Graziani said. “Now I’d like to ask you a few questions. I know you already admitted that you killed Dolores Atkins, and I’m sure it was a big relief to get that off your chest.”

  It had been a big relief because it stopped the accusations and made Detective Brock happy. “Yes, I felt better,” Felix replied.

  “Oh, I’m sure,” Graziani said. “Had to be a big relief to tell the truth. Keep that in mind when I ask you a few questions now, okay?”

  “Okay,” Felix echoed.

  “Good, good. Do you remember what you were doing on One Hundred Fourteenth Street in Manhattan last July?” Graziani asked.

  Felix scratched his head. “One Hundred Fourteenth?”

  “Near Columbia University.”

  Looking over at Detective Brock, who’d remained standing and leaning against the door, Felix shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Just answer his questions, Felix,” Brock said, but then looked away.

  “Felix, over here,” Graziani said, snapping his fingers in front of Felix’s face. “I asked what you were doing on One Hundred Fourteenth Street near Columbia University last July.”

  “I don’t think I was,” Felix replied.

  “Sure you were, Felix,” the detective said, nodding his head. “I have a witness who says he saw you leaving the apartment building where Olivia Yancy lived.”

  “I wasn’t in Olivia’s apartment,” Felix said.

  “You’re lying, Felix,” Graziani said. “We showed a witness your mug shot; he’s sure it was you he saw coming out of the apartment building. Don’t bullshit me, Felix.”

  “Okay, I won’t,” Felix replied.

  “You remember being in Olivia’s apartment, right?”

  Felix picked up on the detective’s tone and nodded his head. “Yeah. I remember now. Olivia.” This seemed to please the detective so much that he added to his story, “She’s my girlfriend.”

  Graziani paused and tilted his head. “Your girlfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what? Were you guys having some sort of kinky sex and it got out of hand?” Graziani asked.

  Felix, a virgin and worried he’d be asked about the act, replied, “No. We don’t have sex.”

  “But you tied her up and put duct tape over her mouth?”

  Felix glanced again at Brock, who was looking at the floor. “I guess.”

  “You guess?” Graziani said with a scowl. “Or you know?”

  “I know.”

  “And you cut her clothes off with your knife,” Graziani said.

  Yet again, supplied with the answer, Felix agreed. “Yes.”

  “And what about Beth Jenkins?” Graziani asked, then when Felix looked confused, he added, “The woman you stabbed when she came in on you and Olivia.”

  “I didn’t stab her.”

  “Oh? Did someone else stab her? A partner?”

  Felix shrugged. Somebody must have stabbed the woman. “I guess so.”

  “Who? Give me a name.”

  “I don’t know,” Felix replied.

  Graziani looked hard at Felix and tapped his pencil on his notepad as if growing impatient. “That’s because there wasn’t anybody else, was there?”

  “I guess not,” Felix said, rubbing his eyes. He was tired and all these questions were giving him a bad headache. He had no idea why these police detectives kept thinking that he killed women, but he wished they’d figure out soon that he hadn’t.

  “So did you stab this woman, Olivia, who you had tied up on the bed?”

  “No.”

  Graziani sighed. “Come on, Felix, remember what we said about how good it feels to tell the truth.”

  “Yes,” Felix said.

  “Then why won’t you admit that you stabbed Beth Jenkins when she discovered you in the room with Olivia?”

  Felix thought about it. The question seemed to imply that the problem wasn’t so much that a woman had been stabbed but that he wouldn’t admit to it. “Okay, I did it,” he said.

  “How did you stab her?”

  “With a knife.”

  “Okay, but I mean, show me how you stabbed her. How many times?”

  Felix made a slashing movement. “Twice.”

  Graziani frowned. “That’s slashing, not stabbing, Felix. Now, think hard; how did you stab her?”

  Felix made a poking motion and was rewarded with a nod from the detective.

  “Okay, that’s more like stabbing. How many times?”

  “Twice” had not seemed to satisfy the dete
ctive, so Felix changed his answer. “Three?”

  The detective pursed his lips.

  “Four.”

  Graziani stood up and rested his knuckles on the table as he leaned closer to Felix. “So maybe you’re not quite sure how many times you stabbed her. Is that right?”

  Felix nodded. “I don’t know how many times she was stabbed.”

  Graziani looked at him like he was getting mad. “You know what I think, Felix?”

  “Yes. I mean no.”

  “I think you’re lying to me about Olivia being your girlfriend.”

  Caught, Felix thought. He decided he’d better tell the truth. “She wasn’t my girlfriend.”

  “So how did you get into her apartment? Did you break in?”

  “Yes.”

  “How? We didn’t see any signs of you forcing the lock.”

  Felix thought for a moment. “The door wasn’t locked.”

  “So you just walked in.”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you get past the security gate at the front door?”

  “Somebody let me in.”

  “They saw you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you describe them? Man or woman? Old or young?”

  Felix tried to imagine who might have let him in an apartment security gate. “An old man.”

  “So then you tied her up, put tape on her mouth, and cut her clothes off?”

  That sounded like what he’d said so far. “Yes.”

  “Then Beth Jenkins came in and you stabbed her.”

  “Yes.”

  “And then you raped Olivia,” Graziani said. “You remember that, right?”

  “I don’t remember that,” Felix said. He pressed his fingers against his temples.

  “Are you saying you blocked it out?”

  Felix looked away from Graziani and saw that Brock was watching him again with that same questioning expression. He looked back at the first detective. “I must have blocked it out.”

  “Felix, I want you to really concentrate, okay?” Graziani said.

  “Okay, I will.”

  “Good,” Graziani replied. “Now, I want you to recall as best you can what you did to Olivia after you raped her.”