First Kill

by Lawrence Kelter

  “What?” she blurted incredulously.

  “Yeah, that was my reaction too.”

  “What about the murder weapon?”

  “The lab couldn’t find any of the victim’s DNA on it. It was meticulously clean.”

  “Bah!” she blurted with disgust. “That’s a load of crap.”

  “Yeah,” I concurred. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  Chapter Six

  It wasn’t the softer side of Sears. It was the seedy side of Macy’s, 35th Street between Broadway and 7th, an entire city block of loading docks and filth so thick you couldn’t see through it to the gutter. It was the side of Macy’s not caught by cameras during the Thanksgiving Day Parade.

  She was young and physically rich, slender with a small waist and full breasts. She looked good in her short, blue dress, the quintessence of red-light couture. It was tight in all the right places—a workingman’s fantasy, for sale right there on the street.

  She had walked several blocks from the Westside, trying to wave down a taxi for a ride home. She finally stopped and rummaged in her patent leather bag for a pair of flats. Alternately balancing on one foot then the other, she removed her pumps and slipped on her comfortable shoes. She pushed her heels into the bag with an authoritative shove—quitting time; for her it was the equivalent of punching a time clock.

  A taxi streaked by, passing her as if she didn’t exist. An icy rain began to fall that felt like pinpricks against her bare arms. She had just pulled a well-worn cardigan out of her bag when she noticed a silver sedan rolling down the street. She smiled inwardly—the speed at which the sedan moved was a dead giveaway. She knew when a john was interested; it wasn’t her first trip to the rodeo, not by a long shot.

  She sauntered toward the car and intercepted it as the driver’s window lowered. Resting her arms on the window ledge, she leaned forward allowing the hair from her auburn wig to fall in half moons on either side of her well-developed cleavage. When she smiled, a dark triangle was visible where her two front teeth were chipped. “It’s last call, Sugar.” She gave him a moment to check her out—the routine man-scan that began with her face and moved quickly to her breasts. “They’re real,” she said with an inviting smile.

  She was younger than he expected, perhaps seventeen or eighteen. He could feel himself stir. His right hand was in his pocket, his pointer finger sliding back and forth against the blade of his knife. An uncontrollable spasm racked his body, and he accidentally cut his fingertip on the blade. He wiped his bloody finger on one of the bills tucked in his pocket.

  “Excited, Sugar?” She reached in and rubbed him where he could feel it, hoping to seal the deal. “Oh, Baby, I think you like me.” The tip of her tongue traveled suggestively across her upper lip. “I’ll show you a good time.”

  “What do you call a good time?”

  “Baby, your balls will explode and lightning will shoot out of your ass.”

  “Get in.”

  “She walked around to the passenger side and got into the sedan. “So nice and warm in here,” she said as she rubbed her upper arms. “Pull in over by the loading dock.”

  “No, not here,” he said in a flat monotone.

  “You want a hotel date? That’s a hundred plus the room.”

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out his cash, and paid her without comment.

  “Thank you, Baby, I do love a bighearted man. “Head on over to the Westside—I know a place that’s generous with the steam heat.” He put the car in gear and rolled down the block. “You’re the quiet type, huh?”

  He took his eyes off the road as they approached the traffic light. He gawked at her, examining her long legs in detail. His mouth was agape while he stretched nervously, pressing his palms against the headliner.

  “Dear Lord,” she said. “When was the last time you got off? You look like you’re ready to explode.”

  “It’s that obvious?”

  “Baby, you look like a time bomb. I may have to double-bag you.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said with a steely, cold expression on his face. “I’m quick.”

  ~~~

  “I am just dying for a beer.” Mark Stokes reached into a flimsy paper bag and withdrew a handful of French fries.

  His partner, Gus Lido, laughed in spite of himself. “It’s the middle of the night. You think you can get through a tour of duty without begging for a six-pack?”

  Stokes flipped his partner the bird. “Ugatz, Lido. You think the guys on the detective squad don’t bend an elbow?” He lifted a giant Coke and sucked through the straw. “You step up the first of the year, right?”

  “Yeah. I turn into a butterfly on one-one.”

  “Christ, Lido, you’ve got to report on New Year’s Day? You’re a rookie all over again.” Stokes chomped down on his burger. “I’m gonna miss you, Gus,” he said pretending to mist up.

  “Hey, it’s not a fatal disease. I’ll just be across town.”

  “Yeah, like the big shot detective is going to stay friends with a lowly patrolman.”

  “How could I ever replace a bad-tempered, beer-swilling, beef-chewing bulldog cop like you?”

  Stokes drained his soda and belched. He continued to suck on the straw, but the well was dry. “How am I going to wash down the rest of this dog meat now?”

  “Stop talking with your mouth full.”

  “Look at us,” Stokes laughed. “We’re sitting in a police cruiser in the middle of the night, and you’re telling me not to speak with food in my mouth. Jesus, Lido, we’re the fucking Odd Couple.”

  They were still laughing when a call came over the radio. “Time to get busy,” Lido said after hearing the report of screams heard.

  “Great,” Stokes complained. “Just when I need to take a dump.”

  Lido threw the car in gear and sped away from the curb. “We’re closest.”

  “Yeah, yeah, okay. I’ll hold it in.” Stokes replied back to Central that they were on their way.

  ~~~

  The small construction lot near 11th Avenue was pitch black. Stokes aimed a beacon at the lot and searched for activity. “Looks like a fresh teardown. You hear anyone screaming, Lido? I don’t hear … Wait.” He refocused the light. “There’s a body on the ground.”

  The police cruiser came to a stop. Stokes got out of the car holding a Maglite and his service automatic. The lot was filled with debris, a dumpster, and a tractor. The chain-link fence meant to secure the area had been cut. Something crunched beneath his shoe as he approached the fence. He looked down and saw a crushed glass bong. “I love this job,” he muttered. He used the Maglite to scan the lot through the fence and then squeezed through the opening. Lido was right behind him.

  “Just another junkie,” Stokes said. He continued to scan the construction lot while Lido attended to the vagrant.

  “He’s still alive,” Lido said. “Looks like an OD.”

  “Shit, Gus, guys like these—it’s not an overdose, it’s his usual dose. I wish I could drift through the day in a continuous stupor like one of these guys. Opiates and sedatives—this is his status quo. Cold as fuck out here, and this guy’s on the ground taking a catnap.”

  “Hey, man, wake up. Come on, get up!” Lido shook the vagrant. “Rise and shine—come on.” He slapped his cheeks lightly. “Come on. Come on.” He checked the vagrant’s pupils and then monitored the second hand on his watch. “He’s breathing very slowly.”

  “I’ll call for a bus.”

  “Yeah, do that, but I don’t think he’ll make it. His lips are blue. He’s at about seven breaths per minute.” Lido jumped up and raced back toward the police cruiser.

  “Shit,” Stokes said unhappily. “No, not the Narcan. Not the fucking Narcan.” He called for medical assistance.

  ~~~

  He sat behind the dumpster with a single muscular arm lashed around her like a boa constrictor—his free hand was over her mouth as blood ran over her stomach, staining her blue dress. He tightened his
grip around her until she could barely breathe. She tried to break away but was weak from blood loss.

  ~~~

  Lido squeezed through the fence carrying the Overdose Prevention Rescue Kit.

  “Hey! You ever do this before?” Stokes barked.

  “No, but I’ve been trained.”

  “I’ll do it,” Stokes insisted. He rolled the vagrant on his side, checked his air passage, then laid him on his back and tilted his head. “You can’t just slam it in,” he said, warning and instructing at the same time. “You’ve got to push it in slowly.” He opened the kit and readied the syringe. “You owe me, Lido. Remember this when you’re hanging out with the suits.”

  He slid the vagrant’s sleeve up and hit him with the syringe. He had his finger on the plunger when the sound of a guttural moan filled the air. “Shit, the hell was that?” His finger twitched, and he accidentally slammed the full dose of Narcan. The vagrant’s mouth suddenly opened, and he emitted a prolonged and frightening gasp—it sounded as if he had returned from the dead. He sat up abruptly and heaved. Stokes jumped to his feet just as a dark figure sprang from behind the dumpster and burst forward, knocking Lido to the ground. The dark figure swiped at Stokes with a knife as he raced by. Stokes clutched his throat and collapsed backward on top of the vagrant.

  “Shit!” the vagrant shrieked. “Get him the fuck off of me.” He heaved again. “Who fucked up my high?”

  Lido was still on the ground. He was about to pursue the assailant when he felt Stokes’ hand clutching his arm. He looked over. Blood drizzled from a narrow gash in his partner’s throat. Lido heard a metallic clink and turned to see the assailant squeeze through the fence and race down the street.

  “Jesus,” Lido said as he assessed the injury. “Lie still. Let me take a look.” The knife had cut through the windpipe. He could hear breath whistling through the wound, the fluttering sound of air rustling past blood and tissue. “Don’t try to talk.” The sound of a siren became audible. “You’ll be all right, Mark, but you’ve got to sit up. I don’t want you choking on your own blood.” He turned to the vagrant. “Get behind him,” Lido shouted. “Put your back against his.”

  The vagrant grumbled, “Son of a bitch,” and reluctantly got into position behind Stokes just as an EMS vehicle pulled up.

  One of the EMTs raced out of the truck with his kit. He kneeled beside Stokes and examined the wound. “Christ, who trached him?”

  “Long story,” Lido said.

  The EMT opened his kit and began to work on the wound. “You’ll be okay, officer. You’re a lucky bastard.”

  A second EMT had a bolt cutter in his hands. He began to widen the opening in the chain-link fence so that they could carry the wounded officer out on a stretcher.

  Lido rose, took a deep breath, and glanced up at the moon. He enjoyed a few seconds of peace before he heard the sound of a woman moaning. He turned to see a woman’s legs sprawled out on the ground behind the dumpster. “Oh shit,” he said, suddenly remembering, “the scream.”

  Chapter Seven

  I walked into the squad room and plopped my fanny down at my desk. It was early, but the area was already buzzing with activity—crime never takes a holiday. Rodriguez swiveled in his chair until we were facing one another. “I’ve got something for you,” I said. He raised his eyebrows as if to say, really? “Yup, fresh coffee and a chocolate croissant.”

  “Thanks, Chalice, and I’ve got something for you too.”

  “Really? Does it beat a chocolate croissant?” Is it anything I’ve been fantasizing about?

  “Oh yeah. Come have a look-see.” He swiveled his computer monitor until I had a solid view of the screen, which showed a photo of bagged evidence I was presumably to find of interest. It was a black folding knife with a serrated blade, the knife I had found in Sean Quinlan’s apartment.

  My spirits dropped. “Why would I want to see that again?” I said, sounding let down. I took my coffee out of the paper bag and sipped it as I made my way to A-Rod’s desk.

  “Take a closer look.”

  I did as instructed, studying the image as closely as possible, making note of every detail: the design, size, and manufacturer’s markings. “What am I missing?”

  “Check the case number on the evidence bag.”

  I refocused my attention and studied the information on the evidence bag. The date, case, and case number were not the same. This was a different knife. I gasped. “Speak!”

  “Sometimes VICAP actually does work. This knife was recovered at a Westside crime scene a few nights ago. The reporting officer did a great job of cataloguing the evidence.”

  VICAP is the FBI’s Violent Crime Apprehension Program—a gazillion dollars worth of computer equipment, comparing, sorting, and analyzing the details of every heinous atrocity reported by all of the nation’s law enforcement agencies. Honestly … it’s usually not worth a shit. The acronym is bandied about liberally on TV crime shows, but the truth is that it rarely helps to solve a crime. Crimes are usually solved with lots of grunt work, tenacity, and civilian leads. The television shows modeled on whiz-bang technological genius are a big crock of horse pucky. Not that I don’t watch them.

  “Wow! I’m all ears.”

  “Not from where I’m sitting.” A-Rod wasn’t flirting—it was just partner banter. “Do you want to hear it from me or the cop who was at the scene? Turns out he’s getting bumped up to homicide next month. Nice guy. His name is Gus Lido. He’s in the interview room if you want to hear it firsthand.” A-Rod grabbed his coffee and handed the bag back to me. “Thanks for the pastry, Chalice, but I’m allergic to chocolate.”

  “Allergic to chocolate? What planet are you from?”

  “It gives me the runs.”

  “I thought it only had that effect on dogs. Christ, you don’t eat chocolate? That’s like being a communist.”

  “Tick tock, Chalice—you want to speak to the nice patrolman or not?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m going.” I shook my head disparagingly and snatched the pastry bag. “Geez, you think you know a person.”

  So there I was toting my coffee and two chocolate croissants. Each yummy treasure was good for roughly four hundred calories and enough butter to fry a carton of eggs—certainly more than I needed and certainly enough to add a premature double chin. I’ll give one to the new guy. I spotted him sitting at the conference table. Oh my God. He was gorgeous. If I were a tabby, I’d classify him as catnip. If I were a moth, he’d be a flame. If I were … oh hell, you get it. I could almost visualize a flashing neon sign above his head: JACKPOT!

  I cleared my throat to get his attention. He stood up and smiled. This was no half-ass smile. It was warm and incredible. Okay, this guy was more than just a little attractive—he was total lady-bait. He’s probably an asshole, I rationalized—one of those guys with smoldering good looks and the ego of a rock star. You know, too good to be true. Get your shit together, girl. Raise the cloaking device. Don’t let him know … I extended my hand, greeting him as if he were gender-neutral. “Hello, Officer Lido, I’m Cha-lee-see, Stephanie Chalice.” A funny thing happened when he touched my hand; my knees buckled. I reached out and steadied myself on the conference table.

  “Are you okay?” he asked as he grabbed my arm and helped me into a chair.

  “What the hell?” I said in a tone that suggested utter bewilderment. Nice going, Stephanie—real smooth. I rolled my eyes. “Low blood sugar.” Don’t say “thanks.” Better he thinks you’re a jerk than a love-struck schoolgirl. I retrieved a croissant and hacked into it, up to my bicuspids in flaky, yummy goodness. “That’s better.”

  “Do you have a blood sugar problem?” he asked with concern.

  Not yet, thank God, and hopefully never, but diabetes took my father’s life, and Ma was recently diagnosed with it as well. Genetically speaking, I’m a marked woman. I felt ashamed for making up the cheap low-blood-sugar excuse. I should’ve told the truth. You’re dreamy. “Not normally. It’s just
that I haven’t had anything to eat since …” I shrugged. Dinner? My expression made it seem as if I hadn’t eaten in months. Okay, back to business. “So I hear that you’re joining the squad—are you sure you’re ready for all of this madness?”

  “It’s madness at every level, Detective. I almost lost my partner out in the field the other night.”

  “No shit, that was your partner?” NYPD cops are as tightly knit as Kim Kardashian’s Spanx. If something happens anywhere in our universe we hear about it instantly—it’s a phenomenon akin to a disturbance in The Force. We had all heard about the patrolman whose throat was slashed at a Westside construction lot. “Stokes, right? Mark Stokes. How’s he doing?”

  “I saw him last night. He’ll be released this afternoon. The perp swiped at him trying to get away from us.” Using his thumb and pointer finger, Lido demonstrated the size and location of the wound on his partner’s throat. “Sliced the windpipe but missed the major blood vessels.”

  “Your partner is a lucky guy. Does he have a family?”

  “Yeah, wife and two boys—has a house in Queens.”

  “I just saw a knife on Detective Rodriguez’s computer screen. Is that the one you’re talking about?”

  “That’s the one. Interest you?”

  “Yeah, it does. The same kind of knife was used to murder a young woman recently. The scumbag I arrested just walked on a technicality.” I was going to launch into a rant about how the case was tossed on a completely ridiculous argument, but I didn’t know Lido and thought it better not to show my volatile side. I didn’t want to send him over the edge at our first meeting.

  “That sucks. We found an unconscious vagrant who looked like he had OD’d. Mark was just about to inject him with Narcan when a scream startled us, and Mark accidentally slammed the full dose all at once. Our perp had just stabbed a streetwalker, and we didn’t know that he was still hiding at the construction site. You know what happened next.”