Third Victim
A Stephanie Chalice Back Story
#3
By
Lawrence Kelter
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If you enjoyed First Kill and Second Chance, you’ll just flat out die for Third Victim.
The Back Stories feature NYPD Detective Stephanie Chalice in the days before she made the big time. She’s righteous, rambunctious, and oh so ready … for anything. Join her in Third Victim. She’s funnier, ballsier, and just plain hell-bent for justice.
She’s taken her first life, turned a sorely needed vacation into a nightmare, and is once again ready to mess with the wicked. When a bomb goes off in a house of worship, she questions the bomber’s MO and the evidence staring her in the face. Rejecting the obvious conclusion, Chalice leaps headfirst into an investigation with no obvious suspects and clues that stymie NYPD’s best and brightest.
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Third Victim Copyright © 2015 by Lawrence Kelter
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, or persons living or dead, is coincidental.
Editing by
Pauline Nolet
Interior book design by
Bob Houston eBook Formatting
Acknowledgments
The author gratefully acknowledges the following special people for their contributions to this book.
As always for my wife, Isabella, for nurturing each and every new book as if it were a newborn child, and for her love and support.
For my children, Dawn and Chris … just because.
Third Victim
A Stephanie Chalice Back Story
#3
By
Lawrence Kelter
Chapter One
The first victim was male. He was young with full round cheeks and wavy brown hair. His peyos were tucked behind his ears, and the fringes of his tallit were visible beneath the dust that had settled on him after the explosion. A blast had gone off at the Broadway Chabad, a place of worship for religious Jews in the Theater District. The source of the blast was readily apparent—a coffee-can bomb had been taped to the base of a kitchen table. The explosion had gone off shortly after eight in the morning, killing three kitchen workers.
“How ironic,” I lamented as I stared at the ruptured black and yellow vessel that had once contained Chock full o’Nuts coffee.
Gus Lido was my new partner. He was wet behind the ears but easy on the eyes, a former West Side patrolman who had recently been promoted to homicide. He was studious and had asked a lot of questions while back at the station house, which was good. His initial crime scene query, however, would not be memorialized as one of his more inspired efforts. “What do you mean, Chalice?”
“You don’t find satire in a student of the Talmud being killed by that heavenly coffee?” I shrugged and flashed my upturned palms. “Nothing?”
“Oh,” he spurted with revelation.
“You’ve got to pay attention to the one-liners, rookie. They’re pearls, Lido, absolute pearls.” He seemed preoccupied and my guess was that he was searching his mind for correct crime scene protocol. “Flipping pages in the detective’s handbook? I know that’s what I did the first few times.”
He nodded.
“Just remember the basics, Gus, the best search options are usually the most difficult and time-consuming, and physical evidence can never be overdocumented. So just take your time and ease into it. Let the crime scene soak into your head.”
The crime scene team had yet to determine how the bomb had been triggered, but there are so many options in this electronic age—a cell phone and an electronic detonator were the most common, but with the kitchen completely covered with debris, it would take them considerable time to sift through the rubble to find the gizmo, or is the technical term thingamabob?
Also obvious was that the bomb had been filled with steel ball bearings, many of which were embedded in the kitchen Sheetrock wall. A technician was busily prying them out of the wall and depositing them in an evidence bag. Two of the ball bearings were imbedded in the first victim’s forehead, and it appeared that one had pierced his cheek. The fireball emanating from the blast must’ve singed off his eyebrows and charred his exposed skin and clothing. My guess was that the victim’s death resulted from a cerebral hemorrhage or some manner of severe brain trauma. The force of the explosion-generated pressure waves must have slammed into his head with tremendous force and knocked his brain around within his skull. In extreme cases autopsies have revealed liquefied internal organs. Dried blood, visible in the victim’s ear canals, lent credibility to my theory.
“It’s a miracle the blast didn’t ignite the gas from the oven,” Lido ventured.
“I guess you don’t do a lot of cooking.”
“Scrambled eggs and coffee … I know my limits,” he replied. “You?”
“God, you can scramble eggs? I’ve been known to screw up boiling water. I’m insanely jealous.”
“So you don’t cook?”
“Not often, but my mother prepares Italian food like Emeril Lagasse and we just swapped her old worn-out stove for a brand new one.” I stepped over some debris and pointed at the brand logo on the oven. “This one was way above our budget, but I remember from doing research that it has an electronic glow bar ignition system.”
“Meaning?”
“There’s no pilot light. The gas remains off and doesn’t start flowing until you turn on the oven or a burner, then electric current runs through the glow bar and makes it hot enough to ignite the gas.” Still, he’d made a valid point, and I informed him that one of the first things we do after a fire or explosion is to turn off the gas main. I even threw in an atta boy for good measure.
Victim number two was female. She was short, round, and wore an apron that was way too small to be tied around her thick waist. Her hair was really something. It was stiff, wavy, and brushed straight back à la Gene Simmons of Kiss fame, the kind of barbwire hair a woman could do absolutely nothing with. It was “cut it short and stuff it under a hat” kind of hair. I’m not trying to be cruel here, but you couldn’t say that she was a pretty woman—in fact, she reminded me of Cornelius from the original Planet of the Apes. She was lying flat on her back in a puddle of water with a giant bloody divot in her forehead. An empty fifty-cup coffee urn lay alongside her on the floor. I had already formulated my hypothesis as to how she’d been killed but tossed it out there for the rookie to take a swing at. “So what do you think?”
“Hmm.” He was pensive for a moment before offering his explanation. “A woman that heavy shouldn’t wear leggings.”
“Ha! Love it.” Lido had been somewhat withdrawn up until that point and I was happy to see that he had loosened up a little, popped his cherry, so to speak. I mean what good is a partner if he can’t hold up his end of an inappropriate conversation. “No, but really, tell me what you see here. What caused the fatality?”
“Is this a quiz?”
I nodded. “Yer darn tootin’. Show me what you’ve got.”
“It looks like she was filling the coffee urn when the explosion went off and the force of the blast drove her head-first into the pot filler.”
“Yup. Sounds about right. Makes a good argument for buying one of those dainty little Keurig coffee machines.”
“Do I go to the head of the class?”
“Well, since
it’s a class of one … yeah, sure, knock yourself out. You can clap out the erasers and collect the milk money as well. By the way, are you recording all of this?”
“Oh. Uh-huh,” he said as he reached for his notepad and pen. “Thanks for reminding me.”
“No worries. One day you’ll be schooling a newbie of your very own and I trust that you’ll be as gracious a mentor as I am.”
He sneered lightheartedly before moving onto the third victim. I saw him wince as he took in the deceased. The man’s face was gone. It was pulverized and completely unrecognizable. In essence, the back of the victim’s skull was a bowl filled with gray matter stew. Yeah, I know, that was one hell of a visual. Sorry.
“The poor son of a bitch,” Lido moaned. He covered his mouth with his hand. I thought he was going to lose his breakfast, but he managed to hold it together and actually got down on his haunches for a better look. “Dear Lord, what happened to this guy?”
Lido was doing his best to look for evidence, but I could see that the terrible wound was distracting him. I was by no means a veteran, but I had seen enough carnage to prevent the victim’s injury from getting to me. I studied the rubble on the floor around him before checking the ceiling, which looked to be largely intact. “No, sir. Something is off here.”
“What do you mean? Do you see something?”
“It’s what I don’t see that concerns me. I don’t see dislodged bricks or chunks of mortar—no heavy fallen beams or large pipes either.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I don’t see anything heavy enough to cave in a man’s skull like that. I’m saying that the explosion might not have caused a wound that severe.” I pressed my fingers against my lips while my sixth sense did the heavy lifting. “He might’ve been bludgeoned with a heavy object and …” I wanted to see if Lido would pick up on what I was thinking.
A light twinkled in Lido’s eyes as he completed my statement, then his eyes grew large. “The explosion was nothing more than camouflage, an elaborate tableau someone devised in order to hide this victim’s homicide.”
I smiled. My new partner was no dud. “There’s hope for you yet, kid,” I chided as I leaned in close for a better look. “The victim’s mouth and jaw have been completely pulverized. No face and no possible identification by means of forensic odontology. Presuming the victim’s fingerprints aren’t on file anywhere …”
“It’ll be almost impossible to identify the remains,” Lido espoused.
“That’s correct, but as difficult as it might be to make a positive ID, it should be fairly easy to rule out who the victim is not.” I held up the plastic evidence bag that contained the victim’s wallet. “And that, my young bloodhound, is how we’re going to catch the SOB who caused all this damage.”
Chapter Two
“That’s a hell of a theory, Chalice,” my CO announced through clenched teeth. Sonellio was trying something new. He had an empty pipe in his mouth and was chewing on the stem. I didn’t know if it was going to help him break his habit, but if he smoked even one less cigarette per day as a result of it … well, then I’d call it a success. He’d been smoking for decades and was hopelessly addicted to nicotine. His skin had that unhealthy grayish pallor that was common to heavy smokers and he couldn’t speak three consecutive sentences without treating us to one of his smoker’s coughs. I had this horrible image of his lungs, hardened, graying, and becoming necrotic. “What do you think, greenhorn?” Sonellio wasn’t giving Lido a hard time. It was simply the way he spoke. To know the man was to love him despite his use of unconventional descriptions.
“I guess forensics will tell us for sure,” Lido replied.
“That’s not what I asked, master of the obvious,” Sonellio rebutted loudly. “I asked you what you thought.”
I saw Lido’s Adam’s apple catch in his throat. “Chalice was the one who figured it out, but after she mentioned it …” He shrugged. “It makes a lot of sense that someone bludgeoned that victim and tried to hide the body amongst other corpses so that it would look as if the explosion had killed all three of them. There was nothing found in the kitchen that could have caused such significant damage to the victim’s face, especially with his body as far from the blast as it was.”
“That’s better.” Sonellio began to dance around. We were outside in the cold and the weather was nasty. “No better way to hide a homicide. The question is why?”
Well, that’s not completely true—the best way to hide a homicide is to completely dispose of the body, but I’m pretty sure Sonellio wasn’t being literal. “The ID found on the victim says that he’s Leonard Koufax of 5200 15th Avenue, Brooklyn. I took a quick measurement at the crime scene and the victim was about five feet four inches tall, which corresponds with the information listed on his driver’s license.”
“Eye color?” Sonellio asked.
“Green, according to the driver’s license, but the ME will have to separate the eyes from the rest of John Doe’s gray matter casserole before he can determine the color of the irises.”
Sonellio funneled air up and out past his lower lip until hair lifted off his forehead. “This guy Koufax was employed at the temple?”
“Kitchen staff,” Lido replied as he flipped through his notepad. “He worked the breakfast shift Sunday through Friday, and was off on Saturdays in observance of the Jewish Sabbath.”
“What else have you learned from your interviews?” Sonellio asked.
“Koufax was an actor when he was lucky enough to get a paying theater job. He worked mostly off Broadway but had been auditioning for an understudy part in Pervy Pumps. It sounded as if he was very happy about the possible new job even though it paid peanuts.”
Sonellio puckered his lips. “That’s impressive. My wife and I saw that show for our anniversary—funny as hell. You’d think they’d be able to pay actors an adequate wage with the ridiculous prices they charge for tickets.”
It was February and an unforgivingly cold one at that. I stared off at the bright blue sky as a shock of frigid wind pierced the fabric of my coat and made me shiver. “We’re off to check out his apartment,” I volunteered, hoping Sonellio would take the hint and tell us to scram. I hadn’t had breakfast or morning coffee and had a serious hankering for an Egg McMuffin and one of those hash brown thingies that are the size and consistency of a potato pancake. No luck unfortunately—he didn’t respond. “We’ll notify next of kin and then move on to canvassing friends and family. There were no cams in the building or at key vantage points near the chabad, so unless one of the locals was out early this morning and saw something out of the ordinary …” Come on, boss, I’m cold and I’m hungry. Would you please cut us loose? Don’t they say that cigarette smokers are always cold on account of their lousy circulation? Geez!
“Can you give us a minute?” Sonellio asked as he turned to Lido.
“Sure,” Lido replied and went off to warm himself in the car, the lucky bastard.
“What’s up, boss?”
“How’s the kid look?”
How’s he look? Like two hundred and twenty pounds of manly magic. Oh, you mean … “He’s sharp, sir. He’s inquisitive and perceptive. Has a good head on his shoulders.” And a butt that looks like it was chiseled by Michelangelo.
“Good to hear. My instincts are usually pretty good. I think he’ll work out just fine. And you … how do you like being the lead?”
“I’m just doing what I’ve always done, sir, just answering a few more questions than when I was the newbie.”
“Terrific. I’m glad the two of you are a good fit, and I like the way you’ve developed, Chalice.”
He likes the way I’ve developed? Christ, I’m no more than one size shy of a custom-made bra—surely he’s noticed. He may be my godfather, but he’s not blind. Maybe it’s because it’s so cold that my nipples are about to pierce my jacket. Nah, I’m just messing with you—he was referencing my professional development, or didn’t you alrea
dy know? “Thank you, sir, I’m an honest to God homicide junkie. I live for the hunt.” Now can I go before one of these nursing structures breaks loose and pokes you in the eye?
“Keep me appraised of his progress and let’s see if we can’t get this one sewed up right away. The press will be quick to label this a hate crime or an act of terrorism, and I don’t need that kind of aggravation.” He reached into his coat pocket. “Shit! I’m all out of Pepto tablets.”
“No, sir, you surely don’t.” And neither do I.
Chapter Three
“This is a really nice leather jacket,” I announced. “Hey, Lido, get your butt in here and try this on.”
“Nice try,” he yelled from the next room. Koufax had been slight of build and Lido was, well, strapping. There was no way he’d fit into anything the deceased had worn. “Call me when you find his underwear drawer,” he chuckled.
Yes. I am down with that. Our search had revealed little. The apartment was a one bedroom with a small kitchenette, and a main room that was tastefully but minimally decorated. It was a prewar building and as such the closet space was woefully inadequate for a man with such an extensive wardrobe. The bedroom was crammed full of bins, which were filled with clothing and accessories. “Damn. What a clotheshorse this guy was.”
“A what horse?” Lido shouted. Apparently all the clothing had sound-deadened the apartment.
“A clotheshorse. I’ve never seen a man with so much stuff.”
“That’s not a crime.”
A Tory Burch hand-painted silk scarf was lying atop the dresser. “Maybe not, but I’d kill for one of these.” The deceased had exquisite taste, a true devotee of the world of haute couture, a true fashionista. My hand was still on the Tory Burch scarf, allowing the buttery soft silk to anoint my fingertips when Lido entered the room.
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