Dead Meat

by Joseph M. Monks

  We left Weaver’s apartment and the carnage behind. As the door closed, I heard one of the techs exclaim, “You gotta be shitting me!”

  Unfortunately, nobody was shitting him. Somebody had reduced Naomi Weaver to a human jigsaw puzzle. Burton and I intended to find out who.

  CHAPTER 2

  Our interview with the landlord wasn’t terribly productive. According to Vicelli, he’d been in the Berkshires over the weekend with his wife and two kids from a previous marriage. The complaint call had come early that morning, but showing an apartment in another building he owned had kept him from coming until late in the day. A foul odor, he told us, wasn’t uncommon. In some buildings, he conceded, it was the norm.

  “Do you know if Ms. Weaver had a boyfriend?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so. I used to see a guy with her sometimes, but not for a while now.”

  “Visitors?” Burton followed up. “Friends? Coworkers? She like to party?”

  Vicelli shook his head. “Building like this one?” He raised a hand. “Walls are thick, like an armory. You could have, what do the kids call it? A rave? You could have a rave and nobody would know. But not Ms. Weaver. The guys on the second floor?” Vicelli lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Two gay fellas. Party all the time. I think they’re hairdressers.” I shot a look at Burton. We weren’t going to get much more.

  “Do you know where Ms. Weaver worked? Can you tell us anything about her that would help us track down her friends or family?” I asked. Vicelli, painfully aware he hadn’t been much help, pulled open a file drawer.

  “Here,” he said proudly.

  I opened the file. It contained several sheets, the top one being Weaver’s tenant application. It supplied basic personal information, her then-current address, date of birth, marital status—single—and both a home and cell phone number. The form also listed her employer, the letters N/A next to the word ‘Pets’ and her references. Weaver had provided four. There was a grainy photocopy of her driver’s license, and employment verification on company stationery confirming her salary. The Elsa Langley ad agency was paying Weaver $88,900 per year. The final sheet was a copy of the lease agreement, which Weaver had renewed five times on an annual basis. Two emergency contacts were listed. The first, Terri Newcomb, had a 212 exchange. Local. Lorna Weaver’s number, however, was from out of state.

  “Can you make us a copy of this?” I asked. Vicelli didn’t hesitate, powering up an old Xerox machine. He duplicated the file and returned the original to the cabinet. I handed him a card.

  “If you think of anything else, please give us a call,” I told him.

  We stood to leave. Vicelli rubbed weary eyes and sagged in his chair, the picture of a man who’d been emotionally blindsided.

  “Not much,” Burton assessed as we headed towards the stairwell.

  “Didn’t exactly expect Colonel Mustard in the conservatory with a chainsaw,” I admitted. “At least we’ll be able to start running down coworkers and track the ex. If there is an ex.”

  A uniform named Collins had joined the party, the latecomer standing guard in front of Weaver’s apartment. Burton had sent Greene to knock on doors. I was considering sending Collins on a coffee run when Loscalzo stepped into the hall.

  “I’ll be skipping my Sheepshead Bay engagement in the morning,” he said somberly. “I’ll be doing the post myself. Eight o’clock.” He didn’t need to extend an invite. We’d be there. If he was giving up both a rare day off and fishing, that said it all.

  “Anything you can tell us? Time of death?” Burton asked. Loscalzo shook his head.

  “Too tough to estimate. You guys notice how warm it is in there.”

  We had. The apartment was sweltering.

  Loscalzo glanced around, his eyes lingering on Collins. We got the message.

  “Hey, kid, c’mere,” Burton said, taking a twenty from his wallet.

  “Listen, guys inside have been busting ass in that sweatbox for hours. Do me a favor and pick up a couple of six packs of cold soda, all right?” Collins took the bill and made for the stairs, happy to get away from the stink. When he’d gone, Loscalzo huffed out a breath.

  “I found some disturbing things upon my initial examination. I can’t tell you for certain until I get her on the table, but I’ve been doing this long enough that I’d bet my tackle box on it.” Loscalzo, an acolyte to the religion of rod and reel, had fewer prized possessions.

  “What’d you find?” I asked.

  “She was restrained with duct tape. There’s a thick band of it around her torso, holding it to the chair.”

  “I saw that. Anything special about the tape?”

  Loscalzo shook his head. “The CSU guys can analyze it, but it’ll only be useful if you find the roll it came from or prints. That isn’t it, though. It’s how he—and I’m only saying he because it feels like a he to me—utilized it. I found patches of adhesive on her skin, and spots where hair is missing. I counted nine restraint points, not including the band around her torso.”

  “So you’re saying he used the tape to bind her arms and legs, but peeled most of it off?”

  Loscalzo nodded. “Plus, he wasn’t content to bind her in the usual places: the wrists, biceps and ankles. Instead, he selected different points on each limb. Three restraint points on the left leg, only two on the right. Two separate spots on each arm.”

  “Wait a minute,” Burton broke in. “Why would he tape her up all over?”

  “I’m getting to that. Mind you, this is only speculation. You can ask him when you find him. But after looking at the points of dismemberment, and the corresponding areas where adhesive is present, I’d say that he placed the tape close to where he intended to cut.”

  “You mean, like...marking her off? A pattern?” Burton asked. Loscalzo nodded gravely.

  “The most disturbing thing I’ve found so far relates to her mouth. There are traces of adhesive on her lips and teeth.” The doc looked like he’d just swallowed spoiled milk.

  “You’re saying she was conscious when he started cutting,” Burton said softly. Not a question.

  “Not just when he started,” corrected Loscalzo. “I believe that the killer began with her lower extremities, and then moved on to her arms.”

  “How long could she have stayed alive?” I asked. Not that it mattered. A nanosecond would have been too long. But Loscalzo kept dishing out the horrors.

  “From what I see in the limbs, I believe that the victim was alive for a good deal of it. I can’t say for certain how long she remained conscious, but it’s possible she remained alert even after the removal of her upper appendages.”

  “God damn,” exhaled Burton.

  “Ms. Weaver lost quite a lot of blood during the assault; I don’t have to tell you that. But I think that the binding restricted blood loss so that it was not catastrophic. It’s my opinion right now that exsanguination was not the cause of death.”

  “If she didn’t bleed out, what killed her?” I asked. The possibilities were myriad. Heart attack. Organ failure. A stroke triggered by massive blood loss. But Loscalzo hadn’t yet depleted his bag of shocks.

  “I believe she died during the decapitation. The evidence suggests her heart was still pumping at the point her larynx was transected.”

  “She was still alive when he started cutting her head off?” Burton asked. He wasn’t an easy man to shake. None of us were. But the thought that Naomi Weaver may have been conscious for her own vivisection was so hideous that none of us wanted to believe it. But these were the facts, and I doubted the Doc would find differently come tomorrow’s postmortem.

  “There’s just one more thing, at least for now,” said Loscalzo. “From what I can tell, it looks like her mouth was closed when the tape was first applied. There’s also some discoloration around her nostrils. It’s slight, but it’s there. I don’t believe that was caused by the tape. When you talk to her acquaintances, you’ll want to ask if she had a cold. My thinking, tho
ugh, is that she came into contact with something that caused irritation to the skin.”

  “Chloroform?”

  Loscalzo shrugged his shoulders. “Could be. I’ll know more tomorrow.”

  “If her mouth was closed when the tape was applied,” said Burton, following up on the thought. “How’d the residue get on her teeth?”

  “If I had to guess,” said a morose Loscalzo. “I’d say that despite the tape, she was screaming.”

  We reentered the apartment just as Charlie Nolan’s CSU team was wrapping up. Nolan was a strictly by-the-book guy who Burton and I got along well with. He wasn’t a man who tolerated mistakes, and in the three years since he’d taken over CSU, he’d weeded out more people than he’d brought on. The result was a small but tightly knit squad that, despite being overworked and underpaid, could be counted on to find anything a killer left behind. Like an elite military unit, Nolan’s team was the one you wanted working a scene if you were going to go to trial. I was glad to see him.

  “Let me guess,” I wise-assed. “You guys found carpet under all that blood.” Nolan barely acknowledged me.

  “We think there’s brick on the other side of that plaster, too. Call it a hunch.” he shot back, before turning serious. “This is some seriously ugly business, Jack.”

  “You lift any prints?”

  “Lots, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up. Mostly slender, full-pad impressions. I’d guess they’re hers. We’ll know in a couple of hours but I doubt there’s a man’s prints in here.”

  I glanced around. There was a fine patina of dust on every surface that might hold a fingerprint.

  “We tore apart the bathroom. Nothing. Swept up any trace we could find, for what that’s worth. It’s a deep pile carpet, and the primary location is drenched with blood. The interior doorknob was wiped, the exterior knob was probably wiped too, before the landlord let the cop with the loose change in. Quick thinking, by the way. Somebody needs to buy that kid a coffee. Unfortunately, the only footprints we found were his.”

  “So, you’re going to brighten up our day by telling us you found gobs of DNA, right?”

  “Doc says it doesn’t look like she was raped. We bagged the hands, but there didn’t appear to be anything under her nails.”

  “How’d he get in?” Burton asked.

  “Lock’s fine. No pick marks. Either she let him in or he had a key. The window leading to the fire escape is locked--doesn’t look like it’s been opened in years. The other windows don’t allow for ingress or egress, not unless your man has wings. Which he might.”

  “Huh?”

  Nolan pointed to the door, then traced an imaginary path with his finger to the kill spot. “Guy didn’t leave a single footprint coming in or going out. What we can’t figure is how he got to the door without leaving any.”

  “Could he have jumped over the clean section of carpet?” I asked.

  “We thought of that. The foyer runs four feet six inches. Assuming he wanted to ensure his little massacre wasn’t interrupted, the door was locked. Meaning he’d need arms 9 feet long to reach the knob. If not, you’re talking a long-jump from a dead standstill, which I doubt is humanly possible.”

  “Did he take anything?”

  “Doc says it looks like she was complete. The organs were all there, and all of the extremities. He couldn’t do a full inventory here on the carpet, but he’s of the opinion the only thing he’ll find missing’s a pulse.”

  Janet Bell, the only female member of Nolan’s A-team, closed the lid on a large, plastic case and joined us.

  “We’re just about set, Charlie. Who do you want to stick around?”

  With the team’s primary work completed, Charlie’s policy was to leave a tech behind. If we found anything of possible forensic value, we’d let CSU handle it. Anything else evidentiary, we’d bag.

  “Who had last?” he asked her.

  “I did, but I told Steve I’d stay and he could owe me one. It’s Monday. I don’t have anything going.”

  “All right, put it down on the duty board. Got everything you need?”

  Janet’s face crimped like he’d just farted. Of course she had everything she needed. She was, after all, on his A-team.

  Nolan rolled his eyes, suitably scolded. “It’s all yours, then.” He and the others left. Bell retreated to the kitchen, where the last of a six pack of Diet Coke sat on the table. From an inside pocket of her windbreaker, she removed a digest-sized crossword magazine, flipping to a previously begun puzzle. I envied her. Regardless of her progress, a solution awaited. Burton and I had no such guarantee.

  I started in the bedroom, sweeping through Weaver’s closet, nightstand and the plastic bins beneath her bed. Wrapping paper, ribbons and bows, leftover Christmas gift tags. Nothing remarkable. Her closet was well organized, consisting primarily of business attire, the rest casual wear and workout gear. No shoebox stuffed with love letters or signs of a relationship, past or present. The top drawer of her dresser contained the usual. Socks and underwear, an Hermes scarf, overflow cosmetics. The second drawer was stuffed with tee shirts and shorts. The third held clothing relegated for winter wear. Sweaters, leggings, flannel nightshirts. The bottom drawer, however, contained the first thing of interest I’d found.

  Folded neatly, and looking long untouched, was a trove of Victoria’s Secret lingerie. Teddies, lace panties, a bustier. A copy of Cosmo. I flipped through it. A single page was dog-eared. The article was entitled, “How To Talk To Your Man About Everything”. While the rest of the magazine looked pristine, these pages stood out, creased and worn. Weaver had apparently spent a lot of time reading and rereading this piece. I checked the cover date. September of last year. I made a note and put it back in the drawer. That’s when I noticed the pills.

  The package was tucked in the back corner beneath a pair of black, satin panties. I checked the label. Lybrel. Birth control pills. The prescription was old, though, dating back to the previous October. I took out the blister tray. All 28 pills were present and accounted for. I dropped them into an evidence bag not quite knowing why, letting my gut guide me.

  I sat back on my haunches, wondering about the pills, the article, the fact that while Weaver had been prescribed birth control, she hadn’t used it. Vicelli said Weaver didn’t currently have a boyfriend. Months had passed since he’d seen her with a man. Though the landlord’s observations might prove unreliable, I wasn’t ready to disregard them.

  On a bedside table was a framed photograph of two young girls—one I assumed to be Weaver—kneeling in a patch of flowers. Bright, colorful blooms, though I couldn’t identify them. The snapshot certainly hadn’t been taken in Manhattan.

  Behind the bedroom door hung a plastic bag, which I carried to Weaver’s bed. A pair of pleated designer slacks, creases sharp enough to cut bread with, spilled out along with a blouse and receipt. The previous Thursday, Weaver had purchased some business clothes at Neiman Marcus. The two items had set her back two hundred sixty-five bucks. She’d paid by credit card. Though her job would still be our best indicator, Weaver had been alive as late as Thursday evening. Had that been where she and her killer crossed paths? Possible. At this stage, anything was possible.

  I was going through Weaver’s desk when Bell appeared in the doorway.

  “Let me guess. You need an eight-letter word for pre-coitus.”

  “Foreplay,” she deadpanned. “I could file for sexual harassment, you know.”

  I put on my best choirboy face. She pfffted.

  “The big man is thinking about food.”

  “You can hear him think?”

  “He’s walking around in there mumbling to himself. I think I heard him pause around Moo Goo Gai Pan.”

  I thought about it. We’d been at the scene for nearly five hours, and I hadn’t even finished my fries.

  “Sounds good,” I agreed. Collins still on the door?”

  “Yeah. I gave him a kitchen chair. He’s sitting out there now.

  �
�The other kid? Greene?”

  “Still running down the rest of the tenants and getting statements.”

  “All right. Have Collins chase down Greene. See if they want in. They can stay on hallway duty, the three of us can eat down in the car.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Sunshine will be pleased.” Bell headed back inside. I turned to Weaver’s Day Runner, scanning the pockets. There were business cards, a rubber band and two folded receipts. The address book was filled with many of the same entries I’d seen in her Blackberry. The majority looked to be business contacts.

  I flipped back to the calendar. The planner contained pages for the current quarter, July through September. The weekends were largely blank. Shopping was penciled in every other Saturday, but there were no entries suggesting she’d gone on any dates. July 9th she’d seen Sheryl Crowe at the Jones Beach Theatre. It was the only hint of a social life I’d come across.

  I reviewed the pages for the previous week. There was no way of knowing when the entries for Friday had been written, but two caught my eye. The first was a 6:45 p.m. meeting scheduled at a Starbucks. Accompanying the entry were the names Terri and Jen. I jotted them down, expecting that I’d find matches in the Blackberry. It was the last entry, though, which piqued my curiosity.

  In the 9:00 p.m. slot was a single word. ‘Ike.’ I flipped to the ‘I’ pages in the address book. Sure enough, it was there. No last name, just Ike. An uptown address, not in the best of neighborhoods. Two phone numbers. The first was written in black ink, like most of the other entries. Beneath that, hastily scribbled in blue, a second number had been added.

  I took down both. If Weaver had made her 6:45 rendezvous for coffee, then Ike was the best lead we had.

  There were four Jennifers in the book, but only one Terri with an ‘I.’ I copied the numbers and zipped the planner before depositing it into an evidence bag.

  Bell poked her head in while I was going through the past 6 months of phone bills. Similar folders existed for her credit cards: American Express, Visa, a Victoria’s Secret card and a corporate card issued by the ad agency. Weaver had been prompt with her creditors. I hadn’t spotted a single late fee or PAST DUE notice.