“Mmm.” The lieutenant wasn’t convinced. “Non-doorman building; any security video?”
“Yes, but the super said he’s been having problems with the system. We’re going to take a look at it anyway,” Megan said.
“Well, I’m sure whatever problems he’s had with it will be fixed after today. Unfortunately, it’s a little too late for Miss McAllister.” Walker’s dry wit failed to mask her parental reaction to what she encountered at her job. “Max Sutherland is the ME on the case, right?”
Both detectives nodded.
“I’ll give him a quick call. I’m sure he knows this is priority, but it doesn’t hurt to give a reminder. Next steps?” Walker asked.
“Before we go to next steps, there are a few others details we need to discuss.” Megan took a deep breath.
“Like what?”
“The victim had a gold wedding band inserted into her vaginal canal and her vagina was sewn shut.” Megan hated the way she heard the news exit her mouth. She sounded sterile, unaffected, when the exact opposite was true.
Disturbing news such as this had a way of stifling all the members in a room, no matter how many times one heard it. Walker was no exception. The woman sat back in her chair. “You’re serious.”
It had been an emotional day. Megan’s fuse was short with herself, even shorter with others. “No, Lieutenant, we make this stuff up because our jobs are so boring we want to see how much whacked-out crap people will believe.”
“McGinn!” Nappa stepped over. It wasn’t often that he got in the mix, but if he saw his partner was about to throw herself or her career off the cliff, he jumped in. “Cool it.” He grabbed her shoulder, not in a strong-arm fashion, but in a go-sit-the-fuck-down-now-I-have-to-pull-damage-control way.
“Listen, Lieutenant, there’s more.” Nappa paused to gain footing in his explanation. “When the victim was found, she was positioned very specifically.” He was waiting for Walker to move her slow-burn stare from Megan to his face. It wasn’t close to happening. “She was placed very neatly. As if she were asleep.”
Walker continued to stare Megan down a few more seconds before deciding to take the high road. “What makes you say that?”
“Look at her, you’d never think a murder had taken place,” Nappa answered.
Megan added, with a lot less attitude, “Her hair was brushed to the side; there was a serenity to her position. Well, that’s the best way I can describe it.”
“How much do the parents know?”
“We had to show them the ring. We kept the suturing to ourselves,” answered Megan.
“Good call. The press will have a field day if this leaks out.”
“Her parents are providing us with a list of friends, past employers, and so on. We didn’t find a cell phone, but we have her datebook, so we’ll start there as well as speak to the people where she interned. She was a counselor, so there could be a whacked-out patient, something along those lines. And we’ll also check out who she interacted with at the university. She was getting her master’s at Columbia,” Nappa said.
“Good. I’ve assigned Palumbo and Rasmussen to help you with the legwork. Give them anything you think may slow the two of you down. There’s another matter, McGinn. From now on, I want Nappa to handle the press.”
“What?” Megan looked at her boss as if she’d just said smoking was good for you. “Exactly what was wrong with how I handled the press this morning?”
“What was wrong? You came close to having a catfight on live television. For Chrissakes, Vegas had a five-to-one spread you’d bitch slap her if she had asked another question.”
“I’m a professional. I would never do anything to embarrass this office.”
“Yes, McGinn. You are a professional. You’d also lose every poker game ever played because you can’t hide any of your one thousand emotions. You think you can, but you can’t. I’m serious; no more impromptu interviews. Nappa handles the press. You stick to the case.”
“Excuse me?” Megan sat forward. “Stick to the case? Who in the hell do you think sat with the victim’s family today? I didn’t see you there when Nappa and I had to tell two parents their only child was dead. What were you doing, having lunch with the mayor?”
Not a drop of zen could be found in the air.
Megan knew it, too.
Lieutenant Walker rarely shouted. When she wanted to make a point, she simply spoke very slowly. “You are out of line, Detective, for the second time in my office today.”
Megan stared at Walker, knowing she was walking a thin line; she also knew she didn’t want to be taken off the case. After a few seconds, Megan swallowed hard. “Fine. I apologize.” She turned to leave. “I’ll get Palumbo and Rasmussen up to speed.” Megan walked out, giving the door a slight but perceptible slam, ratcheting up the pissing contest by half a notch.
“That was sincere,” Walker said as she resumed reading a pile of messages. “She needs to switch to decaf or O’Doul’s. Or both.”
“I’m right on it.” Nappa walked to the door, adding, “Give her a break. Look, she’s fine; she can handle this. But it’s been a rough day.” He raised his eyebrows, hoping to make Walker less upset with Megan’s outburst.
“Shit.” She rubbed her brow. “I’m counting on both of you to handle this. You’ll let me know if she begins to lose her footing.” It was less of a request and more of a demand.
Nappa didn’t acknowledge the comment. “We’ll give you an update when we get some leads.”
“Lunch with the mayor? Is she kidding me?” Walker grabbed the Newton pendulum off her desk, throwing it in the bottom drawer. “Thanks for nothing.” She slammed the drawer shut as Nappa left.
_____
Megan sat with Detectives Palumbo and Rasmussen, sharing what little information they had on the case. Both men were professionals and team players. They had no problem being directed by a woman. Rasmussen was a big man with blond hair and blue eyes—a modern Viking dressed in a suit and tie. Palumbo was third-generation on the job. What he lacked in height, he made up for in muscle. He accentuated his barrel chest with dress shirts that were just a bit too tight. He had to show off his long hours at the gym somehow.
Megan glanced up when Nappa approached. “Stick to the case?”
“Megan, you know what she meant. She’s going to be under a lot of pressure from downtown to make sure this gets solved. She was posturing. That’s all. And by the way, thanks for putting me in the middle of whatever that was in there.”
Palumbo and Rasmussen exchanged looks, acknowledging they were out of the loop in the conversation and didn’t much want to be in on it, either.
“Sorry.” Megan didn’t want to rehash her meltdown. “Sorry. It won’t happen again.” They both knew that was a lie. “I’m giving them everything we have so far.” By the grim look in Palumbo’s and Rasmussen’s eyes, Megan had told them the more heinous aspects. “They’re going to go back to the victim’s building and speak to the neighbors, store owners, et cetera. Let’s also get a copy of the building’s security camera. It doesn’t sound like it was in great condition, but we’ll try.”
“That reminds me, check back in with the super, Mr. Mendoza. He’s the one who found her. See if he’s remembered something,” Nappa suggested.
“Got it.” Palumbo had a gravelly voice, with a hint of a Queens accent.
“You want us to order phone records? Or is that being done?” Rasmussen asked.
“Rasmussen, you work on getting her apartment line and her cell phone records. We’ll see if we can track who she’s been in contact with lately. Also, see if we can get the phone records from the place where she interned. I have the name of it in my notes. That may be a pain in the ass for confidentiality reasons. She was a counselor at some center, so specify we’re only getting her records, not those of the whole place. If she was being harassed by some nut, t
hen he would probably be calling her there. Palumbo, I want you to check any and all databases on homicides that have the same MO, specifically the vaginal suturing. This can’t be the killer’s first time. Check it all. City, state, country.”
“We’re on it,” said Rasmussen as they returned to their desks.
Megan knew Palumbo and Rasmussen asked the right questions and knew how to get around roadblocks. Walker made the right move assigning them to the case. Megan sat at her desk reflecting on the McAllister murder scene. Nappa sat opposite, starting what was sure to be a very thick case file.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked.
“There’s something at the crime scene that didn’t feel right. I mean besides her head resting on the pillow so perfectly, and her arms folded. That was definitely intentional. There’s something else, something I’m missing.”
One of Megan’s habits when in the zone was to push her long hair back and twist it into a bun, a subconscious habit she’d had since junior high school. Within minutes, it would fall out of place, cascading over her shoulders once again. The thought of buying a hair clip never seemed to cross her mind.
Nappa began making a list of Shannon’s contacts from her datebook. “It’s been a long run today.”
“Yep.” Megan noticed the message light blinking on her phone and was not at all surprised to hear whom it was from.
“Hey, Meganator, it’s Uncle Mike. Judging by the newscast this afternoon, you’re probably knee-deep in it. I just wanted to check in on you and see how you’re doing. Call me.”
She had a faint smile on her face listening to the concern in his voice.
“Uncle Mike?” Nappa asked.
“How did you know?”
“I’m a detective.”
“Good one.” She dialed the Murphys’ number. Uncle Mike picked up on the second ring.
“Hey, how’s my Mini-Ginty?”
Megan rubbed her eyes. “Holding my own.”
“Brendan called earlier. He told us about Rose. Maureen is going to check on her tomorrow. Olsen Facility, right? Pretty fancy—that place advertises on the radio.”
“Tell her thank you for me.”
“Like I said yesterday, kiddo, blood or no blood, we’re family. You working this case I’m hearing all about?”
“Yeah. It’s gotten interesting, to say the least,” she released a heavy sigh.
“Watch your back.”
Megan laughed. “That’s what Dad would say to me every morning before I’d leave for work.”
“I know, kiddo, I know.”
There was a brief moment of silence, both thinking back at the loss they’d endured.
“Okay, Meganator. Get back to work. We’ll talk soon.”
“Love you big guy.”
“Back at ya’.”
eight
Megan leaned against the window staring out at the mid-afternoon storm. Rain pelted down on the city streets as echoes of thunder rumbled through the dark sky. The space felt more like a dank cave than a conference room.
“Detective?” A young man rapped on the door, then tossed an envelope onto the table. Megan focused on the storm outside and responded with a halfhearted thank you. She picked up the letter as if it were merely an electric bill, until she flipped it over to see the return address: Hudson Psychiatric Center.
“Son of a bitch.”
His writing was unmistakable; flamboyant italics as if written with a quill pen. Megan knew Fintan Worth’s handwriting all too well. He left a note attached to each kill, with the exception of the last murder. There were two envelopes at that crime scene: one for the victim, the other addressed to Megan. Now, placed before her was the second letter in three months addressed to her from a madman. She knew she couldn’t ignore his attempt to communicate with her. But there had been two murders she was sure Worth had committed that they couldn’t tie him to. Two families had not been given closure. Was this a carrot he would dangle in front of her forever? Opening the letter felt as though she were allowing him back into her psyche, her life—what remained of it.
She tore it open, nearly ripping the stationery.
Dear Detective McGinn,
I hope this note finds you well. I, as you are well aware, am currently residing in Hudson at the psychiatric hospital. The accommodations are within reason for the facility. I’m treated with more regard than the typical resident. I assume much of that is due to my notoriety of late. Judging by the news, my actions have been misconstrued as infamous. Yours, however, have not. It seems you have become quite prominent within the New York City Homicide Division. Your professional advancement was well deserved. By far you have been the only detective—ever—to apply such keen instinctive abilities to what, I think we can both agree, were very few leads in a case such as mine.
It would be insulting to us both if I were to say luck had anything whatsoever to do with your achievement.
From time to time, I recall our last face-to-face communication prior to impenetrable brick walls, electric fences, and plexiglass dividers obstructing conversation. Do you, and I’m sure you must, think back to how you captured me? You and I both know I let you win. I, however, am the only one to know why. I dare say, you’ve most likely never mentioned it to your handsome partner or to anyone else for that matter. Well done, detective.
At any rate, I would find it quite interesting to continue our conversation of that night. Yours is the only name I’ve placed on my visitor’s list, if you feel so inclined.
In closing, I would like to offer my sincere condolences for the loss of your father. I’m sure he was quite proud of your success.
Your tenacity reminded me of a quote from Blaise Pascal: “It is the fight alone that pleases us, not the victory.”
I’m curious, detective, what is the next fight on your horizon, and will you be as victorious with it as you were with mine?
Until we meet again,
Yours fondly,
Fintan D. Worth
It’s an odd experience how mere words on a paper cast a person’s mind to a particular time and place. A love letter whisks your heart into a frenzy just remembering how you felt in that person’s presence. A Dear John letter does the same but with much more painful results. Megan’s brother took a year off of college to backpack through Europe. Brendan sent a postcard from every place he visited. None ever had more than a handful of words on them; all made Megan dream of the time she would visit those places. What she now held in her hands was a seedy personal reminder of the lengths she had gone to, to catch a killer. And that’s how she planned to keep it: personal.
Megan tossed the letter on the conference room table just as Nappa entered.
“What’s going on?” He could sense something was up.
“Well,” she raised her eyebrows, “partner, that is a loaded question. Read.” She handed him the envelope with the letter attached.
“Hudson Psychiatric Center. You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Megan watched his facial expressions as Nappa read Fintan’s correspondence. He was just as, if not more, disgusted than she had been. “What’s he talking about ‘continue the conversation’? What did the two of you talk about?”
Megan refused eye contact when she answered, “I have no idea what he means. He’s nuts.”
“Sick bastard. I can’t believe he’s even allowed to send mail, let alone write to you of all people.”
Megan took the last sip from her coffee before throwing the empty cup in the trash. “Yeah, well, there’s not much we can do about it.”
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
Fucked up. Insecure. Neurotic. Empty. F. I. N. E.
Lovely.
Megan rubbed her forehead using the base of her palms as if kneading flour into dough. She didn’t want to linger on the subject of Fi
ntan Worth any longer. He was in her past, and she was determined to keep him there.
“Crime scene photos.” Nappa handed Megan the folder, then added, “Just got word from Rasmussen—he and Palumbo are coming up now with the video from the building’s security camera.”
“Have they looked at it?” Megan half-heartedly wondered, knowing it wouldn’t make a difference if they had or not. It was about what she might find on it.
“I don’t think so.”
Megan opened the folder containing the crime scene photos. She hadn’t expected the first picture to be that of McAllister’s sutured vagina.
“Christ,” she tossed the picture over to Nappa shaking her head. “What goes through a human being’s mind to do something like this?”
Nappa turned the photo around. Through an exasperated sigh, he said, “I wouldn’t call anyone who does this human.” He pinned it up on the board. Next to it he added the photo of the ring found embedded behind the vaginal suturing.
Megan fastened the last photo in the package flush left: Shannon McAllister’s driver’s license photo. This particular shot was the most difficult for Megan to view. In it, Shannon was alive. Smiling. Breathing. Real.
Gone.
Palumbo entered the room carrying a padded envelope under one arm while crunching through an excessively large bite of an apple. Both actions stopped short when he was at eye level opposite the worst of the photos. It was one thing to intellectualize the post-mortem details, a far cry from having 8x10 color photographs of a dead woman’s crotch on a bulletin board. He wiped the side of his mouth before he spoke, yet was unable to look away from the grotesque vision before him. “Hey, we … we have the security tape from the building. Rasmussen is coming up with some of the phone records: cell, apartment. We’re working on the warrant for the center the”—Palumbo forced himself to look away—“vic worked at.”
“Throw it here,” Megan said. Palumbo tossed her the package as Rasmussen walked in with the phone records. Unlike Palumbo, the mounted pictures didn’t give rise to a perceptible reaction. It was just how Rasmussen worked. An emotional silicon shield ran from top to bottom of his Nordic being when working any case. Everyone on the job had a different way of dealing with the shocking way human life is mistreated on a daily basis: some joke, some get angry, some shut down. Sometimes it’s all three, whatever you need to get through the day. There were days when Megan wondered what vice, if any, Rasmussen fell back on to deal with the atrocities they encountered. She never felt it was her place to ask.
Never Alone Page 6