The Window Washer

by Eric Rill

“Today’s not your day to do the south tower, Nick,” Flinker interrupted.

  “I was finished over there,” Grant said, motioning toward the north tower with his chin. “Thought I’d get a jump on next week’s work.”

  “Parks, walk over here with me a minute,” Rosa said. They huddled by a squad car. Rosa did most of the talking, while Parks scribbled some notes on his pad.

  “Why don’t you and me go over there and chat a bit, Mr. Grant?” Rosa said as they returned. “Virgil, you finish here with the super.”

  Rosa led Grant into the south tower’s lobby. “Did you see anyone coming from the direction of the ravine?” Rosa asked as he pushed open the glass door.

  “No, I didn’t,” Grant replied.

  “Let’s sit over there,” Rosa said, pointing to a wooden bench. “Ain’t you even a bit curious why we’re here?”

  “Not really,” Grant said, not looking up.

  “A man died down there, and a lady was seen running into the lobby. Know who it coulda been?”

  “No, I don’t,” Grant said.

  “Let’s cut the bullshit, Mr. Grant. You were seen running after her through this door. And then you disappeared until a minute ago.”

  Grant remained silent as he stared through the glass at Parks and Flinker.

  “Look, you had some bad luck—I mean what with your wife and kid dying,” Rosa said. “I’m sorry for that.”

  “I’m doing fine,” Nick said quickly.

  “You ain’t doin’ fine washing frigging windows when you was running a hotel like the Crown.”

  “Let’s leave my personal life out of this, Detective.”

  “Bottom line is you’re lyin’ to me, and that’s obstruction. So why don’t you give it up and let me do my job?”

  “I told you I didn’t see anything,” Grant said. “I was in the north tower at the time.”

  “Why did you come down?” Rosa asked.

  “For Christsake—I was finished up there and thought I’d get a few south tower apartments done before I went home,” Grant said, his jaw tightening.

  “Do you know the woman I’m talking about, Mr. Grant?”

  Grant rolled his eyes. “There are lots of women in this complex, Detective. I’m not saying I never saw her—because I don’t even know which one you’re talking about!”

  “Quite a coincidence, you hightailing it in here after some guy gets whacked down in the ravine,” Rosa said, locking eyes with Grant.

  “Detective, I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “Mind if I take a look at your arms, Mr. Grant?” Rosa asked, standing up.

  “My arms? Sure. If it will make you happy.”

  “Could you roll your sleeves up?”

  Grant slid both his sleeves up to his elbows. Rosa took his wrist with one hand and moved him closer to the window. “Better light over here,” he said as he examined each arm.

  “What was all that about?” Grant asked after Rosa had finished.

  “Just checking for any cuts, scratches, or bruising—routine,” Rosa said.

  “Routine?”

  “Which apartment were you just in?” Rosa asked.

  Grant turned toward the detective and took a deep breath. “Apartment 206.”

  16

  A Columbus police paddy wagon turned into the parking lot of the city morgue—a two-story redbrick building, nestled at the corner of Cannon and King streets. It pulled up to a large metal door. Two detectives from the Crime Scene Unit came out and helped the driver lift the gurney off the wagon and take it into the building. Then they rolled it over to a scale. “Big guy,” the dark-haired detective observed as the needle finally came to a stop. While he verified Tommy Castellano’s name and age from the toe tag that had been placed on him at the crime scene and made the appropriate entries in his log, the other detective took the end of a tape measure from one of the attendants and strung it out lengthwise. “Just shy of six feet,” he observed. “Let’s get a few pictures and then we’ll undress him. Make sure you get all of his belongings into that bag—not like the last one, when you left that bloody shirt on the counter. You almost got us both suspended.”

  “Hey, man, we’re all entitled to a mistake,” the dark-haired one said as he clicked off a few pictures from different angles. “Bring over the kit,” he instructed one of the attendants. They took fingerprints, undressed Castellano, and fired off a few more pictures. Then they checked his body for bruises and wounds and looked under his fingernails for any foreign matter.

  Bill Mathews, the city coroner, came out of an autopsy room, bloodstains covering his green hospital pants and short-sleeved top. “That the one from the Langham?” he asked, removing his mask and picking up what was left of his chicken-salad sandwich.

  “You gonna stick him in the cooler when we’re finished here?” the detective asked.

  “Rosa called over, said he wanted it done this afternoon,” Mathews said, taking the last swig of his Coke. “But I’ve got another one in the cooler that I promised the guys over at Child Abuse for their hearing Thursday.”

  “Bones seemed sure it was an accident,” the detective said. “But looks to me like a homicide.”

  “He knows his shit,” Mathews said. “But maybe we’ll find something when we cut him open.”

  “What should I tell Bones?” the detective asked.

  Mathews looked up at the white clock over the scale. “Okay, I’ll squeeze this one in,” he replied, sighing. Then he turned to the attendant. “Take him into Room Two and have Sandy prepare him. I’ll be there as soon as I finish up on this one.”

  *

  The fluorescent lights gave an eerie glow to Autopsy Room Number 2, with its faint green walls and faded white linoleum floor. In one corner stood gray floor-to-ceiling metal shelving that held various brains, hearts, and other organs in clear plastic jars with bright yellow tops; in the other corner sat a stainless-steel scale with a bucket attached to the underside, used to weigh hearts, livers, lungs, kidneys, spleens, and brains. Beside it was a blackboard to record those weights, as well as any other findings. On the lip of the blackboard was a photograph of Bill Mathews’s pretty three-year-old daughter petting the family dog, alongside not-so-pretty pictures from a recent autopsy.

  Tommy Castellano lay faceup on a steel table that was anchored to the floor by a thick cylinder with a pedal that allowed the coroners to adjust its height. The top of his body was slightly elevated to allow his fluids to flow down into the drain. Sandy Groton, the assistant coroner, began testing for rigor and livor mortis while waiting for Mathews. There was some rigor, but according to the police report, it hadn’t been there a few hours before—normal, Groton knew, since rigor starts in two to four hours and is complete in ten to twelve. Livor, or the pooling of blood according to gravity, starts after about a half hour, up to four hours. Groton could see the dark blood pooled around Castellano’s abdomen. He figured Castellano had been dead for at least three hours, maybe longer. He stuck a probe into Castellano’s liver to check core body temperature. That was always a tricky one because his temperature might have been elevated if there had been a struggle, or he’d had a fever, or been on some kind of drugs. And even though the probe showed 97 degrees, and bodies cool down 1.5 degrees an hour to a minimum of room temperature, there were problems with reading too much into it. First of all, a body doesn’t start cooling until two hours after death; secondly, heavy people cool off more slowly because of insulation. Time of death, he reminded himself every time he performed an autopsy, is an art, not a science.

  “What do we have?” Bill Mathews asked as he closed the door behind him and put on his goggles and mask.

  “Best guess—at least three hours ago, but probably not more than five,” Groton said in a nasal voice. “But he might have been on something. Should I have the cops bring in his medicines?”

  “I think you’ve nailed it close enough,” Mathews said. He picked up a small stainless-steel tray, fixed its legs to the t
able several inches above Castellano’s feet, and began to spread out his instruments, receptacles to hold body fluids, his logbook, and a DNA card.

  “Should I start with the Stryker?” Groton asked, picking up the automated saw.

  Mathews nodded and then watched as Groton severed Castellano’s rib cage in a vertical line. “If we both get on this one, we can finish the one in the cooler and I can still get home for the game. It’s Ohio State and Michigan tonight.”

  They worked through Castellano’s body, Mathews starting on the legs. “Both legs broken,” he observed. “And I’ve got some bruises and abrasions on the cheeks and chin—consistent with a fall. I also have some facial and conjunctival petechiae,” he observed, referring to small pinpoint collections of blood lying in the skin, the sclera, and conjunctivae. He paused to record his findings in the logbook.

  “What are the odds on the game?” Groton asked.

  “This is peculiar. I have hemorrhages and tears in the lining of the oral cavity and the frenulum of the upper lip,” Mathews said. “Ohio State by six.”

  “What do you think it is?” Groton asked his boss.

  Mathews grunted and shrugged his shoulders. “Seems strange.”

  Forty minutes later, Groton pulled a plastic bag from the drawer and began dumping Castellano’s internal organs into it.

  “Grab his lungs and liver and send them up to the lab for analysis,” Mathews said.

  “Why?” Groton asked.

  “Strictly a hunch,” Mathews replied, his eyes staring up at the fluorescent light hanging from the tile ceiling.

  Groton knew never to argue with Mathews when he went with his gut. He fished out the liver, picked both lungs off the tray in front of him, and flipped them into the bag. Then he reached over and grabbed another bag, stuffed the rest of Castellano’s internal organs into it, and stuck it back inside where his stomach used to be. He sewed it up as Mathews refitted Castellano’s skin around his face and sutured it tight at the back of his head. Then he pulled a white sheet over him, leaving his left foot out, with the toe tag exposed.

  “Looks to me like there was some activity before he died,” Groton observed.

  “Yeah,” Mathews agreed. “Probably from the fall. Get that blood sample from his fingernails and those fibers from his left hand up to the lab as well,” Mathews reminded his assistant.

  Mathews scribbled some notes on his log sheet and then looked up at Groton. “You got to assume those bone fractures were from the fall—unless he was wrestling with a gorilla,” he grinned. “I still don’t get the hemorrhages. But unless the blood is someone else’s, or there’s something with the fiber match, the lungs, or the liver, I’m going with death from the fall.”

  “Accidental?” Groton asked, taking his blood-smeared gloves off and tossing them into a disposal container.

  “That’s Rosa’s department,” Mathews replied.

  17

  Parks worked the murder investigation for three days with almost no sleep. He interviewed several neighbors who were at home at the time, while Rosa questioned Jimmy Flinker, the superintendent, about deliverymen whose names were on the sign-in sheet that sat on the left edge of his cluttered desk. Rosa also interviewed the maintenance man and two men who had been hired to paint the exterior railings behind the apartment complex. No one had seen anything—at least not that they admitted to.

  After speaking to Nick Grant on the day of the murder, Rosa had gone up to Apartment 206, the apartment that Grant had said he had been working in immediately after Castellano’s death. To Rosa’s amazement, Angela Ferraro had answered the door. Her face was bruised and scratched and her dress was torn. When he asked where she was working now, she told him she was looking for a job. He thought to himself, You don’t live in a place like this on unemployment.

  Rosa then convinced Hank Morton to apply for a search warrant for Angela’s apartment. It still hadn’t been approved when Rosa pulled his Chevy Lumina into the visitors’ parking lot of the Langham. Nick Grant was leaving the south tower, heading for his scaffold, which swung silently in the crisp autumn air, a few inches off the ground.

  “Mr. Grant, mind if I have another word with you?” Rosa asked, slamming his car door behind him.

  “How many times are you going to ask me the same thing?” Grant said, sticking his squeegee under his belt.

  “Just want to know if you remembered anything else about that car you saw going behind the south tower when you were heading for the lobby.”

  “I told you, I only caught the last two numbers; it was almost out of sight by the time I looked over.”

  “You said it was dark-colored. That the best you can do?” Rosa asked.

  “Unless you want me to make up something, Detective,” Grant replied.

  “Don’t get testy with me, Mr. Grant. I’m just doin’ my job,” Rosa said. “Another thing, what floor did you say you was on?”

  “The fifth, I think.”

  “You think?” Rosa parroted as he tugged on his large ear.

  “What difference does it make?” Grant said.

  “How long does it take you to get down five floors, Mr. Grant?”

  “Shit, I don’t know. Why?”

  “If you were on the fifth floor, you could have made it down to the ravine and back to the courtyard in less than seven or eight minutes, right?”

  “What are you getting at, Detective?”

  Rosa fixed his gaze on Grant. “Just trying to figure if you could have got down there and back.… Just working on a timeline.”

  “Christ! I didn’t even know that goon,” Grant said, his voice getting louder.

  “That’s not what the super told me. He said Castellano gave you that ugly-looking cut on your face.”

  “That was Flinker’s mistake. He told me I was authorized to go up when the occupant—”

  “You mean the deceased.”

  “When Mr. Castellano wasn’t in. He was stunned to find me in there,” Grant explained, not mentioning anything about the gun.

  “So he belted you?”

  “He was nervous and scared, I guess,” Grant said.

  “He was almost three hundred pounds and a mafioso, for Christsakes! I doubt a guy like you scared him.” Rosa yanked on his ear again. “But you did know Angela Ferraro.”

  “We’ve been through that. I told you I saw her running and was concerned, so I followed her.”

  “You told me that after a few other stories. Which one am I supposed to believe, Mr. Grant? Besides, even if that is the truth, why would you bother to chase after a woman who wasn’t in any danger? A woman you said you didn’t even know.”

  “I could see she was frightened and hurt.”

  “From the fifth floor—and at least a hundred yards down the courtyard?” Rosa exclaimed. “That makes your eyes better than any I’ve seen, and your heart up there with Mother Teresa’s.”

  “That’s the truth, Detective,” Grant replied. “You…”

  Rosa’s cell phone rang. “Bring it over right now. Have the Crime Scene boys meet us and use a ten-sixty,” he said, referring to lights and siren.

  “Thanks for your time,” Rosa said to Grant. “We’ll be in touch.”

  Ten minutes later, the distant wail of a police siren became louder as Virgil Parks crossed Main Street Bridge toward the Langham. Rosa hurried through the entrance, motioning for him to slow down. “Give it to me,” he instructed Parks. “And stick the car over there.”

  Parks pulled the red light off the roof and locked the door. “The Crime Scene guys are on their way,” he said.

  “You wait for them here,” Rosa instructed. “I’m goin’ up.”

  *

  Angela Ferraro stuffed a pillow over her head to block out the noise and pulled the blanket over her bare shoulders. The last few days had been excruciating. Rosa had tried to interview her again; she had slammed the door in his face. Someone who introduced himself only as Salvatore, a friend of Tommy Castellano, called. He to
ld her he would be coming over around seven o’clock. So she figured she would squeeze a nap in before dinner. She had called Clancy Howell. He told her to relax and stay put.

  Angela used her index finger to wipe the crusty sleep from her eyes. Someone was banging on the door. She threw off her blanket, fluffed up her hair with her hands, and pulled on her robe. Then she fished for her slippers from under her bed and moved into the living room. “Who is it?” she shouted.

  “Open up, Angela.”

  “Get lost, Bones,” she screamed through the door. “I’m sleeping.”

  “Not anymore,” he replied. “We got a warrant to search your place.”

  Angela edged the door open, holding on to the brass chain. “Let me see it,” she said.

  “Signed by a judge. Legal as can be,” Rosa said, shoving it into her hand.

  Angela examined it and handed it back to Rosa. “Now what?” she asked.

  “Now you let us in,” Rosa smirked as Parks arrived with two guys from the Crime Scene Unit.

  Angela wiped her hands down her face and then lifted the chain. “Please don’t make a mess, Bones” was all she could say before heading into the kitchen.

  “I’ll watch that she don’t touch nothing,” Rosa ordered. “Why don’t you start in the bedroom.”

  “Making coffee?” Rosa asked Angela as he leaned against the counter. “Mind if I have a cup?”

  “Only way you get anything from now on is by subpoena,” she said. “And from what I just read, it doesn’t cover my having to give you coffee.”

  One of the CSU guys came into the kitchen. “Bones, I think we should bag these and have the lab compare the mud to what’s on Castellano’s shoes,” he said, holding up a pair of knee-length black boots.

  “Everybody in Columbus has mud on their shoes after the rains,” Angela said.

  Rosa squinted as he studied the boots. “Not lots of them with that red stuff on it,” he replied. “Bag it.”

  “You going to tell me that around the ravine is the only place that has reddish topsoil?” Angela said.

  “Not for me to figure out, but I’m sure the Crime Scene boys will.”