~~~
I gave Toni a hug and saw immediately that she had been crying. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s okay,” she said, her voice wavering. “We were just talking about the Jacobys. It’s been days, and we haven’t heard anything encouraging. That animal is still out on the street.”
I hesitated before I spoke. “Can I come in?” I wanted to tell her what I knew, but those words were meant for the boss’ ears. “There’s been a development.”
“Oh dear God.” Toni covered her mouth. “Come in, Stephanie. Come in. Nick’s friend is here,” she said as she led me toward the den. “This is so damn scary. I hope you’re bringing Nick good news.”
Good news? What exactly defined good news? Yes, we were one step closer to apprehending a murderer, but was I delivering good news? Well, in terms of absolutes, then maybe yes, I was about to deliver good news.
Sonellio pulled the oxygen line from his nose, so that he could give me a hug and a kiss without it getting in the way. “Put that back where it belongs,” I said. I had been that route with my father when he was approaching the end and knew that it was not the time for the boss to worry about his vanity. I helped him put the oxygen tube back in place. “How are you feeling, boss?”
Sonellio shrugged. “Mezzo mezzo. Stephanie, say hello to a dear friend of mine, Giacomo Babocci.”
Babocci was an average-size man. He had thick, white hair and long sideburns. “Stephanie Chalice,” I said as I extended my hand.
“Cha-lee-see.” He repeated my name phonetically separating each syllable. “You’re Frank’s girl?”
“I am. You knew my father?”
“Oh yeah, absolutely. I was sorry to hear about him.” Babocci made the sign of the cross. “God rest his soul. We used to play bocce together back in the old days.”
The idea of my father playing bocce ball made me smile on the inside. I could picture him as a boy, wearing an athletic shirt and shorts, and rolling a bocce ball. “I didn’t know that he—”
“Sure,” Babocci said. “Back in the old days in Brooklyn. You’ve got Frank’s eyes.”
If only that were true. Very few people knew that I was adopted. I had Frank Chalice’s heart and soul, but my eyes . . . they came from someone entirely different. The smile I had been feeling turned into an ache. God, I miss him so much. “It’s nice to meet you, Giacomo.”
I spied the dishes of tiramisu set on the coffee table. Toni caught me red-handed. She gave me a pat on the butt. “I’ll bring you some. Giacomo brought it from his restaurant, Café Baci.”
“Baci? That’s Italian for kiss. Café Kiss?”
“Don’t get too excited, Stephanie, it’s for gentlemen only,” Toni said.
“Well,” I huffed, “that certainly let’s all the air out of the romance balloon. Anyway, no arm-twisting necessary—I’d love some. Thanks.” There was so much going on—I actually felt guilty that I had taken a moment to reminisce. I turned back to Sonellio. “I need a word with you,” I said, implying that I needed to speak to him alone.
“About the case?” Sonellio asked. I nodded. “You can talk in front of Giacomo. He’s a neighbor. He’s got a right to know what’s going on.”
“Are you sure?”
Sonellio raised his eyebrows as if to say are you questioning me? Sonellio knew police procedure better than anyone alive. If he said this guy was okay . . . he was okay. I sat down on the couch. Sonellio and Babocci did the same. I knew the first part of what I had to say would be tough for Sonellio to take, but it had to be said nonetheless. “Someone took the four Jacoby bodies.” I saw Sonellio’s jaw drop. He slumped back against the couch, and his face went white.
“Son of a bitch,” Babocci swore. I looked over at him. He was wild-eyed.
“But we know who took them.”
Blood slowly flowed back into Sonellio’s cheeks. Thank God. “What the hell happened, Stephanie?”
“You remember me telling you about Tillerman when I called this morning?”
Sonellio nodded. “The new suspect? Of course. He took them?”
“Ya. He used to work at the Sclafani Funeral Home. He showed up at the ME’s office posing as a Sclafani pickup driver and signed for the bodies. He had all the paperwork filled out correctly. Sclafani’s a pretty well-known establishment—the ME’s office had no reason to question him. A second funeral home came by for the pickup later in the day. That’s when all hell broke loose.”
“That’s fucking unbelievable,” Sonellio swore. “What balls!”
“Who the hell is this guy, Tillerman?” Babocci said angrily. “I’ll strangle him with my bare hands.”
I reached into my jacket pocket and withdrew a freeze frame photo that had been captured on the ME’s video security camera. I held it so that both Sonellio and Babocci could see the hulking monster that filled the height and width of the photo. I could see their eyes widen with awe. “You want to strangle this guy? Go ahead, Giacomo. As for me, I’ll take a bazooka.”
Chapter Forty-four
I was back in the car and on my way to the boat basin near the Verrazano Bridge. I had received a call from Forzo’s office, which forced me to leave the Sonellio home almost as soon as I had arrived. God bless Toni—she had smushed my tiramisu into a paper coffee cup, and I was eating it as I drove. I had planned to spend the day looking for Tillerman and interviewing anyone who might have known him, but those plans would have to wait. A body had been spotted in the narrows near the Verrazano Bridge. With any luck, I would arrive just as the body was brought ashore.
I thought about Tillerman as I drove toward the bridge. An all-points bulletin had been issued for his arrest. Tillerman was physically distinctive and could easily be spotted. I hoped that he had not already left the area. I could just see the physical description beneath his photo on a most-wanted poster: huge, monstrously large man with a chest as big as a barrel and arms as thick as fully grown pythons. I mean the guy was a sight to behold. He was conspicuous-looking under any circumstances. Still, I couldn’t help wonder how this all tied together. There were the three individual bodies . . . correct that, two bodies and one tablet-shaped medallion, which had presumably been made from the remains of victim number one—how did that tie to the murder of the Jacoby family? The MOs were diametrically discrepant. Presuming that Tillerman was our murderer, he had murdered the first three victims and made medallions from their teeth. He had disposed of victim number one and was about to dispose of victim number three, Vetrov. Only victim number two, Stuart Meisel was found intact. That in itself showed deviation in his MO, which made me uncomfortable. To add further mystery, he had stolen the bodies of the Jacoby family from the ME’s office. Serial killers don’t normally operate that way. They usually stick to formula and refine their technique as they go along—they deviate from plan only when they encounter an obstacle. Had Tillerman planned to return for the Jacobys? Were their bodies discovered before he had time to retrieve them from their home? I had apples and oranges and was not in the mood for fruit salad.
I saw the towers of the Verrazano Bridge and turned my focus to the newest development. Coast guard ships and police boats were in the water just offshore. Gus was already there, waiting for the body to be carried ashore. I walked over to where he was standing. “And to think I complained about being strapped to my desk—do you believe what’s going on here?” The area was a zoo, filled with dozens of police personnel and almost as many police vehicles.
“I always said that you know how to pick ‘em,” Gus said. “How did it go with the boss?”
“He took it hard but was relieved that we finally have a break in the case. I hope we can wrap this one up quickly.”
Gus turned and looked into my eyes. “He’s that bad?”
The sun was bright. I reached into my bag and put on my sunglasses. “He’s not good. He’s on oxygen . . . He looks very weak, Gus. I don’t know—” The body was being laid on the embankment just a few yards in front of us. “We’l
l talk about it later, okay?”
It was a woman’s body, and she had been murdered. I knew this because she wore a dress and scuba equipment, a wholly unnatural combination with all the attributes of a diabolical homicide. A scuba tank was attached in the usual manner. A buoyancy control device was fully inflated around her neck. The regulator was still in her mouth and secured with wide, black tape that had been wrapped around her head several times. I was among law enforcement officers who were well accustomed to the sight of a dead body and yet this one touched us all because of the obvious and deliberate nature in which this woman had been killed. It drew a full round of oohs and aahs. The crime scene investigators were on it immediately. Cameras flashed to capture the body in the condition in which it had been discovered.
“This is fucking strange,” Gus said. “No scuba mask and she’s wearing a dress. First impression?”
“You mean other than she was murdered by a psycho?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Only that I can’t wait for them to remove the regulator.” The victim could have been murdered in several ways, but at the moment none of them were obvious. The opening round of pictures had come to an end. One of the crime scene investigators got on his knees and carefully examined the body for less obvious wounds; small punctures and signs of trauma. It wasn’t long afterward that my wait came to an end. He removed the tape and regulator. The woman’s gums had been cut and her incisor teeth were gone.
Chapter Forty-five
I sat on the steps outside the medical examiner’s office making phone calls and trying to make sense of what I had just heard. The ME’s words came back to me. “The subject is an unidentified Caucasian female approximately twenty-one to thirty years of age, whose body was recovered from the narrows not far from the Verrazano Bridge. At the time of rescue, the body was attired in a dress, brassiere, and pantyhose. The victim wore standard scuba equipment suitable for short periods of underwater diving. The equipment recovered with the body included a scuba tank, a buoyancy control device, a weighted diver’s belt, a mouth-held air regulator, and pressure gauges. These items have been assigned to the crime lab for study.” It takes hours for the ME to do an autopsy—too long for me to sit around waiting.
I heard the door open. I turned and saw Gus standing behind me. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Life doesn’t seem to be worth much around here. That’s seven murders, and this guy Tillerman is still at large.”
“You know that he won’t get very far,” Gus said. “We may not know where he is, but we have his picture. How much sneaking around do you think someone the size of the Incredible Hulk can get away with?
“Not a whole hell of a lot. Still, I wish I knew how this all fits together. Why is he killing all these people and why is his MO so inconsistent? It just doesn’t make a hell of a lot of sense.”
“I know. I hope you’re not counting on me for a genius inspiration. I’ve been racking my brains and haven’t come up with anything.”
I rubbed Gus’ cheek. “If not you, then who?”
He gazed down at my belly. “How about you? Any ideas? Mom and dad could kind of use a little help.”
The notion of me giving birth to the world’s next great criminal investigator made me smile. “That’s an awful lot of pressure to put on someone who’s not even toilet-trained. You’re not going to be one of those overly demanding fathers, are you?”
Gus smiled. “I’m the easy one. It’s you I’m worried about.”
“Me?”
“Yes you, Ms. Perfect . . . straight-A student, one of the youngest detectives on the NYPD squad, highest closed-case percentage . . . Do I have to go on?”
“No. It’s okay. I get it.” I blushed. “And by the way, thank you. Need I remind you that I’m also the girl who went sneaking around with her partner and got preggers before saying I do. Trust me, I’m capable of tremendous amounts of understanding.”
“You only got pregnant because I’m so completely irresistible.”
“Yes you are, you Roman God, you.” The combination of physical attributes he’d inherited from his Greek mother and Italian father made him classically handsome—he looked like he deserved a place on Mount Olympus. He had all those required features, a square jaw, a Roman nose, and a mop of wavy hair that I just loved to run my fingers through. “Now help me figure out this mess before my contractions start.”
“The FBI profilers are stymied,” Gus said. “I’m honestly not sure we’ll be able to do any better.”
“Maybe it’s best that we get back to basics—forget the profiling and hit the streets—go house to house, distribute photographs, place ads, and offer rewards.”
“I wish I had a better idea,” Gus said, “but I don’t.”
The door opened again. A lab assistant waved to us to come back into the building. “The autopsy is complete,” he said. “I think you’ll want to hear this.” Oh yes, another coroner’s report and more lab results—what could be more stimulating.
I had been in the conference room so often that I knew which chair had a broken caster—I walked past it to a free roller. Gus began to sit down in the clunker, but I waved him off. We were the first two in the room, but it filled up quickly: Forzo and his executive team, the ME, the chief forensic scientist, and others I had not yet met. It was an ultra high-level case, and Forzo had everyone on it. He looked very unhappy as he awaited the report.
Peter Dambro was the chief medical examiner. He sat down at the conference table and glanced over at Forzo before he spoke. “I’ll make this quick. I know that Assistant Chief Forzo and his staff are short on time.” Forzo smiled at Dambro and gave him a quick thumbs-up. “A full and detailed report will be available for each of you following the meeting. I have ruled this death a homicide. As you all know, the body of Jane Doe was recovered from the narrows this morning. She was wearing a scuba tank, buoyancy vest, and weight belt. In addition to the obvious mutilation of Jane Doe’s jaw and gums, the crime lab has determined that the buoyancy control device was rigged to inflate at a depth of sixty-six feet, when the scuba tank dropped below fifty percent capacity.”
Sixty-six feet. That number is significant. It took me a moment to recall why that particular depth stood out in my mind. It was the second thing I was taught in scuba class, right after never leave your buddy.
Dambro flipped a page in his report, reviewed it, and then began to confer with the chief forensic scientist.
I was sitting next to Detective Sergeant Stanhope, one of Forzo’s people. He leaned over and covered his mouth. “Isn’t that a lot of trouble to go to just to drown someone?”
“Who said anything about a drowning?”
“What?”
“Just listen.” Dambro and the chief forensic scientist had finished conferring. “The other shoe is about to drop.”
Dambro cleared his throat. “The victim died as a result of pulmonary barotrauma.”
I looked around the table. Forzo understood what Dambro had just said. The others seemed to be confused. Fortunately Gus and I had scuba experience—Gus gave me a knowing glance.
“What does that mean?” Stanhope asked. “How did she die?”
“She surfaced too quickly. Her lungs exploded.”
Chapter Forty-six
Ambler showed up just as the medical examiner’s meeting broke up. He grabbed us and sat us down for a quick briefing. “I’m crazed,” Ambler said. “I was sitting on the goddamn Gowanus Expressway forever—two hours for a one-hour ride.”
Ambler was solo. “You should have asked Agent Banks along for company—the ride wouldn’t have seemed so long.”
Ambler raised his pointer finger. “Not now, Chalice. Jesus, I hate Staten Island.”
“Why? What’s wrong with Staten Island?”
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong,” he said in a huff. “It’s not Manhattan! Now tell me what I missed.” Ambler poured himself a glass of water and sat down. His face was flush, and he was sweating
through his suit jacket.
“A woman’s body was found this morning, floating in the narrows,” Gus said.
“I’ve heard the basics, Gus. Just give me the forensic details,” Ambler said.
“The victim’s incisors were cut out, just as in the three previous cases,” Gus added.
“I got that too.” Ambler was not in the best mood.
“The victim was outfitted with scuba gear,” I said. “a tank and regulator, weight belt, and a buoyancy control device, which had been tampered with to inflate at a depth of sixty-six feet when the tank was half empty.”
Ambler was no slouch. He knew where this was going already. “Triggering rapid-ascent decompression trauma.”
“Correct. The water in the narrows is between seventy and ninety feet deep. Tillerman knew the depth of the water and set the BCD to inflate at a pressure of two atmospheres.” I pictured this poor woman in the icy water at the bottom of the Staten Island Narrows with her eyes closed, waiting for her air to run out. I didn’t know why Tillerman had selected this victim, but he had chosen a particularly heinous way to kill her. Scuba divers breathe in pressurized air from an air tank. Atmospheric pressure doubles with every thirty-three feet of depth. Everything works out okay as long as the diver surfaces slowly, taking sufficient time to depressurize on the way up. Jane Doe would have rocketed to the surface when her buoyancy control device inflated. Water pressure against her body dropped suddenly, and the gases in her lungs expanded explosively. Her lungs popped like a balloon.
“What’s the water temperature down there?” Ambler asked.
“Cold as hell.”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” Ambler said, “She had to be hypothermic by the time the BCD inflated.”
“I don’t know how long it would have taken for her heart to stop. Until we hear differently, we’ll have to stick with the ME’s conclusion and that she was still alive when she surfaced.”
Our Honored Dead (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 4) Page 15