Deluge (CSI: NY)

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Are you in pain?” asked Hawkes.

  “On a scale of one to ten? I’ll give it a seven, but I’ve been close to nine in my day. You have something that will take the edge off in your box of tricks there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then by all means administer to a body and soul in distress.”

  Hawkes pulled a plastic bottle of Vicodin out of the kit. Being able to carry prescription painkillers in case of a situation like this one was one of the advantages of being both a physician and a CSI.

  Hawkes could hear the rain rush through cracks and fissures above him, threatening the fragile, sagging ceiling.

  “You were in the bar?” asked Hawkes.

  “I was,” said Custus, downing the pill Hawkes handed him. “Driven in by the rain for a morning wake-up beer and winding up in a hole as ominous as any of Dante’s pits. Poetically and metaphorically that would make you my Beatrice.”

  “Do you remember what happened?” asked Hawkes, shining the beam of the flashlight into Custus’s eyes. The pupils constricted normally.

  Hawkes perched the flashlight on a flat rusted square of iron next to the injured man. Its light was crime-scene bright. The waterproof flashlight had a battery life of one hundred hours. Luckily, Hawkes had put in new batteries two days ago.

  “It’s an odd story and I’m given to making my stories lengthy,” said Custus as Hawkes opened the man’s shirt to examine him for other bruises or trauma.

  “Not too lengthy, I hope,” said Hawkes.

  “Ah yes, the tide is rising,” said Custus with a grin, “and we await the shadow of an albatross.

  “I was sitting at the bar, talking to a man I had just met when—”

  The ceiling shifted. The beam moved a fraction, pinning Custus even more tightly. He let out a pained groan.

  “Hawkes?” Stella called from above.

  “We’re here,” said Hawkes.

  Custus’s chest was a map of scars, most of them old, pink, hardened.

  “Football, Australian rules,” Custus explained. “Rough and tumble. Lots of biting, scratching and the rare but distinctive spitting. Fun for one and all.”

  Custus was grinning. Hawkes didn’t grin back. Custus’s scars were not the result of football injuries. He’d seen these kinds of scars before.

  And then Hawkes saw it. Under folds of his clinging wet shirt and a smudge of oily filth, he saw it.

  “You were sitting at the bar talking to a man you had just met,” prompted Hawkes.

  “Right, well—”

  “Who shot you?”

  “Shot me?” asked Custus.

  “You’ve been shot,” said Hawkes. “Don’t you feel it?”

  “Not really. A little stiffness there, but nothing like the heroic agony of my broken ankle. How bad is it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Hawkes. “We’ll get you out of here to a hospital.”

  “It doesn’t have to hurt to kill you,” said Custus.

  “No, it doesn’t,” Hawkes said, leaning over with his flashlight to examine the wound, out of which, Hawkes could now see, blood pumped steadily.

  5

  THE BODY OF JAMES FELDT was discovered by a woman named Annabeth Edwards. “Discovered” might suggest that she had either stumbled upon or been searching for the body. In actuality, she couldn’t miss it as she made her way through the nooks and crannies of Strutts, McClean & Berg. The door to one of the offices was open, wide open and waiting for her to push it. She did. The room was painted red with blood and the body that lay sprawled next to the desk had its pants pulled down to reveal a horror of mutilation.

  To her credit, Annabeth did not drop her bag, which contained a lemon poppy muffin and a coffee sweetened with cream and three packets of Equal. Annabeth didn’t recognize the man with granny glasses dangling from one ear. She’d only been at her job for two weeks. She was here on this shit of a day to make an impression, to impress any partner who might happen in, deciding that there was something in the office worth the risk of being swept away by the deluge outside.

  She stood in the doorway, hands at her side, knowing enough not to go in or touch anything. It wasn’t necessary to see if the man might still be alive. He obviously was not.

  It struck her that whoever had done this might still be here. She stood silently, listening. Just the rain pounding against the blood-streaked window over the head of the dead man.

  “This is what I get for being a loyal employee,” she said aloud, moving back into the reception area, placing her bag on a desk and reaching for a phone.

  Then, and only then, did she remember the man in the downstairs lobby who, head down, had walked out as she had come in. Their eyes had met. He had nodded. So had she.

  Annabeth took out her cell phone and made the call. The woman at 911 took it, forwarded it. A pair of uniforms who were on their fourteenth hour on the job threw away their cups of coffee and drove the six blocks to the scene of the crime.

  The report of the killing reached the computer screen at CSI headquarters about an hour after Annabeth Edwards had called it in.

  “Look at this,” Mac said.

  Flack looked over his shoulder at the screen.

  “‘Genital mutilation,’” Flack read.

  “Like Patricia Mycrant,” said Mac.

  “A stretch. Someone murders a woman on a rooftop on Eighty-second and then runs to an office building in midtown to carve up a guy in an office?”

  “I’ve got a feeling,” said Mac, sitting back.

  “Me too. I’ve got a feeling we’re on our way to look at a dead man.”

  James Tuvekian, whose father was a neurosurgeon, was tall and almost anorexically thin. He sat in the dining hall of the Wallen School, wearing khakis and a tan-and-yellow striped button-down polo shirt and a smile. Not a smirk, not a smile of amusement, but the smile of someone who had learned to wear a mask.

  “What did you see, James?” Danny asked.

  James pursed his lips and shrugged. “You mean in Mr. Havel’s classroom?”

  “No, at the movies last night,” said Danny.

  “Not funny,” said James.

  “Not funny,” Danny agreed.

  “What did I see? Nothing. Mr. Havel was behind the table setting something up on the microscope. We filed out. End of episode.”

  “Someone killed him.”

  “I heard. He let us out early.”

  “Why?”

  “Who knows? Maybe he wanted to play with himself. Karen Reynolds is in that class. He had a thing for her. Don’t think he did anything about it, but he looked and panted.”

  “What about you?”

  “You mean Karen?” James said. “I look. Who doesn’t?”

  “Red pencils,” said Danny, placing the red pencils on the wooden table.

  “I see,” said James.

  “Who uses them?”

  “Mr. Havel. Anyone who wanted them, or the markers, or the highlighters, could take them.”

  “Ever arm wrestle?” asked Danny.

  “What for?”

  “Fun.” Danny grinned and put his arm on the table.

  “You are one strange cop. No, thanks.”

  “You work out?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Give me your hands.”

  Danny checked his palms. When he was finished, James rose from his seat.

  “We’ll talk again,” Danny said.

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Send Karen in when you leave,” said Danny. “And don’t talk to her.”

  “I don’t talk to her. She doesn’t talk to me. That way our love will always be a mystery.”

  “‘Bells Are Ringing,’” said Danny.

  “You like show tunes?” said the boy.

  “My musical taste is eclectic,” said Danny.

  “Anything else?” asked James.

  “We’ve got trouble right here in River City.”

  “Yeah,” said the boy. “Remember th
e Maine, Plymouth Rock and The Golden Rule.”

  Danny adjusted his glasses and nodded as the boy left the dining hall.

  As he waited for the next student, he wondered how Hawkes was doing. Stella had called and briefed him on the situation, had said the fire department had assured her they would get him out. Danny thought she had sounded less than completely confident. He’d told her to call him if she needed anything, wished he could do more.

  Moments later Karen Reynolds came in and sat down without being asked.

  Danny had expected a petite blond high school bombshell, like Shirley Moretti from when he was in high school. Karen Reynolds was blond, but not like Shirley Moretti. Her hair, cut short, was, like Karen Reynolds, fresh. She was lean and solid and tall, with long legs, and wore no makeup. There was an aura of health and wholesomeness about her. Karen Reynolds belonged in California on the beach or in Montana climbing a mountain.

  “You swim?” Danny asked as she sat, back straight, showing blue eyes and perfect white teeth.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Records?” he said.

  “A few. You swim?”

  “Didn’t have a pool at my school. I swam in the river.”

  “The river? The Hudson?”

  “I kept my mouth closed,” he said.

  She smiled.

  “What did you see in Mr. Havel’s class before he dismissed you?”

  “Nothing unusual.”

  “You liked Mr. Havel?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “And he liked you.”

  It was a statement, not a question. She said nothing.

  “You were the last one out?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “No one was left in the classroom besides Mr. Havel.”

  “No one,” she said.

  “I’m curious. What does your father do?”

  “My father is dead,” she said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. He died when I was seven. He was a diamond dealer, very heavily insured. My mother took over the business.”

  “Mr. Havel ever make any moves on you?”

  “No,” she said. “He looked. That’s all. I liked him. He was a great teacher.”

  “You have a boyfriend?”

  “You asking for a date?”

  She was smiling, maybe trying to make Danny a little uncomfortable.

  “I’ll wait a few years,” he said. “You have a boyfriend?”

  “Terry Rucker. A senior. Terry is not the jealous type and he did not come to school today. He’s stuck in Ithaca. Rain. Basketball game last night.”

  Danny nodded.

  “I’d like to call my mother before I say anything else.”

  “You’re eighteen. We don’t need your mother’s permission to talk to you.”

  “You didn’t tell me I could leave any time I wish unless you’re arresting me.”

  “Why should we arrest you?” asked Danny. “You kill Mr. Havel?”

  “No.”

  The answer was forceful. Danny was starting to think she was taller than he was.

  “We can hold you on suspicion of withholding information,” he said.

  “There is no such charge.”

  “You planning on becoming a lawyer?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  Danny was certain now. The girl was taller than he was.

  He examined her palms, which she allowed him to do without protest. “You can leave,” he said when he was done.

  “No,” she said. “I want to cooperate. So if you have more questions…”

  “No, you can leave.”

  She stood. So did Danny. He didn’t normally stand when women came or went, but there was something about her that made him sure that she expected the gesture. She took a dozen steps toward the dining hall door, then stopped and turned around.

  “Everybody liked Mr. Havel,” she said.

  “Not everybody,” Danny said.

  Lindsay had laid a white cloth on the floor of the room in the CSI lab. On the table in front of her was a large, dead pig. Next to the dead pig were two hollow-cast, human-shaped heads lined on the inside with blood packs. One of the heads was vertical, head up. The other was horizontal, on its side.

  Lindsay wore a white lab coat and goggles and her hair was covered in a plastic surgery-room cover.

  She was ready. Different-size sharpened red pencils were lined up on the lab table. Lindsay picked up one of the thicker pencils in her gloved hand and plunged it into the neck of the pig. There was no blood. The blood had been drained from the pig the previous day. She left the pencil in the pig’s neck and consulted the crime scene photographs of Alvin Havel and her own notes on the depth of his neck wound.

  She shook her head, pulled the pencil from the pig, selected another pencil and plunged that one in, harder than the first time. Again she consulted the photos and her notes. Closer. Very close, but not quite right. She repeated the process once more, plunging the pencil in even harder. This time it was almost perfect. She removed the pencil and inserted a needlepoint gauge in the wound.

  When she looked at the reading, she chewed on her lower lip and made a notation. Whoever had stabbed Alvin Havel had been strong, very strong.

  The pig was on a stainless steel wheeled cart. Lindsay opened the door, wheeled the cart out of the room and turned it over to lab tech Chad Willingham, who was waiting eagerly outside the door for news.

  Lindsay showed him her notes.

  She started back into the room to assault the blood-packed heads on the table.

  “Can I…?” Chad asked.

  “Sure,” said Lindsay.

  There was about to be a lot of blood in the room, and someone would have to clean it up. That someone would be Chad. He at least deserved to be in on the fun part.

  Sid Hammerbeck was looking down at the body of Alvin Havel. The pencils embedded in the chemistry teacher’s eye and neck were still there. Sid removed the pencils carefully, noting the depth of each wound. The only question was which of the wounds had killed the teacher and when.

  Sid gently probed the eye wound. The wound was remarkably clean, a straight puncture. The victim had not squirmed or fought back. This was not a wild, frantic stab to the eye. The man was already dead when someone had plunged the pencil into his eye.

  Sid consulted his notes and called Mac on his cell phone.

  The line was busy.

  “They think the ceiling’s going to come down,” Stella said into the cell phone.

  She was sitting in the compact crime scene vehicle she and Hawkes had taken to the site of Doohan’s Bar. The drumming of the rain on the roof made it difficult to hear. She clicked up the volume on her phone.

  “When?” asked Mac. He was currently on the elevator going up to the law offices of Strutts, McClean & Berg in the Stanwick Oil Building.

  “They don’t know. An hour, maybe,” she said.

  “What are they doing now?” Mac asked as the elevator stopped and he stepped out on the nineteenth floor.

  “Running a hose into the basement to try to pump out some of the water.”

  Stella looked out the window at the group of firemen gathered around the sink hole. A hose from their truck ran across the debris and into the pit.

  “You’ve got a gunshot victim at the scene?”

  “It gets better,” she said. “Victim’s ankle is pinned under a heavy beam. Water’s slowly rising in the pit and I get the feeling from Hawkes that the victim may not make it another forty-five minutes.”

  A policeman, raincoat open, stood in front of the outer door. Mac nodded at him and moved past.

  “Anything you can do to help Hawkes?”

  “No,” Stella said. “It’s up to the firemen. They’re pumping water out of the hole.”

  “Is Hawkes in any danger?”

  “These guys seem pretty confident they’ll get him out with time to spare,” she said. “I trust them.”

  “K
eep me posted,” said Mac.

  He hung up. So did Stella. She had dead men to examine.

  The reception area of the law offices was empty. Down a hall to the left Mac could see a second police officer, a heavyset veteran Mac recognized.

  “Weaver,” said Mac.

  “Detective Taylor,” Weaver replied.

  “What do we have?” asked Mac.

  “Dead man in there,” Weaver said, nodding at an office to his left. Then, looking to his right, he said, “Woman who found the body is in an office over there. Dead man’s James Feldt, accountant. Live woman is Annabeth Edwards.”

  Mac nodded, put on his gloves and entered the office where James Feldt’s body awaited him.

  Weaver didn’t follow. There was nothing in there he wanted to see again. In his seventeen years on the streets, Weaver had seen bad, really bad. The scene in Feldt’s office was definitely on his top five list.

  Mac scanned the room, put down his kit, took out his camera and began to take photos. The first one he took was of the area on the floor in front of him where he would have to walk. There was blood. Lots of blood. Mac moved in. More footprints. Weaver’s bootmarks were clear. They went up to the body where Weaver must have confirmed what he’d known the second he entered the room, that James Feldt was dead. There were other prints, about a size nine. Mac leaned over to take close-ups of them.

  When he finished photographing the room and the body, Mac put the camera away and looked down at the dead man. Like the woman on the roof, Patricia Mycrant, Feldt had been mutilated, his genitals cut off after his pants were pulled down.

  Mac checked under the man’s right arm, then his left. He found the wound under the left arm almost exactly where Patricia Mycrant had been stabbed.

  Mac took the dead man’s temperature and then rolled him slightly on his side to check for lividity. The man had been dead for at least two hours.

  Kneeling, cotton swab in hand, Mac carefully rubbed blood away from the inside of the dead man’s thigh. He found what he was looking for in almost the exact spot it had been on Patricia Mycrant. The only difference was that the letter carved in the corpse was an A instead of a D.