Deluge (CSI: NY)

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  When Gladys saw Don Flack, she stopped talking, folded her arms and watched him approach.

  “Doesn’t look like you’re too busy,” said Flack. “Maybe we can talk now.”

  The other woman, dark, Mediterranean, Italian, Greek? looked puzzled.

  “He’s a policeman,” Gladys explained. “My daughter was murdered this morning.”

  The other woman’s mouth opened.

  “I’d better talk to him.”

  “Yes. Yes. I’m…” the other woman stammered.

  “It’s fine,” said Gladys. “Please.”

  Myra headed off in the direction of the lone customer.

  “Mrs. Mycrant—”

  “Gladys, if you are going to be polite and pleasant. Mrs. Mycrant, if you plan to be officious and threatening.”

  “Polite and pleasant,” Flack said.

  “Good.”

  “We don’t know anything about your daughter,” he said. “We don’t know why anyone would want to kill her.”

  “I suppose it can’t be a random killing,” she said.

  “Not during a rainstorm on the roof of your apartment building after she got a phone call and hurried out.”

  “No, not likely is it?”

  “What can you tell me about her?”

  “Patricia was smart, willful and hardworking when she had something to work hard at,” Gladys said, meeting his eyes.

  “She must have had some friends, people she knew, things she was interested in,” he tried.

  “She wasn’t allowed to meet with the few people she knew.”

  “Wasn’t allowed?”

  “It was a condition of her parole,” said Gladys. “My daughter was a convicted sexual predator, as you no doubt know.”

  “He walked funny. Like this,” Dorrie said, demonstrating how the limping man had looked.

  She had seen him coming down the corridor.

  “He smiled at me like this,” she told Mac, showing a sad smile.

  “Was he young? Old?”

  “Old like you mostly,” she said.

  They were sitting on the steps to the second floor. Dorrie was alone for the day with her ball, her toys, the television.

  There was no school today. Her mother was working at Jack the Steamer’s, six blocks away. Jack the Steamer operated one of a few dozen illegal shops that prepared meat products—hot dogs, gyros, souvlaki—for illegal pushcarts.

  Jack the Steamer operated out of the back of Wargo’s Electronics. Today the carts were not coming by. Even the most desperate pushcart men who had families to feed and no green card for other work couldn’t see the point in getting swept away. Besides, who would buy knishes in a deluge?

  When the uniformed cop named Kovich who knew the neighborhood had come through the door, Jack the Steamer was sure that this was the final nail in his palm on the worst day of his life. Kovich, however, was not there to make a bust or get a free fake kosher red hot. He had come to fetch Dorrie’s mother, Rena Prince.

  In the apartment building where Mac and Dorrie sat six blocks away, a voice boomed down from above, a man’s voice, vigorously arguing in a language Mac didn’t understand.

  “That’s Laird,” Dorrie explained. “He’s crazy. He makes up his own words.”

  “He talk to himself like that a lot?” asked Mac.

  “A lot.”

  “Did he do it this morning before you found…?”

  “Yes. He doesn’t hurt anybody. When he comes out of his apartment, he’s very sad, very nice.”

  “Sad like the limping man?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know anyone really old, older than me and the limping man?”

  “Oh yeah. Jack. He’s a nice guy. When I go to work with my mom, he gives me stuff to eat. You want to know a secret?”

  “Sure,” said Mac.

  “I think it smells bad at Jack’s and the food tastes like shit.”

  With that Officer Kovich and Rena Prince appeared.

  The woman was no more than twenty-five, skinny, pale, smooth, pretty face with hair held in place by a rubber band.

  “I don’t leave Dorrie alone,” she said, moving in front of her daughter and taking her hand. “Do I, Dore?”

  “Nope. Just when school gets closed and you can’t get me to Tanya’s in Brooklyn.”

  “Officer,” Mac said. “Mind taking Dorrie back to her apartment?”

  “Sure thing,” said Kruger. “Come on, Dorrie.”

  He held out his hand. She shook her head “no” to the hand but followed the officer down the hall.

  “We’re not here to arrest you for neglect,” Mac said when they were out of earshot. “Timothy Byrold in One-A was murdered a few hours ago. Dorrie found the body.”

  “Oh,” said Rena. “I’ve got to—”

  “This will just take a few seconds,” Mac said gently.

  “Was it—?” she began and halted.

  “It wasn’t good,” said Mac. “Dorrie seems to be handling it pretty well.”

  “She’s seen too much. A kid shouldn’t see what she’s seen.”

  Mac had a feeling the woman was talking not just about what her daughter had seen, but what she herself had seen and experienced.

  “You know Mr. Byrold?”

  “A little. Dorrie talked to him more than I did. Seemed harmless, but who the hell really knows, you know?”

  Mac nodded. “He have any friends, visitors?”

  “He lives in that apartment. I mean, lived there. Once a week, Wednesday’s I think, he went to some meeting downtown. No visitors. Well, I did see some guy knocking at his door about a month ago when I was going to work.”

  “What did this guy look like?”

  “Nice looking. Maybe thirty. Clean slacks, nice pullover. Built like he worked out.”

  “You got a good look?”

  “Yeah. I thought he might say hello. I don’t see many good-looking, clean guys in my life.”

  She looked around the hall as if to illustrate the boundaries of her existence.

  “Byrold let him in?”

  “Yes. He knocked. Tim said, ‘Who is it.’ He said…Don? Dom? Who remembers?”

  “Only visitor?”

  “Only one I ever saw. Tim opened the door. Guy limped in.”

  “Limped?”

  “Yeah, I figured he hurt his leg or something.”

  “And you could recognize him again if you saw him?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “You think he killed Tim?”

  Mac didn’t answer.

  Above them Laird the Loud shouted in gibberish and then let out a triumphant laugh. Rena looked up the stairs and then at Mac.

  “Welcome to our life,” she said. “Can I go be with my baby now?”

  “Go ahead,” said Mac.

  The mutilated corpse of Timothy Byrold was definitely the work of the same person who had killed Patricia Mycrant and James Feldt.

  Before Mac had checked for prints or examined the body for strands of hair that didn’t belong; before he had taken samples of blood or scraped under the dead man’s fingernails; Mac had used a swatch of gauze dipped in alcohol to clear away just enough blood to read the letter A carved into Timothy Byrold’s thigh.

  Mac was not surprised. They had found Patricia Mycrant first, D. Then James Feldt, A, and now Timothy Byrold, another A. DAA. But that was not the timeline of the murders, just the order in which they had found the bodies. The actual sequence was ADA. The name Feldt had typed onto his computer was “adam.” Rena Prince had seen a limping man go into Byrold’s apartment. The man had identified himself as “Don” or “Dom.” Could it have been “Adam”?

  The killer with a limp was not finished. It was only three in the afternoon. Plenty of time left in the day and who could be certain that he would be finished when he had finished spelling Adam? Perhaps there was a last name too.

  Maybe Sid Hammerbeck could come up with something more.

  After he had talked to Dorrie and her mother,
Mac’s cell phone rang. It was Leonard Giles.

  “You going to be back here in the reasonable future?”

  “On my way,” said Mac.

  “Good. Something interesting on the Stanwick Oil building security tapes from this morning.”

  “A limping man,” said Mac.

  “A limping man,” said Giles. “I assume that was no prescient guess.”

  “No.”

  “No clear view of his face,” said Giles. “Hooded. Guard doesn’t know how the man with the limp got past him. Guard is seventy, wears significant glasses and requires frequent visits to the bathroom.”

  “Thanks,” said Mac.

  “You haven’t heard it all,” said Giles. “I played some computer games, videos from rehab centers of people with permanent leg trauma.”

  “The limp,” said Mac.

  “The limp,” Giles agreed. “I looked at and did overlays of the videos and those of the man in the lobby.”

  “And you found?”

  “Our limping man has an artificial leg,” said Giles.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I am acutely aware of the various causes of crippling trauma. An artificial leg is an awkward thing to hide, but it can be done with a great deal of patience and practice. All of which suggests that our limping man suffered his loss in the past year or so. He’s still learning.”

  “I’m on my way,” said Mac. “Thanks.”

  Mac picked up his kit and headed down the hallway, the ranting Laird’s voice bellowing above. His phone rang again. “Yeah.”

  “Mac. What’ve you got?”

  “Another corpse,” he told Flack. “A suspect. You?”

  “Something very interesting about Patricia Mycrant, a possible motive for her murder. And more.”

  Flack told Mac what he had learned from Gladys Mycrant.

  “Follow it,” Mac said.

  “I will,” said Flack. “You inside or out?”

  “In, going out.”

  “Surprise waiting for you on the street,” said Flack. “The rain stopped.”

  “So what have we got?” Danny asked, looking at the computer screen.

  The head and neck of a man with a rod sticking out of his neck and another protruding from his eye almost filled the screen. Danny worked the mouse and the head began to slowly turn. He worked the mouse again and the rods turned red. The depth of the intrusion of the rods was clearly visible.

  “Neck wound, the one that killed him, the first blow, is at a thirty-degree angle from back to front,” said Danny. “Conclusion?”

  Lindsay made a fist with her right hand and reached over. She made a thrust toward Danny’s neck.

  “If the killer was right-handed,” she said, “and struck from in front of the victim, he—”

  “Or she,” added Danny.

  “Or she,” Lindsay agreed, “was pretty strong. Wound is three inches deep through flesh and bone.”

  “And with a pencil,” said Danny.

  “Strong killer.”

  “And Havel just stood there.”

  “He didn’t expect it,” said Lindsay.

  “So if he’s sitting or standing behind his desk and someone comes out of the closet and starts coming at him with a sharp pencil in his hand…”

  “He’s not just going to stand there quietly waiting and then let himself be stabbed,” she said.

  “With a pencil,” said Danny, shaking his head. “Why didn’t the killer use a knife, or one of the metal rods in the closet?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lindsay. “Unless he didn’t plan to kill Havel. He came at him, got angry, picked up a pencil from the desk and—”

  “What if the killer was left-handed?” asked Danny.

  “Look at the angle,” she said. “The blow would have to have been struck from behind and the thrust…”

  She demonstrated.

  “Would have to have been forward.”

  Danny manipulated the image of the head toward him. The rod in the neck slowly pulled out. The head turned away. The rod went back in with a jolt.

  “He’d have to have been standing,” said Danny. “Or the killer had to have been kneeling behind him.”

  “Not likely,” said Lindsay.

  “Not likely,” Danny agreed. “But what about the other blow, the pencil in the eye?”

  “After Havel was dead,” Lindsay said. “What sense does that make?”

  Danny touched the keys on the pad in front of him and the rod slowly pulled out of the eye.

  “No angle,” he said. “Straight in, almost four inches. It looks as if it were pounded in with a hammer.”

  “Not a hammer,” Lindsay said, “but something. The eraser is almost torn off.”

  She reached past Danny, hit some keys and a report appeared on the screen. He read it slowly. “Traces of glass.”

  He sat back, put his hands behind his head and looked at her.

  “How’d you like to take a trip back to school, Montana? See what we may have missed?”

  “Why not?”

  “The rain’s stopped,” he said. “Want to pick up a couple of coffees on the way?”

  “Why not,” she said again. “And let’s call Stella, see how Hawkes is doing.”

  “The rain stopped,” Hawkes said.

  “But the sky is still falling,” answered Custus, his eyes closed.

  And he was right.

  Hawkes held the bullet he had removed from Custus’s side. He dropped it in an evidence bag and placed the bag in his kit.

  “How are you feeling?” asked Hawkes.

  Custus laughed, choked on his laughter, coughed and finally grew calm enough to say, “Perfect. You just removed a bullet from me in less than antiseptic circumstances. My ankle is pinned under a beam and broken. Water is rising, which is likely to drown me before I’m killed by infection. I hope you’re not going to suggest amputating my leg to get me out of here. I’d prefer a quiet morphine-lulled departure from this earth.”

  “I’m not going to cut off your leg,” Hawkes said.

  “Good. Do I gather that you just surgically saved my life?”

  “I think so,” said Hawkes. “At least the threat isn’t there anymore.”

  “Not from the bullet, anyway.”

  “You want to tell me how you got shot?”

  “I think not,” said Custus. “It’s all quite unclear to me.”

  Hawkes could hear what sounded like a wooden beam cracking coming from the deep darkness.

  The end of the rain didn’t mean the end of the water flowing into the pit. It was now a deceptively soothing waterfall working against the pump, which barely kept up with the flow.

  “Might as well try to get yourself out of here, Doc,” Custus said. “That’s not to say I want you to stop trying to get me out too, but what’s the point of your sharing my fate if it comes to that. I’ve been arms-around-the-neck with death more times than a buck in hunting season. It makes for the illusion of having lived a long eventful life.”

  “You threw the gun away,” said Hawkes.

  “That I did.”

  “I saw where you threw it,” said Hawkes.

  Custus let out a choking laugh.

  “And you’re going to try to retrieve it? I take back my suggestion that you try to get the hell out of here. If you’re going to act like a fool, you can die like one kneeling at the side of an even bigger fool.”

  Hawkes pulled a pill bottle from his kit, poured three pills into his palm and said, “Open your mouth.”

  “I haven’t had it closed since we started to share this little grotto.”

  Custus opened his mouth, accepted the pills and swallowed them.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  Hawkes got to his feet in a crouch and, flashlight in hand, moved into the darkness.

  “You’re really going to do it,” marveled Custus. “I’ve known many a fool and flirted with the appellation myself on more than one occasion, but you are about to take the tr
ophy and hold it for life, which, in your case, does not promise to be long.”

  To punctuate the prediction, the beam in the darkness let out a jagged scream.

  Hawkes froze for an instant and then was gone. Custus tried to turn his head to see him but he was pinned too firmly.

  “Hawkes,” a woman called above Custus.

  “He’s occupied,” croaked Custus.

  “I know what happened,” said Stella.

  Custus couldn’t see her, but he could tell from her voice what she probably meant.

  “May I suggest that you get someone down here to pull that stubborn physician out. You might need a strait jacket since he seems to be enamored of both my company and our new accommodations.”

  “The firemen are working on it,” she said.

  “They’d best work quickly or their work will be done all too soon,” said Custus. “I’ve grown fond of Doctor Hawkes.”

  “I’m glad,” said Stella.

  “A question.”

  “Yes,” called Stella, leaning as close to the pit as she could.

  “Are you beautiful?”

  “Ravishing,” said Stella. “You?”

  “I am not beautiful,” said Custus. “I’m a wasted husk with a broken ankle and a hole in my side, but in my day, which was as recent as last week, I was considered quite intriguing to the ladies.”

  “You blew up this building,” Stella said.

  Custus didn’t answer.

  “Four people died in the explosion.”

  Custus still didn’t answer.

  “Another one was shot before the explosion,” she said.

  “I plead semi-innocent of all accusations,” said Custus. “If I survive, I’ll gladly do the right thing. I’ll suddenly stop talking.”

  “You shot Doohan,” said Stella.

  Hawkes appeared, gun in hand, and knelt next to Custus just as the beam gave a deep sigh of defeat and gave way. The walls and ceiling came down with a crash. The water level rose in a gush and a gray-white dust filled the air and pushed into Hawkes’s nose and mouth.

  Hawkes leaned over in an attempt to protect Custus’s face.

  The cracking and crumbling diminished but didn’t stop.

  Hawkes could see that the space in the pit in which he and Custus sat had now been reduced to about the size of the backseat of a midsize car.

  “His name is Adam,” said Mac. “He walks with a limp, has an artificial leg.”