Crime School

by Carol O'Connell

  Coffey turned an accusing eye on Mallory, but before he could nail her to the wall for this breach of case details, she said, “He’s our consulting psychologist. I know how much you hate the department shrink.”

  The lieutenant nodded, for this was true. The consultant on call for Special Crimes was an incompetent hack and an irritant to the entire squad. A year ago, he had offered the job to Charles Butler only to discover that the city of New York could not afford a man with more than one PhD. “It’s just too bad we don’t have the budget for him.”

  Riker had the distinct impression that the lieutenant was overacting.

  “Not a problem.” Mallory was still working through the stack of newspapers. “He can’t earn any more money this quarter.”

  “Right,” said Charles. “It’s a tax thing. I’m at your disposal, free of charge.”

  The lieutenant was rightly distrustful of something for nothing, but he had not yet worked out the potential for treachery.

  Mallory folded the last newspaper from the pile on the desk. “There’s nothing in here on Kennedy Harper. And the reporters botched the story on Sparrow’s hanging. They’re still calling it a hooker’s sex game. Sounds almost accidental. Charles thinks this will send the scarecrow into a homicidal rage. The next kill could be any day now.”

  Riker could see that this opinion was a big surprise to her new consulting psychologist.

  “If you believe the papers,” she said, “the only women at risk are hookers. It’s time to go public.”

  “All right,” said Coffey, “we’ll give the actresses a sporting chance to stay alive.” He turned to face his generous gift from Mallory—Charles Butler. “Let’s say you’re right about the scarecrow being pissed off. Why doesn’t he call the media and set them straight?”

  “It’s just my impression, but I think he wants the police to work it out.”

  “And he’s stalking the next victim right now,” said Mallory. “We need the public tip lines up and running.”

  Coffey shook his head. “We don’t have to panic every blonde in the city—only women who fit the profile. And we’re not gonna mention the Cold Case file to the press.” He turned to Charles Butler. “Any more ideas about the scarecrow?”

  “I assume his tie to Natalie Homer is very strong. He’s restaged her murder twice.”

  “Well, that’s one theory.” Coffey turned to his detectives. “I put Gary Zappata on the short list.”

  Mallory abandoned her role as the Laid-back Kid. Her fist came down on the arm of her chair. “What possible—”

  “Hold it.” The lieutenant put up one hand to silence her. “Did you know his father was a detective? Yeah, Zappata wanted to be one, too.” Coffey turned to Charles. “When this guy was a cop, he was real close to getting fired. That’s when our desk sergeant sold him on the idea of applying to the fire department. Sergeant Bell told the kid it was easy to make the fire marshal’s squad. Then he could carry a gun and play detective.”

  Riker nodded. This friendly gesture fitted so well with Bell’s philosophy: Always stay on good terms with a psycho cop.

  “The other night,” said Coffey, “our boy turns up on the scene of a murder and runs the damn show.”

  Mallory’s red fingernails drummed the arm of her chair. “So Zappata is hanging women—as a career move.”

  “Hear me out.” This was not a request. Coffey was ordering her to keep her mouth shut. “I can place him on two crime scenes. His face is in the crowd shots outside of Kennedy Harper’s place.”

  “So he’s got a police scanner in his car,” said Riker. “You know three people who don’t?”

  The lieutenant ignored this remark and spoke to his new consultant. “This man was voted most likely to come back here with a shotgun and blow away his ex-coworkers. Does that help you?” Coffey shuffled the papers on his desk until he found the report he wanted. “Zappata started his shift the minute Sparrow’s 911 call came in. The firehouse was two blocks from the scene. I’m surprised their Dalmatian didn’t suss out the smoke a lot faster.”

  “You figure he hung her, then ran two blocks to the firehouse to set up an alibi?”

  “Yeah, Mallory.” Coffey paused a beat, perhaps to remind her that sarcasm was insubordination. “The sloppy noose and a slow death bought him some time. But he did want her to die.” He turned back to Charles. “According to a report filed by Zappata’s own crew, he physically restrained another fireman when the guy tried to cut Sparrow down.”

  Riker faced his partner. “It’s got some merit.” And this, of course, was code for, Play nice, or he won’t consolidate the cases. And when was she planning to bring up Lieutenant Loman’s connection? That would get the boss’s attention real fast. He caught her eye and mouthed the name.

  Mallory shook her head, then turned to Coffey. “How would Zappata get details of a twenty-year-old murder?”

  “I think his old man told him,” said Coffey. “Look at all the details that don’t match up. He knew there were candles, but not how many. He knew there was a noose, but not what kind. This fits with third-hand information. Twenty years ago, Zappata’s father might’ve had connections to one of the crime-scene cops. We’re checking that now.”

  “There wasn’t any fire at Kennedy Harper’s apartment. If Zappata was—”

  “Maybe he was practicing, Mallory. Or maybe he knew that woman. Suppose he killed Sparrow to draw us off the—”

  “No,” said Mallory. “You want it to be Zappata. I don’t like that creep either, but there’s a problem with your theory. Sparrow could’ve taken him down with a dull kitchen knife.” She spoke with something close to pride in an old enemy. “Even without a weapon, that whore would’ve done a lot of damage. She was that good.”

  Riker could attest to that. Sparrow would have been damned hard to intimidate. Once, the hooker had survived a stabbing that should have been fatal. Fifteen years later, she was still proving impossible to kill. Against the best medical advice of her doctor, she had lived through another night.

  Jack Coffey was smiling at Mallory—always a bad sign. “So why didn’t Sparrow bone the perp like a fish? No answer? I’ll tell you why. He rushed her in the dark. The lightbulb over her door was unscrewed.”

  Riker stared at his shoes. He knew what was coming. He had forgotten to tell her—

  “One more thing,” said Coffey. “And you can thank your partner for this. He called CSU back to the scene to dust that bulb, and they found Zappata’s prints.”

  Riker glanced at Mallory. To the extent that she was capable of pity, that would best describe her smile and the slow shake of her head. “That’s good,” she said. “You found a fireman’s prints—at the scene of a fire.”

  Damn fine shot. Elegant, simple. All that remained was to have her name engraved on the winner’s cup. But Riker could see that Jack Coffey was not about to concede. The boss was smiling when he said, “All right, here’s my best deal. We keep the motive open—the suspect list too. But you and Riker stay on the Cold Case file.” He splayed his hands to say, See? I’m a fair man.

  The actress hangings, old and new, would remain with their assigned primaries and their separate lines of investigation. Riker knew that was not going to change. But Mallory had poisoned the lieutenant. All day long, it would worry Jack Coffey that she might be right, that the next kill would happen on his watch.

  While Mommy drank paper-cup tea with another mother, the child had been drawn away from her and toward the sound of flies round the other side of a garbage drum. He was quite impressed by the sight of them, a living, swarming blanket over something small yet wonderfully stinky at the center of a piece of wax paper. The grass of Tompkins Square tickled his bare knees as he knelt before the frenzy of insects and wondered what they were attacking. Might their prey still be alive and twitching? Hopeful, he prodded the fetid meat, using a common stick of the sort that is issued to all boys at their birth. He found the underlying flesh to be squishy but definitely dead,
impervious to pokes. Somewhat disappointed, he continued to watch the writhing mass of legs and wings and fat black bodies. The loud buzzing was really evil, quite delightful.

  The boy’s interest waned, and he wandered to a nearby bench and a man clad in jeans and a baseball cap. This figure was as rigid as any beast in a long parade of dead hamsters, songbirds and goldfish. He was as lifeless as the flesh beneath the flies, though not one winged thing dared approach him. The child solved this mystery as he drew closer to the bench and caught a whiff of insecticide on the man’s clothes. An open gray bag on the ground held a canister of the stuff Mommy used when she chased down lone bugs flying through the rooms of their apartment. The bag also contained a large glass jar half filled with dead, dry flies and a few that were still alive.

  A collector.

  Well, now the world made sense again as the boy connected the man to the foul-smelling meat and the swarm. An excellent solution—no need to chase the flies down.

  The man took no notice of the little boy, and this was odd behavior to a child who knew himself to be the center of the universe. The man never blinked, never moved. The boy’s eyes rounded as he watched intently for some sign of life. At the end of his attention span, perhaps half a minute, he pronounced his subject dead as a dead hamster. But just to be sure, and only in the spirit of scientific enquiry, he poked the dead man’s leg with his stick.

  The corpse turned its head, and the child screamed.

  Fast mother steps came up behind him, fleshy arms wound round his small body, lifted him and bore him away. As the boy bounced with his mother’s running gait, he looked over her soft shoulder to see the dead man don a pair of yellow rubber gloves. Now the man approached the mass of buzzing flies with his insecticide can and rained down clouds of aerosol poison on the swarm.

  The young actress had won a seat on the subway by beating another straphanger to a crack between two passengers on the plastic bench. She carved a wider niche with her squirming backside and settled in for the long ride home to the East Village.

  After inspecting her suit jacket for battle scars, she removed one long blond hair from the lapel. The pale blue linen matched her eyes, and it was the most expensive outfit she had ever owned. Perversely, she regarded the suit as her lucky charm, though it had failed her in one audition after another.

  In dire need of distraction from the sweaty press of flesh, she balanced a new packet of postcards on her knee and penned her weekly lies to the Abandoned Stellas. She borrowed a phrase from the rack of advertisements posted above the car’s windows. New York is a summer festival.

  A canvas bag hit her in the side of the head.

  “Hey!” she yelled, just like a real New Yorker. “Watch it!” She looked up to see the crotch of a man’s faded blue jeans a few inches from her face. He reeked of insecticide. She lowered her eyes to the postcard and wrote the words, I love this town.

  She wanted to go back home to Ohio.

  Last year, as the family’s first college graduate, she had qualified for the traditional entry-level job of all theater majors—serving fast food to the public. And this had come as a bitter surprise to the Abandoned Stellas, two generations of tired truck-stop waitresses, impregnated and deserted before the age of seventeen.

  Grandma, the original Stella, had cashed a savings bond to send the aspiring actress to New York City, a place with no roadside diners, and more money had followed every month. The second Stella, also known as Mom, still waited on tables and sent all the tips to her daughter, the only Stella ever to leave Ohio.

  The train’s air conditioner was not working, and Stella Small resented everyone around her for using up precious oxygen. She singled out the woman seated next to her for The Glare, a practiced stare that said, Die. The other woman, beyond intimidation, happily chomped a meaty sandwich that was still alive and moving of its own accord. Rings of onion and dollops of mayonnaise slithered from the greasy slices of bread and added a new odor to the stink of sweat and bug spray. Stella slipped the finished postcard into her purse and began to spin a new lie, this one for her agent. How would she explain losing a role to an idiot with no acting experience?

  The train was one stop away from Astor Place and home. The smelly sandwich eater got up, leaving a residue of tomato slices on the plastic seat. This prevented other passengers from sitting down, but Stella could not stand up against the press of new passengers, nor could she edge away from the scratching man seated next to her. Had she already contracted body lice? The flesh of her upper arm felt crawly, itchy. Her hand moved to her sleeve to scratch it, then touched something alive and twitching.

  Oh, shit!

  A fat black fly. And now a rain of flies fell down on her head in the numbers of a biblical plague. Incredibly, most of them were dead. Others still twitched, only sick and sluggish, crawling slowly across her lap—down her legs.

  Up her skirt! No!

  She jumped up from the bench, wildly slapping her hair and her clothes. Insects dropped to the floor around her shoes and crawled in all directions. Stella screamed and set off a chain reaction of squeals from other riders. People were trampling one another to get to the other end of the car. Dry fly carcasses crunched underfoot as she jumped up and down, trying to shake loose the bugs that were still alive and crawling up her pantyhose. Other riders joined the hysteria dance, feet stomping, hands waving, fingers flicking. One passenger accidentally dislodged a note taped to Stella’s back; it drifted to the floor as the train lurched to a stop, and all the doors opened. The small piece of paper and its message ran away, stuck to the bottom of another woman’s shoe.

  9

  Charles Butler stood at the center of the Special Crimes incident room, only glancing at the flanking walls, each one devoted to a hanged woman. Now the rear wall—that was fascinating. The halo of dead flies around the scarecrow’s baseball cap was definite proof of creativity. He turned to the detective beside him. “Seriously? Ronald Deluthe did this?”

  “Yeah.” Riker diddled the controls of a small cassette player. “I may wind up liking that kid.”

  Pssst.

  “Then why not stop treating him like a half-bright child?”

  “Okay, I’ll buy him a beer. That’s the highest honor I’m allowed to confer on a lame trainee.” Riker raised the volume of the cassette to play a few words spoken in an empty monotone. This was the voice of the scarecrow alone in a gray landscape, a monotonous plain with no rise of emotion, no depth of despair. The only relief in this flatline existence was the ambient sound.

  Pssst.

  Charles stared at the other walls papered with handwritten notes and typed reports, fax sheets and photographs. He could perceive no order in this work of many hands and minds. “Can we take the paperwork back to—”

  “No,” said Riker. “We can’t remove anything from this room. Can’t copy it, either. Coffey’s orders. So just read everything.”

  And now that Charles understood his role as a human Xerox machine, he walked along the south wall, committing the paperwork of Kennedy Harper’s murder to eidetic memory. Obviously all the autopsy information had been pinned up by Mallory. It was a small oasis of perfect alignment on an otherwise sloppy wall where neighboring papers hung straight only by accident.

  The detective walked alongside him, working the volume of the cassette player as they crossed over to the opposite wall. “Listen to this one more time.”

  Pssst.

  “Regular intervals,” said Riker. “We know it’s automated. Our techs think it might be a plant mister in a florist shop or a commercial greenhouse.”

  “I’d rule out a workplace,” said Charles. “If the scarecrow was worried about being interrupted, you’d hear that in his voice. But it’s level, isn’t it? Utterly flat.” He listened to another sentence fragment, then—Pssst. “There—a breath pause. The rhythm of his speech works around the ambient sound. It’s like punctuation. I’d say he’s been living with that noise for a very long time. It might come fro
m a machine related to health issues.” While Charles was speaking to Riker, in another compartment of his mind, he was absorbing the text of Edward Slope’s autopsy report on a living woman. “Doesn’t this coma patient have a last name?”

  “Sparrow,” said Riker. “That’s it.”

  Mallory was in the room, but Charles could not say just when she had arrived. Cats made more racket with soft padding paws. He sometimes wondered if this was her idea of fun, watching startled people jump—as Riker did when he noticed her strolling along the wall behind them. She showed little interest in the photo array of Sparrow’s nude body. Only one picture at the edge of the group attracted her, a close-up of a vicious wound on the victim’s side. The scar was an old one, a gross knot of flesh grown over a hole. Mallory closed her eyes, a small but telling gesture, and he read much into it. She had more in common with Sparrow than a paperback western retrieved from a crime scene.

  Mallory looked up to catch Charles staring at her. “What?”

  Pssst.

  “There’s something I’m curious about.” He stepped back to the group of photographs taken at the hospital. Edward Slope’s signature appeared on the last page of notes in Mallory’s rigid handwriting. He pointed to the picture of Sparrow’s scar framed by the gloved hands of the medical examiner. “Evidently, Edward spent some time exploring this wound, but you didn’t mention it in any of your notes.”

  “It’s old history,” she said. “Nothing to do with this case.”

  “So you know how it happened.”

  Pssst.

  Riker was suddenly leaving them with uncommon speed, moving to the other side of the room, and that was the only warning that Charles had trodden on some personal land mine.

  “It’s an old knife wound. Very old. A waste of time.” She ripped the photograph from the wall. “It shouldn’t even be here.”