by Ronnie Allen
“Where are you at now?”
“We have teams interviewing neighbors who called in the disturbance. We’ll get their supps before we leave here. Probably not till tomorrow. Hello overtime.”
“Who did you assign?”
“Martinson and Valore.”
“Great. Those reports are covered. What else?”
“Positions of the bodies haven’t been changed. They needed three crime scene techs per body. So we have twelve here now on the vics alone. It took them over an hour and a half to bring up all of the gear and tarps to set it up. The entire area is cross-contaminated from the blood of the vics and perp. The ME can’t tell yet where it all came from, or which were the fatal blows. The guys you see in the background in their PPEs are first doing visuals of the bodies. Those ALS bulbs sure are hot. It must be over ninety degrees in here.”
“Hey, that protective gear is a necessary evil. So no chemicals or fuming yet,” a crime scene tech chimed in.
“Nooo. No fuming. When that goes down, we’re outta here.”
The tech came into view. “No fuming for about another five hours, Detective Valantino. How ya doing, Doc?”
“Better than you guys.”
“Real mess here. Won’t finish for at least another twenty hours,” the tech responded.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously, Doc. This is a complicated one. More than most. I figure three to five hours per body to catch everything. The blood, hairs, fibers, transference, and did I forget to mention the blood? Yeah, at least. And that’s not including the fuming and app of powders. Then we got the rooms, photographs, markers. Yeah, maybe more than twenty. Figure you’ll have over nine hundred photos to profile, Doc. So you better enjoy the rest of your vaca.” He returned to the body of the mother behind him.
“Thanks a lot,” John said. “Okay. Here goes. Just dictating for the record. Crime scene techs are everywhere, taking a limitless number of photos and putting down markers. Number to be determined. Can’t see details. Too many people in room. Blood is everywhere, clouding up the boundaries between the murder victims and the furniture. Five hours ago. Nine a.m. They were such easy targets. Were they asleep?”
Sal zoomed in very close to adults. The ME moved out of the way so John could analyze the scene. “Thanks, Ikrahm. Two adults, one male, one female, in living room. Is that what I think it is, Sal?”
“Unfortunately, yes it is.”
“Wow. That’s a...ooh, what rage. Okay, male is castrated.”
“Now look at this.” Sal zoomed in close to mother.
“Oh, damn. Female has both breasts cut off. Both? Most kills like this are just one. Just to make a statement. Something about her maternal nature, or not. Had to be post mortem. Hal isn’t strong enough to hold them down to do this when they were alive. Okay, what statement is he trying to make? Whom does he want revenge on? Sal, just an idea off the cuff. But I won’t know for sure until I compile all the data. This might be a sexual revenge murder spree. Mother not maternal and didn’t protect kids. Find out if there was sexual abuse with the kids. Need rape kits on them.”
“Will do. The kids were just stabbed once each, John. They were two girls, eight and twelve. The adult vics were their parents. Same mother different father for the Martin kid.”
“Yes. I know that. Hal’s twenty-one now. When I started seeing him at fourteen, the youngest was one. The other, five. I didn’t suspect any abuse then, and it’s something I always look for, especially when an older sibling is institutionalized for schizophrenia. He could have killed the kids to prevent them from enduring future abuse. That’s happened before.”
“Then why kill the kids at all? He did the parents.”
“That’s part of his illness. He wouldn’t trust anyone to treat them differently, so they’d be better off dead in his mind. So do background checks on the parent’s friends and find out if there are known abusers among them. Where is he?”
Sal panned the camera to Hal, who was all bloodied and had a blank facial expression.
“Is he talking?”
“Not a word. Just staring at all the blood splatter as if he’s amazed at the designs they make. Almost as if they’re one of those psych tests you give.”
“Yeah. The Rorschach. He looks catatonic or he’s pretending to be. Need me to come back?”
“No. We have him. Monday is early enough. We’re goin’ to need the six days to compile any data for you so you’ll have a skeletal report. If he was on his meds, would he do this?”
“Trick question. Can’t tell. He could have been planning to do this for a long time and the meds made him stable enough to carry through. Or the meds, with the drugs induced the psychosis, or he stopped taking the meds and substituted drugs. Won’t venture to make a guess, but the blood tests don’t lie.”
“What do you need?”
“Incarcerate him at Manhattan Psych. Get me tox screens, MRI, CAT, PET. You know what? Just tell them I’m requesting the full range of tests and blood work. They’ll know what I need. From looking at him, I would guess chemically induced psychosis. The last time I saw him he was using. And I need to know if he’s still on his meds. I’ll give him a thorough workup on Tuesday. And if it is drugs, see what detoxing they can do by then. I need specifics. Time is crucial. They know the drill.”
The three ladies from the pool the other day passed with their noodles, behind John’s back. They caught a glimpse of the computer screen and started screaming. John and Sal got scared out of their wits. John jumped up out of the chair with an exaggerated startle response. He was winded from jumping up. His heart fluttered.
“What the hell are those things?” Sal couldn’t believe his eyes. Tony heard the commotion and joined him.
“Noodles,” John said.
“What the hell are noodles?”
“Hi, Tony. Exercise and float things for the pool.”
“Where are you?”
“At the pool.”
The women screamed at John. “You’re a sicko, looking at those disgusting pictures!”
They slammed him on his torso and legs with the noodles, making whopping sounds. One woman after the other slammed him. He stood and tried to grab the three neon-colored noodles from the women. Sal and Tony watched them, laughing.
“Hey, knock it off, I’m working here,” John bellowed.
Mark ran to the rescue and intervened between John and the women, who were still on the attack. “Stop it.” He looked at the gruesome scene. “You okay, Dr. Trenton?”
“Thanks, Commander Marin.”
“It’s not your business. Go,” Mark said to the women. They departed, giving Mark and John distasteful looks. “Go. Now. Whoa. That’s what you deal with every day?”
“Not every day. But when it’s bad, it’s bad. Sal, Tony, this is Commander Mark Marin. Detectives Tony Mandella and Sal Valantino.”
“Detectives.”
“Commander, infantry?” Tony asked.
“No, SWAT,” Mark corrected.
“Totally different down here, Tony,” John said.
Amanda dashed over and snuck a peak. “Ooh, a crime scene.”
Sal shut the scene off fast.
“Daddy looks at those on the computer, too.”
“This is Amanda.”
“Hi Amanda,” Tony and Sal both said in unison.
“We’ll let you guys work,” Mark said. “Come on, Amanda.”
“In a minute, Daddy.” She turned her attention to Sal and Tony on the computer, “You know what?”
“What?”
“Dr. John is going to marry my Aunt Vicki.”
Tony was shocked. “Did you just say marry?”
“Yes. And he was working with Daddy and Grandpa and he almost got shot. And he’s supposed to be on vacation.”
“Did you just say shot? No wonder you look the way you do,” Sal said.
“Yeah, with a rifle.”
“I’ll tell them about it later. Go back to your mommy.�
��
“But you’re supposed to be on vacation.”
“Amanda, now.” She unwittingly received the look.
“What’s that?” She tried to imitate him, crinkling her nose and squinting her eyes so her blonde eyebrows furrowed. She caught the look again. “That won’t work on me.” After a harsher stare from John, she sighed. “All right, already. I’ll go back in the pool.” She sauntered off, frowning. “You’re supposed to be on vacation.”
Tony hiked his eyebrows. “You almost got shot and you’re getting married? John the player?”
“I told you, rough couple of days.”
“What were you doing with SWAT?” Sal asked.
“Who’s the woman?” Tony geared up for an interrogation. “What’s with almost getting shot?”
Bombarded with questions he didn’t want to answer, John snapped, “Enough, guys! All right. Yes. This might be the one. But let’s focus on this for now. Access Hal’s teen files and have everything compiled for me. Send me the crime scene photos and I’ll see what I can put together over the next couple of days.”
“Why don’t you just get some sleep?” Sal asked.
“Haven’t had too much of that, either.”
CHAPTER 37
Present Day:
Apollo, Barbara’s hairstyling magician, spun her around in the chair to face the mirror in Artisans, an upscale salon on Ninety-Third Street in Central Park West’s Historic District.
In Manhattan’s high-class salons, stylists retained nicknames so they were unique. There were thousands of Tommy’s, but when he chose Apollo twenty years ago, he was the first. Now it was on the list of “tag names already in use.” Known throughout Manhattan, Apollo was the best with short cuts. He was a mid-forties straight guy wearing large black framed Gucci glasses as his signature, who was at the top of his game. All of the elite in New York had sat in his chair and Barbara only frequented the best. She had been going to Apollo, well, since she became Barbara. New life. New stylist. He was probably one of the few tattoo free stylists in New York City. In this upper crust area, patrons demanded a professional attitude rather than a laid back one, a sophisticated atmosphere, rather than artsy. Exactly what Barbara wanted.
For a Saturday morning, though it was early at seven a.m., the salon bustled with middle-aged women bedecked with diamonds. However, Barbara didn’t wear hers today. She looked like an out of place plain Jane in worn jeans and a plain white T-shirt.
“There ya go, gorgeous.” New short cut, and back to the color you were born with.”
“Thanks, Apollo, it’s great.” She admired her new chin-length, warm-brown doo with bangs.
“I still like ya better as a blonde, gorgeous. But it’s your head.”
“I think I do too, Apollo, but I desperately needed a new look. See you soon, sweetie.”
“Don’t forget. A trim every four weeks.”
***
After Mrs. Bennett had given John the approximate address, it didn’t take the team too long to find the exact building. With the warrant, the superintendent had no recourse but to allow John in. Good thing they had a judge who would sign it early on a Saturday.
He searched around for any disturbance around the door and, finding none, he let himself in. He put on gloves and entered the kitchen. The style wasn’t one John could label. The antiquated space, with painted charcoal gray cabinets and gray marbleized Formica countertops, was probably the original when the building went co-op in the 1960s. The walls in the kitchen loosely held panels in a laminate gray wood design that had yellowed from years of grease stains.
All she’d need is a little elbow grease or a great cleaning lady. This is Barbara’s apartment? The same one with the $2100 bag and 1500-bucks boots? Doesn’t make sense.
The only thing that caught his eye was the 1920s Anderson stove with four burners, a griddle on the left side over the broiler, and the huge chef’s oven. He opened the door under the broiler and discovered a warming compartment with three metal buckets with snap on lids that were triangular and formed a circle when inserted into place. He tugged one out.
Wow, a real Anderson! These were the best stoves ever made. What I would give for one of these for Vicki.
He opened the door. Clean inside. It didn’t look used. He tried the gas burners. They all worked. One burner emitted a popping sound and he snapped back to reality, letting go of the nostalgia.
He opened the old cabinets and located one aluminum pot and one cheap pan. Upon opening another, he discovered two paper plates, a few plastic forks and spoons, and bag of white napkins.
“She can afford a place in the city but she can’t afford a set of dishes?” He opened the refrigerator and it was empty. “I wouldn’t want to be her dinner guest. Mrs. Bennett said she stayed here on weekends so she didn’t have to make the commute into the city. This place isn’t lived in. And there’s no evidence she was here recently. She didn’t come back here last night.”
He stopped at the linen closet in the hall. Inside, he retrieved one towel and one queen size set of one-hundred-thread-count sheets crumpled and thrown in. He grimaced at the poor quality. “No, absolutely not. Then where did she go? Not her Brooklyn apartment. Not the clinic. Barbara, where did you go? Bet she has another Manhattan apartment that no one else knows about.”
In the bedroom, he quickly opened all of the drawers. In one drawer, he uncovered erotic paraphernalia--dildos, chains, whips, handcuffs, and a negligee. The black lace negligee sent his mind to his precious wife.
He called but it went to voicemail. “Vicki, please call me. I miss you so much, babe. I swear I’ll change, Vicki. I realize I smothered you. I realize I wouldn’t let you breathe and that it had to be my way. I even started therapy, Vicki. You wanted me to go. Right? Please, babe, give me another chance. You’ll see it’ll be different. I want a baby, too, Vicki. I was just so upset you left. Vicki, I love you.”
***
Clancy’s mood had changed. He sported new clothing, thanks to Barbara, and he enjoyed being clean-shaven. He put blocks of cash wrapped in tin foil into the freezer, compiling fifty hundreds into each stack, totaling one hundred grand. The doorbell rang and he answered it whistling. “Come in, my love.”
Barbara strolled in, in tight designer jeans, with embroidered floral arrangements in greens, yellow, and pinks up both legs, and a yellow knit T-shirt.
They kissed passionately. He meant it.
“I see you got my present. A very well-earned present, I might add.”
“Late, but still very much appreciated.”
“Yeah, well. I got tied up.”
“What did you do to your gorgeous hair?”
“Don’t like it? I think it’s cute.”
I would never use cute as an adjective to describe you. I’d be signing my death warrant. He smiled, while thinking how to respond. “It looks great.”
“Thought so. Got another job for you, angel.” She ushered him into the bedroom area, kissing all the way.
“Same bloke?” They collapsed onto his unmade bed.
“Yeah.”
“What’s with you and Reynolds? Aside from his money, that is.” He lay on top of her, both of them still clothed.
“If he cracks up, he’s more vulnerable, angel. Besides I have a strong distaste for publishing companies.”
“Is that all? You’re more screwed up than me.”
“And don’t you forget it. I can kill.”
“Oh, yeah? I prefer cutlery.”
“I prefer bullets,” she one-upped him.
He rolled on his back, laughing. “Oh, yeah? When we met, who knew we’d have such a prosperous relationship? And I thought you were nothing but a brasser.”
“A hooker? Sweet little me? Never, angel. I’m a Gemini. We can multi-task. Aren’t you glad I rejected you the way I did? Even if I did lose a few days of my life. You really had my neighbors thinking I was going crazy.”
“Sure did spark my creative flow.”
“Wake up. You were an easy mark. You wanted money and I needed a partner.”
“You know what I love about you?”
“What, angel?”
“You didn’t freak out at the holograms like Reynolds did.”
“Are you kidding? That kind of stuff turns me on. The more bizarre the better. And I have another one I need you to create. One with me and that miserable shrink, Trenton.”
He smiled. “Done, I have an idea already. But what about your apartment? It’s a crime scene now.”
“It’s all for the cause, angel.”
“Cause?”
“You have to take risks to make money. Even if you have to sacrifice by getting a real job. And it’s time you did, too.”
“Pardon me?”
“We’ve only just begun with Morgan Reynolds. Wait until you start working for him.”
“What are you getting me into now?”
“Honey, I learned very early in life what is real and what isn’t. The only things that are real are money and revenge.”
***
Sal, Tony, and six crime scene techs inspected different areas in Barbara’s Brooklyn clinic. Wind blew in from the open window in the seating area, that faced the avenue.
Sal closed it, shivering. “She was here, probably after she left the hospital. Wanted to air it out. Guess she knew we would be here. This place gives me the creeps. I wouldn’t want to bring my daughter here for therapy if she needed it,” he said.
“Why do you say that?”
“Look around, Tony. There’s nothin’ here to welcome an adolescent. No paintings, no teen mags, no display racks with brochures for parents. All doctors have that stuff now. Resources in a shrink’s office should be visible. There’s absolutely nothin’ here. Hell, no. Barren walls with chipped gray paint. Reminds me of the precinct.”
Tony walked around, looking at the legs of the chairs. “Take a look at this.” He moved a worn armchair. “These indentations are too shallow. Watch.” He sat in the chair and then checked the carpet. Much deeper. He lifted the chairs. “No one has ever sat in these chairs. I bet this clinic is a--front,” they both said in unison.