Crime School

by Carol O’Connell

  ‘I’d be guessin’.’ The prostitute’s hand closed over the money. ‘Only guessin’ – hear me? Sparrow might’ve mentioned Frankie D. You remember that twisted little bastard?’

  Riker nodded. Frankie Delight had been that rare drug dealer who was not strictly cash-and-carry. ‘So Sparrow was trading skin for drugs?’

  ‘No, she’d never do that freak for a fix. I don’t care how bad she was hurtin’. No, darlin’, she was tradin’ brand-new VCRs. Still in the cartons. One of Tall Sally’s jobs went wrong and – ’

  ‘I know that story,’ said Riker. And ten-year-old Kathy Mallory would have been on the stealing end of that arrangement.

  The great VCR heist.

  He remembered the report from Robbery Division. A patrolman’s log had mentioned sighting suspicious persons in the vicinity of the crime, among them a little blond girl with green eyes. Lou Markowitz had read him the details, then said, in a tone between awe and pride, ‘The kid robbed a damn truck.’

  Daisy nudged Riker’s arm to call him back to the world, asking, ‘Whatever happened to Frankie?’

  Riker had never been certain until now. ‘I heard he left town.’ One could say that the dead were way out of town. ‘So, Daisy, what’s Sparrow been up to? You guys keep in touch?’ He doubted that this whore read the papers, and her television set would have been pawned long ago to buy drugs.

  ‘No, we don’t talk no more.’ She stared at the bottom of her glass. ‘Not for a long time. But I did hear a rumor today. Some bitch told me that Sparrow was the hooker who got herself strung up last night. Well, I knew that wasn’t true. My Sparrow got clean – kicked them drugs. And she stopped liftin’ her skirt for a livin’. That was years ago, darlin’. Years ago.’

  He gave her another ten dollars. She snatched it from his hand, then climbed down from her bar stool and backed up all the way to the door, eyes trained on Peg Baily. Daisy whirled around and fled, rather than risk an injury by staying a second too long.

  Riker ambled toward the end of the bar, where his partner waited, attracting stares from every man in the room. He sat down beside her. ‘Well, that was a waste of time. We’re not gonna find a stalker with hookers. Sparrow got out of the life years ago.’

  Mallory the unbeliever shook her head. She would not seriously consider any good thing said about Sparrow.

  Once a whore, always a whore?

  ‘How did it go with the theater group?’

  ‘That was a dead end,’ said Mallory. ‘Sparrow was a last-minute substitute in the play. None of those people met her before the rehearsal. And that was the day she was hung.’

  ‘Well, somebody got her that job. We might find a tie between Sparrow and Kennedy Harper.’

  ‘No, Riker. This wasn’t a Broadway production. She answered an ad posted on a supermarket bulletin board. The director gave her the part because she showed up in costume and knew all the lines.’

  Riker tried to imagine Sparrow memorizing Chekhov. He drained his shot glass and laid his money on the bar. ‘So what’s next? Morgue time?’

  ‘No, Slope’s working on a fresher corpse right now.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Riker. ‘A local cop, Waller, looked over your videotape. He gave Janos a name and address for the man in the T-shirt and jeans. You know that big church on Avenue B?’

  ‘A priest?’

  ‘You got it.’ Riker stared at his empty glass, turning it over in his hands. ‘If you want off this case, I can work it alone.’

  ‘No.’ She gathered up her car keys, then left an obscene tip on the bar. ‘I’ll see it through.’

  The East Village park was full of music, rock and rap, Hispanic and soul. It poured out of radios and CD players. Some youngsters sported earphones, and Riker had to guess their songs by the cadence of their struts, their bounces and glides.

  At the heart of Tompkins Square was a stellar memory of the night his father had thrown him out of the house – an elegant solution to the problem of a teenager’s dissident music. Young Riker had waged a showdown in the old band shell, the spot claimed by another boy, whose music had been a self-portrait, cool and dark, a jazz riff played on a clarinet. Riker had shot back a volley of rock ‘n’ roll, louder and longer. And they had dueled awhile before laying down their instruments.

  After a bloody fight, each boy had won his cuts and bruises. And after too many beers, they had ended the night blind drunk, arms wrapped round each other for support, one musically discordant creature in a four-legged stagger walk.

  How he had loved those days.

  Startled pigeons flew up in the wake of a passing boom box. Riker put out his cigarette and returned to the church, where he discovered that Mallory’s plan to torture a priest had somehow gone awry.

  The church was no cathedral, but it held all the trappings of stained-glass windows, a giant crucifix and rows of votive candles blazing at the feet of plaster saints.

  Mallory had laid out twenty dollars for a disposable camera just to rattle the priest, and the man’s laughter was a disappointment. He liked the idea of taking part in a photo lineup of murder suspects. ‘No, don’t smile, Father,’ she said. ‘So Sparrow belonged to your parish?’

  ‘Now how did you manage to make that sound like a guilty thing?’

  Father Rose was having entirely too much fun sparring with her in this novel departure from a priest’s workday. She doubted that he would make her short list for a double hanging. She glanced at Riker, who sprawled in the front pew, waiting to play his role of the easygoing policeman, everybody’s friend.

  Mallory lowered the camera so the priest could see her slow grin. She had a repertoire of smiles, and this one made people nervous. ‘A witness can place you at the crime scene last night.’

  ‘Yes, there was quite a crowd – even before the fire engine showed up.’ The priest turned to the side. ‘Want a profile?’ He froze in position, waiting for the flash. ‘Your witness is an old woman. Am I right? Very thick glasses? She was sitting in the window across the street, watching the whole show, and – ’

  ‘A show? Is that how you saw it, Father?’ She shot him again. ‘Why were you at the crime scene? Forget something?’

  ‘So I am a. suspect.’ He seemed almost flattered.

  ‘You were out of uniform last night.’

  ‘I leave the collar home when I work at the neighborhood clinic. I donate my time three nights a week. Mostly bandaging cuts, dispensing aspirins – that kind of thing.’

  She looked up from the camera so he would have no trouble reading distrust in her eyes. ‘I want names. Who can vouch for your time – say an hour before the fire?’

  ‘The nurse who runs the clinic. We were leaving together when we heard the fire engines. Is this – ’

  ‘When did you talk to Sparrow last?’

  ‘Sunday, but I didn’t – ’

  ‘Did she mention any enemies? Somebody out to get her?’

  The priest shook his head.

  ‘No? You don’t know or you won’t say? Want to lawyer up, Father? You have the right to an attorney during – ’

  ‘That’s enough, Mallory.’ Riker rose from the pew, acting the part of an annoyed superior. ‘Go check out his story.’

  She walked down the altar steps, passing her partner as he climbed upward in dead silence. Riker was already departing from the script. There was nothing amiable in his face as he squared off in front of the priest. Mallory stayed to watch.

  ‘I know you tried to get access to that crime scene,’ said Riker. ‘My witness is no old lady. He’s a big hairy fireman.’

  ‘Yes, he must be the one who told me Sparrow was dead. Well, she’s Catholic. She was entitled to last rites.’

  ‘The fireman said you knew her name before the cops identified her. You knew that was her apartment. So you’ve got what – two hundred people in your parish?’

  Father Rose wore a slightly pained expression. He understood that this was a test. ‘I recognized her face when – ’

>   ‘So you had a good view of the show, right? Front row – close to the window. Notice anything unusual?’

  ‘The hair jammed in her mouth?’ The priest was rallying, almost smug. ‘No, too obvious. That made headlines, didn’t it?’ He folded his arms. ‘You must mean the candles. I don’t recall any mention of them in the newspaper.’ Father Rose waved to a nearby alcove that housed a plaster saint and a few small flames burning among tiers of candles. ‘Like those. Yes, I saw them in the water.’ His smile was wider now. ‘But Sparrow’s were red. Mine are white.’

  So Father Rose had failed to notice a thousand dead flies spread on the water. At least one crime-scene detail was secure.

  The priest was smiling, triumphant.

  ‘Having fun, Father?’ Riker moved closer, forcing the other man to back step. ‘Sparrow is a friend of mine, and I’m not enjoying this much. So do me a favor and stop grinning at me.’

  Father Rose’s head snapped back, as if the detective had sucker-punched him – and he had. Riker backed off a few paces to reward the priest’s more somber attitude. ‘Maybe we have a religious connection. How would you explain all those candles?’

  ‘Well, they weren’t for ambience.’ And lest Riker take this for humor, the priest hurried the rest of his words. ‘All the lights were on in Sparrow’s apartment before the firemen broke the – ’

  ‘Why do you light candles?’

  ‘Ritual.’ The man was not so sure of himself anymore. ‘Burnt offerings. A light in the darkness. Hope?’ This last word waned to a whisper as he watched the detective descend the stairs.

  Riker’s back was turned to the priest when he asked, ‘Did you know Sparrow was a prostitute?’

  Mallory watched the priest’s stunned reaction. He opened and closed his mouth like an air-drowned fish. And she knew he could tell them nothing more, not even if he violated every secret of the confessional. Sparrow had never confided in him. The two detectives walked down the wide center aisle, then paused at the sound of running footsteps.

  The priest called out, ‘Wait!’ He hurried from statue to statue, lighting all the wicks. ‘Just another minute. Please.’ He lit every candle on the altar as well. ‘I’m sorry.’ The priest walked toward Riker. ‘So sorry. Sparrow is a special person to me.’ His face showed deep contrition. ‘She has a good heart – better than most. She’s better than she knows.’

  Riker nodded and cracked a smile, raising his opinion of this man who could admire a whore.

  ‘And I was wrong about the ambience,’ said the priest. ‘Maybe that 15 your angle. Candles make for great theater – even when all the electricity is turned on. Look around you.’

  Candles flickered beneath the crucifix. The man on the cross writhed in an illusion of lights. And all along the wall, flames beneath the other figures created animation, action – actors.

  ‘Thank you, Father.’ And Mallory meant that. His idea was worth consideration, but from a different angle. What if religious candles had the same significance as a jar of dead flies?

  CHAPTER 7

  Autopsy – autopsia - seeing with one’s eyes.

  When Mallory was a child, she had learned her essential Latin from Chief Medical Examiner Edward Slope.

  A refrigerator and sinks gave the doctor’s dissection room the character of a large kitchen. Long tables were laid with tools for slicing and dicing meat. A small metal platform the size of a butcher block held intestines in a shallow tray, and another body part lay in the bed of a hanging scale. Dr Slope called out the weight, then switched off his recorder. ‘Hello, Kathy.’

  ‘Mallory,’ she said, correcting him as she always did. She approached the steel table and looked down at the gutted remains of a woman her own age. A wide red cavity ran from the breast bone to a mound of blond pubic hair, and the smell of chlorine mingled with the reek of meat gone bad.

  Hoc es corpus. This is the body.

  Today she had missed these words that began every autopsy, but now she watched the process in reverse. A few organs had been set aside. The parts that would be buried with Kennedy Harper were being returned to her hollowed-out corpse. Mallory leaned down for a closer examination of small holes in the cadaver’s flesh. ‘What’s this? It looks like a shotgun splatter.’

  ‘That’s from the maggots exiting the dried-out skin.’ He picked up his magnifying glass and held it on the area above the collar bone. ‘You see? The rims of the holes are turned out.’ One bloody, gloved hand pointed to ravaged skin at the cadaver’s throat. ‘Now this is more interesting. The rope did lots of damage here, but the killer wasn’t responsible for it.’ He watched her face and waited for the student to ask the master, Why not?

  If she encouraged him in this old game, it would take forever to glean a few simple facts. The doctor was determined to continue her education, and he was too fond of long lessons. So she waited him out, arms folded, blinking only once before he gave in.

  ‘The damage was self-inflicted.’ He turned his eyes down to the work of coiling the large intestine. ‘This woman was very cool under pressure.’

  That sounded like another contradiction, but she recognized an old logic trap. No, I’m not going to ask.

  As Dr Slope finished stitching skin to close the gaping wound, he shifted his tactics, offering Mallory a bizarre piece of candy. ‘You’ll never attend another autopsy like this one.’ And with this hook, he led her over to the steel counter by the refrigerator, where he wadded his bloody surgeon’s gown and tossed it into a barrel with his gloves.

  ‘I’ve seen a lot of hanging victims, mostly suicides, but nothing like this.’ He sorted through a group of photographs. ‘Normally, I find a ligature mark at the back of the neck where the knot is.’ He selected a picture of the victim’s face, taken when the rope was still caught between her teeth. ‘But this woman was facing the knot. Now I never expect a classic hangman’s noose. It’s usually a slip knot.’

  ‘I know.’ She kept her sarcasm to one syllable, a subtle reminder that she had been present when the noose was removed. ‘This one was a double knot. Heller already – ’

  ‘And it didn’t close off the carotid artery. So Miss Harper didn’t black out or succumb to euphoria.’

  ‘Transient cerebral hypoxia,’ said Mallory.

  ‘You do pay attention.’ Dr Slope graced her with a half smile as he unfolded a diagram of the crime scene. ‘Heller assisted on this part. We choreographed the last minutes of her life like a ballet.’ The doctor pointed to the roughly sketched countertop by the kitchen sink. ‘This is where Heller’s forensic team found footprints and partials. Note the distance to the ceiling light.’ His finger moved across the paper to a drawn circle. ‘That’s where she was left hanging, playing dead.’ He looked up at Mallory. ‘Miss Harper was still alive when the killer left the scene. First, she kicked off her sandals. We found them under the body. When she raised her leg, she could just barely reach the counter with one toe. So she pushed off to make her body swing away and back again.’

  The doctor laid out photographs of the Formica surface covered with Heller’s black dust. One close-up showed a partial footprint layered over the mark of a toe. ‘Here you’ve got more of the foot,’ said Slope. ‘Her body swings in a wider arc each time she pushes off. Finally, she lands both feet on the countertop. Now her weight is supported at two points – feet on the counter, neck in the noose. See here?’ He pointed to a shot of two full footprints on the Formica beside the sink. ‘Both soles are flat. Now she has the leverage to rotate her body until she’s facing the knot. That gives her an inch of air between her throat and the noose. She worked her chin under the rope. That’s when it snagged on the upper teeth. I can’t tell you how long she hung there.’

  Patiently waiting for the cavalry to come and rescue her – just like Sparrow.

  ‘She couldn’t dislodge the rope or the hair in her mouth,’ said Slope. ‘She could’ve screamed – but no intelligible sounds.’

  The neighbors didn’t come. The c
ops didn’t come.

  Dr Slope pushed the photographs aside. ‘I can tell you she died six days ago, but the cause of death wasn’t asphyxiation. It was heart failure.’ He picked up a pharmacy bottle bagged and tagged as crime-scene evidence. ‘I called the prescribing cardiologist. Miss Harper had a congenital heart defect – inoperable. All her life, she’s been living with a time bomb in her chest.’

  ‘Good practice for a hanging,’ said Mallory.

  ‘It does explain a lot, doesn’t it? Twisting on the end of a rope, but no panic. And she nearly escaped.’

  Mallory thought of the day this woman had walked into a police station with a bloody note staked to her neck. The hanging scenario worked well with that kind of poise. But now she had two victims who were accomplished at playing dead while their hearts were beating a million times a minute. What were the odds against that? She turned to the medical examiner and smiled.

  You wouldn’t hold out on me, would you?

  The doctor would never volunteer what he could not swear to in court and back up with evidence, but if he thought this was the end of the autopsy, he was dead wrong. She glanced back at the dissected woman on the other side of the room. There was cutting and there was cutting. ‘So I’ve got a perp who can’t tell the living from the dead. That’s it? That’s all you can tell me? The hangman’s just another screw-up who can’t find a pulse?’

  Dr Slope hesitated for a moment. He had always fancied himself a great poker player, born with a face of stone that gave up nothing in his hand. Yet Louis Markowitz had beaten him in every bluff, and everything that cop knew about poker and Slope he had passed along to his foster child. Even if she could not read the doctor’s face, she knew what he was thinking: she was an ungrateful brat, and he was going to put her in her place.

  The man’s voice was testy, but still in the lecture mode. ‘You assume he believed his victim was dead. Well, J don’t. After he strung her up, she was getting oxygen, but not enough to keep her conscious for long. So I know the killer left the scene immediately. Otherwise, there wouldn’t have been time enough or strength enough for Kennedy’s aerial ballet. He didn’t stay to watch her die.’