Forbidden Birth

by William Rubin

  Horrific murders were nothing new to Kennedy and I, but seeing this young woman cut down in what should have been the prime of her life, hit me hard. I cocked my head to one side and stared at my partner, my face a mix of anger and disgust. Kennedy sensed my rage. It pounded against my light-green irises and percolated through my pinpoint, dark pupils.

  “Sick fuck,” I said with anger.

  “I’ll say. Looks just like the other two vics.”

  I raised my shoulders and shook my head. “What else do we know besides her name?” I growled.

  “She’s been dead about twelve hours, give or take. Moved here about a year ago from the Midwest. She’s been trying to make it as a legit dancer but failing miserably. Turned to stripping to pay the bills,” Kennedy said before pausing for a split second. “Pretty typical story except for one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Our little lady’s been cashing in her fifteen minutes of fame the last few days courtesy of the The Daily.”

  “What are you talking about, Kev? I’ve been out of circulation the last couple of days, remember?”

  “Yeah, right. Let me fill you in. April’s been front and center on account of a double-dip attack a few Saturdays back. We’re hazy on details, but it seems she was kidnapped from work, attacked and tortured, then dumped in the 4-8’s turf to fend for herself. A couple of street dealers were starting to picnic on her when our boys in blue broke up the party,” Kennedy said with amusement.

  “No shit. So what did the 4-8 find out?”

  “That’s the strange part. Our double attackee clammed up. Signed out AMA from St. Barnabas before getting a bad case of amnesia at the precinct. The officers on duty swear she was hiding something, but they couldn’t pry it loose. The Daily ran a follow-up story after sniffing around the Golden Garter…and here we are.”

  “Body number three.”

  “Looks like it, but it seems a bit more personal this time.”

  “All I know is it’s up to us to clean up this mess as fast as we can, before someone else is killed.”

  Chapter 25

  Kennedy, Doctor Audrey McGowan, and I stood around the stainless steel vat that held April Cassidy’s body. Eighteen hours had passed since Kennedy and I were at the latest murder scene. Since then Doctor McGowan had done a head-to-toe on April, and Kev and I outlined our plan of attack regarding the investigations. We broke for a few hours of sleep, showered, and met here at the ME’s autopsy room. I sipped some decaf cappuccino, while Kennedy took notes and Doctor McGowan filled us in on the details.

  “Despite the butchery, our killer was careful. There were no prints whatsoever and just trace amounts of DNA in the form of saliva along the victim’s neck,” Doctor McGowan stated matter-of-factly.

  She continued, “The DNA is just a tease. We know it’s not the victim’s, but it is of insufficient quantity and quality to make a positive identification. The DNA sample is just about destroyed. It appears that after licking our victim’s neck the killer chemically treated the area, perhaps with an alcohol based substance, to cover his or her tracks.”

  “A careful crime of passion doesn’t quite add up, huh, doc?” Kennedy said without looking up from the notes he was taking.

  “No it doesn’t. What we have here, though, is a well-crafted execution made to look like a sloppy butchering,” McGowan replied.

  “How can you be sure, Doctor McGowan?” I interjected. “And why would someone who’s so careful go through the effort of making it appear like a passion killing?”

  “Perhaps, as with the other two victims, the killer mutilated her to cover his tracks. He may have wanted the wounds to suggest a different mechanism of death or that someone else killed her. But the cover up and misdirection are imperfect.”

  “How so?” I replied as Kennedy continued his intense note taking.

  “There was not enough blood loss at the scene to account for these wounds as the cause of death, and it is obvious April was not moved at any point during or after the attack. These wounds occurred peri-mortem and post-mortem. The victim was killed in some other manner, not from her extensive abdominal wounds.”

  Kennedy stopped writing and looked up at McGowan. I was silent for a moment, hoping for a tie in to our earlier cases. “Well how did she die then?”

  “I’m still working on that, Detective. As you suspected, our second victim had something injected into her left jugular vein just before she died.” McGowan pointed to our third victim’s neck. “April too was injected with an unknown substance just prior to her death. We’re waiting for the tox screen to come back, which may give us the answer. As with the other victims, April was pregnant.

  “No surprise there,” I replied.

  “Her serum β HCG levels indicate she was fourteen weeks pregnant. But there was no sign of a baby on her examination…April’s uterus and unborn baby were removed, just like the other two. The killer may have been motivated by a desire to take the baby, though I am at a loss to say why,” McGowan said, the furrow in her brow deepening. “The peculiarities in these cases confirm my initial thoughts that these are somehow medically based homicides.”

  “Let me get this straight, Doctor McGowan. Just like in the other cases, the killer ended April’s life in some yet undetermined fashion, sliced her up on the outside to give the appearance he is a madman, and then took care in removing April’s uterus, placenta, and baby. Is there any way the baby could have still been alive at that point?”

  “Since some of the wounds were peri-mortem, it’s possible. But without sophisticated life support systems at hand, it would be impossible to keep the baby alive for any length of time. Most likely baby and mother died within a few minutes of each other.”

  “Presumably the killer would know that was gonna happen, doc. Why not just slice the kid up like he did the mother?” Kennedy pointed out. “You think April’s murder could have been done to cover up the abortion?”

  “Perhaps, Detective Kennedy. That might explain why the uterus and baby were removed. The killer may have hoped the pregnancy would go undetected.”

  “But the killer must have known a missing uterus would be obvious on an autopsy,” I said.

  “Unless the carve up job was meant to throw us off, make us think her innards were sliced up the same way, and maybe we shouldn’t be surprised to not find the uterus—or anything else—in one piece,” Kennedy pointed out.

  “Perhaps,” McGowan said, unconvinced, her gloved hands resting on April’s upper arm.

  “So, let me see if I’m following you. We’ve got an intelligent and skilled killer posing as a novice. The killer was smart enough to render the DNA useless, kill all three women in a manner we have yet to detect, and divert our attention with the mutilation.” I blew steam from my cappuccino, took a long sip, and continued, “Yet, he was also dumb enough to remove a dead or dying baby and think we wouldn’t notice that. Is that about right? Anything I’m missing?” I replied with a mixture of bewilderment and agitation.

  “There was no evidence pointing to the sex of the killer.”

  “I see…so what you’re telling me is we have a very dangerous male or female serial killer who masquerades as a slasher and whose motives and means of killing are a mystery to us.”

  “Yes, that’s right, Detective Ravello,” McGowan said without emotion as she stared first at me and then at Kennedy, who had halted his note taking all together at this point. I turned to Kennedy. “Kev, you got any aspirin? I’ve got a splitting headache and a bad feeling it’s just going to get worse.”

  Chapter 26

  “Johnny, Tony wants to see you right away. He sent a car and it’s waiting for you. Move it,” Lou Ringo yelled to Briganti, who was mindlessly watching the door at the Golden Garter while squeezing rubber balls in his hands to strengthen his forearms.

  “Okay, relax. Who’s got the door?” Briganti replied.

  “Let me worry about that. Just get in the car,” Ringo said, jerking his head
and thumb towards the black Lincoln Town Car waiting outside.

  Briganti didn’t like the urgency of his meeting with Tony. But seeing no alternative, he straightened out his black sports jacket, slipped the rubber balls in the pockets, and climbed into the car.

  Briganti rode along in silence after several attempts at conversation with Paulie and Vince—a couple other of Tony’s thugs—ended in one-word replies. He stared out the window as they rode north on the Bronx River Parkway. In a few more minutes he would learn his fate.

  The car pulled up to Mugz’s bar, a little hole in the wall on Arthur Avenue, just south of 189th Street. A mob-owned joint used to launder money, it had been a popular hangout for Fordham University upperclassmen for the last twenty years.

  They escorted Johnny past the bar, some tables, and a great jukebox with classics from the late 1970s. Briganti tensed as Vince pushed him through a door and reached into his jacket pocket. Tony Tramboli sat at his desk at the far end of the room, his chair-back facing Johnny. As Johnny entered the room, Tramboli did a one-eighty. His soldiers extended their hands towards Briganti, who reached for his gun.

  “Whoa, whoa, Knuckles! Nobody’s lookin’ to hurt you. We’re celebrating,” said Tramboli, his hands in front of him, palms facing Briganti. Briganti looked to his left and right and noticed Vince was holding a cigar and Paulie, a lighter. He breathed a sigh of relief as a smile arose on his face. The two men bellowed with laughter, the lighter and cigar shaking in their hands.

  Tramboli ambled over, picking up a Scotch with each hand along the way. He presented one to Johnny, put his arm around Johnny’s neck, and pulled his face towards him. Tramboli kissed him on the cheek and said with a laugh, “Had you shitting this one out, huh? Thought you were getting the old cement shoes, huh?”

  “Naw, it’s cool Tony. I wasn’t worried. What’s up?” Briganti replied with obvious relief.

  “Just looked at our street drug sales compared to last year. We’re up 20 percent on accounta the lab you put together,” Tramboli said as he clinked glasses with Johnny. “Nice work,” Tramboli sipped his Scotch and extended his hand towards the empty chair in front of his desk. Briganti sat down, sipping his drink as Tony nodded and motioned with his head for Paulie and Vince to leave the room.

  “Thanks a lot, Tony. There’s plenty more opportunities for growth on the street. The sky’s the limit, boss.”

  Tony cut a new El Presidente cigar, lit it, and dangled it in the corner of his mouth. He pat the newspaper on the large oak desk in front of him. The headline read, “STRIPPER’S DANCE WITH DEATH.”

  “Nice to see this little problem has been resolved,” Tony said as he put his feet up on the corner of the desk and looked up at the smoke rings he blew into the air. “Shame it was such a brutal murder. But everyone’s time comes around, huh? April’s just came a little sooner then she expected,” Tony said with a hearty laugh.

  “Well, I knew you was anxious for…resolution on that front, Tony,” Briganti said with a twisted smile. The praise from Tony was long overdue in Briganti’s mind. At last his plans were moving forward.

  “You’ve got a bright future, Knuckles.” Tramboli raised his glass towards Johnny. “Salute.” Johnny lifted his in response and they finished off their drinks.

  Brighter than you could ever imagine, Tony, Briganti thought to himself. You ain’t seen nothing yet.

  Chapter 27

  The Giver felt the swell of pride any father feels for his offspring as he checked the progress of his experiments. Three Petri dishes contained cells that had been replicating on their own for between six and eight days. They were rich with stem cells ready to be harvested. In other parts of the lab The Giver used sophisticated equipment to verify the health and function of various organs he had created. An entire human heart, created just two days ago pumped synthetic red blood cells through a simulated circulatory system. A human kidney, over a week old, continued to flawlessly filter out toxins from the mixture The Giver fed into it. Other equipment tested and sustained human lungs, a pancreas, and a liver—all of them perfect in every way. Just like me! The Giver thought to himself.

  “None of this would have been possible were it not for my foresight.”

  The Giver realized years ago that his work had to move underground to flourish. It had to be free from any and all who would oppose it or slow its progress. What happened to Woo Suk Hwang and his work in 2005 was a travesty, he thought. Doctor Hwang’s work in Korea perfecting cloning techniques was shut down under accusations he fabricated his results. The Giver did not doubt Hwang stretched the truth; Hwang had always been as impatient as he was brilliant. But without government interference, Hwang would have soon made good on earlier claims. He would have cloned patient-specific stem cell lines, an important step in curing diseases that afflict over two billion people worldwide. Now Hwang and his elegant work were no more.

  Yes, The Giver’s courage in gathering the necessary resources and moving the bulk of his work underground had been rewarded. The experiments he was carrying out on a daily basis had taken a quantum leap forward over the last three years. In 1997 Dolly, a cloned sheep, was created. In 2003, she was euthanized due to problems related to premature aging. In 2012 The Giver made a huge breakthrough that was far beyond the parlor room trick of cloning a sheep. Unfortunately, that creation was short lived. But he had learned much in the intervening three years, particularly how to accelerate the maturation process and extend survival. He hoped his next iteration, his fifth cloned human being, would not only survive, but be perfect in every way.

  God himself would soon be on notice—The Giver had arrived.

  Chapter 28

  “Let’s go over it again, guys. I want every last fact, detail, and insinuation I can get my hands on regarding April Cassidy,” I said to officers Marone and Fitzpatrick as I sat across from them in a depressing back office at the 48th precinct.

  “We’ve given you everything we’ve got on her, Chris,” Marone said as he played with the last remains of a raisin bagel that sat on a small plate in front of him. “The girl was supposedly abducted Thursday, May 21st, 2015 as she left the Golden Garter. Something was done to her before she was dumped off over on 185th and 3rd. Fitz and I got to her before she was raped, but her attackers got away. Her exam at Barnabas didn’t show much before she signed out, other than the bruise on her left cheek and a small wound on her stomach that didn’t match the time signatures for what those two yahoos did to her before they turned tail and ran. Back here she gave us the scared little girl routine, said she didn’t remember much.”

  “She was holding out on us, Detective,” Fitzpatrick interjected. “No doubt about that, she…”

  “We had nothing to hold her on so we cut her loose,” Marone said, interrupting Fitzpatrick as he held his arm out in front of the young officer to silence him.

  Marone and I had crossed paths on a few cases before. He was a smart, careful officer, the only kind that lasted seventeen years in this section of the Bronx. I knew he would control the flow of information to me, keeping Fitzpatrick from offering rambling conjecture. “None of this about the first attack was verifiable, Chris. It was all just based on what the girl said. Anyway, we planned on following up at the hospital but she died before we had the chance.”

  “What made you doubt her, Rory?”

  “Her manner more than anything else. The smell of her holding back, hiding something, stunk up the place. And her injuries and not being raped didn’t match up with her story. How can we believe someone picked her up without so much as a good shot to the back of the head, kept her for a few hours without doin’ any real damage, then dumped her off alive and well? It doesn’t add up. Nah, I think either it was drugs or she was turning tricks, or someone she knew just wanted to send her a message by scaring the shit out of her. Chief didn’t want to put any detectives on it, so we poked around the Golden Garter a little the next day, with the blessing of the boys at the 4-0, but came up empty. That plac
e’d be worth another go around. I think there’s something there,” Marone said as he eyed me and bit a small piece off of his bagel.

  “That’s it, Rory?” I said as I rose from the chair, disappointed by what little I learned.

  “Wish we had more fer ya, Chris, but that’s it,” Marone said as he stood. He shrugged his shoulders and held his hands near him with his palms facing up.

  “Well, it’s a start guys. You know where to reach me if anything else turns up,” I said as I walked out of the room, more questions swirling in my head than when I came in. Who was this Cassidy girl? What would a serial killer want with her? How was she linked to the other two vics? And what about those injuries, what could they have meant, if anything? And what was up with Marone, did he know more than he was letting on? Veterans of the force resented the hell out of me and my status as the DMCʼs lead investigator. They felt, rightfully so, I hadn’t earned my place on the force. My medical knowledge was unrivaled on the NYPD, but I had a lot to learn about detective work. Was Marone trying to undermine my investigation, setting me up to fail, or was I just being paranoid?