“You got Florkoski’s name after just one meet? I thought I was good with names.”
“I think the name I was more interested in was Larry Winslow.”
“The guy’s the next to retire. And he’s lazy. Now Casey, my old partner, he did it right. Everyone knew he wanted to ride out the end in Arizona, but he worked the job a hundred percent every day. Everyone was surprised when he took off right at twenty years. But Winslow’s just counting down the hours. No one in the house wants to work with that. Lucky for me you came along.”
“But you never would have gotten partnered with him after you’d just had one partner retire on you. Eckels made it sound like I was the one who was supposed to inherit Winslow. In fact, he said I had you to thank for sparing me.”
Rogan reached for the radio, hit the power button, and began scanning for a song that met his approval. He settled on Hot 97, a mainstream hip-hop station. He turned up the volume on a Kanye West tune, and Ellie reached over and turned it down a notch.
“Sorry, but if we’re going to be partners, you need to know now I like dealing with things head-on. If I’m out of line, bringing up something I shouldn’t, just tell me. I’ll back off. But drowning me out with the radio?”
“Don’t read into it. It’s just, this is my joint, y’know?” Rogan moved his head back and forth with the beat.
“Yeah, I know. And I also know there’s some story behind how you and I became partners. And if everyone else in the house knows about it, I thought maybe I should, too.”
“See? This right here? That’s what the issue was.” Rogan turned the radio off.
“What do you mean, ‘This right here’?”
“This whole dialogue.” Rogan moved his right hand back and forth between them. “It’s like fighting with your girl or something. Like, ‘C’mon baby, we just need to talk.’”
“Uh, except I’m not your girl, and I didn’t call you ‘baby.’”
“That’s not what I meant. It’s just, partners need to get each other, you know? And, well, some of the guys weren’t so sure you’d ever be able to get them, and vice versa.”
“Because of the whole not-having-boy-parts thing? Because that’s not really something I can get past.”
“Honestly? Yeah, that’s probably part of it. But it’s got a lot more to do with how you got into the unit. It doesn’t help that McIlroy brought you over—my moms taught me not to talk smack about the dead, but no one liked that guy. He was a show-off. He had a picture of him and Rudy and Bill Bratton on his desk. Who does that? And then that First Date case exploded all over the place, and suddenly it’s your face in all the papers instead of his. Then your cute little self makes second grade in record time, and you’re in the squad? You have to see that’s a hard pill to swallow. The guys in the squad are all asking who’s your rabbi.”
The old Tammany Hall phrase was now standard code for questioning a fellow officer’s connections. She had wondered how long it would take for another detective to call her out on the genesis of her new assignment. After four years on patrol, she had spent only one year as a detective before the First Date case had come along. In the aftermath, she found herself holding newfound leverage with the department brass. A gig in the homicide squad was unusual for her level of experience, but not prohibited, and Ellie had cashed in all her chips to get it. She supposed she was her own rabbi.
“Look, I know I got here faster than most, and I know I have to put in my dues, but I made sure to stay out of the papers on the First Date case.”
“That trip to Kansas wasn’t exactly secret.”
“That was on my own time. For my family. Anyone who would even begin to suggest that I get off talking to the press about my father has no idea what we’ve been through.”
For more than twenty-five years, the Wichita police had insisted that Jerry Hatcher killed himself. For more than a quarter of a century, Ellie’s mother had to live with the consequences of that decision: no insurance money, no pension, no answers. The trip to Wichita had offered a chance to prove that her father had not voluntarily widowed his wife and left his children fatherless. Of course she had to go. And when Dateline called her for an interview, she had to give it.
“I’m not saying any of this is fair,” Rogan said. “I’m just saying how it is. You worked with McIlroy. You’re in the news just like McIlroy. That means you’ve essentially inherited his shit. Plus you’re a woman, plus you’re all blond and pretty and wholesome looking, and people think you got a leg up from that.”
“And so how did that translate into me almost getting partnered with Winslow?”
Rogan paused before answering. “Because Lieutenant Eckels told everyone that’s what he was planning to do unless someone else volunteered. It was Eckels’s way of leading from the top down, making sure we all knew it was all right with him if we gave you the cold shoulder. You should’ve seen Winslow’s face. Ironically, I don’t think it had anything to do with you personally. That man just doesn’t want to be out in the street anymore.”
“So why aren’t I with Winslow? Why am I with you?”
Given the strings she’d pulled, she knew why Eckels never said good morning when he passed her on the way to the locker room. She got why he’d given her nothing but grunt work last week. She would even have understood if Eckels had partnered her up with a loser like Winslow. What she didn’t understand is why Rogan would have gone out on a limb for her. Cops who were skeptical of her, she could handle. Old news. She’d eventually win them over. A man who gave her a pass for no obvious reason was another problem altogether.
Rogan kept his eyes on the road.
“Because, you know, I’m not looking to get personal with anyone I work with.”
Rogan’s stoic expression changed to a stifled smile, then he broke out into a full laugh. “In your dreams, woman. I’m very much spoken for. Oh, my lord, look who thinks she’s all irresistible and shit.”
“That’s not what I meant. It’s just—I didn’t know why—really, that is not what I meant.”
“That’s exactly what you meant. Stupid-ass Eckels goes and tells you I stepped up to the plate, and you assume the only reason a man would help you out is if he’s looking to hit that. Well, don’t think I didn’t get the same flack around the house. That, or they figured I was somehow sympatico with you because of the number of times I’ve heard bullshit behind my back. Affirmative-action hire. Diversity detective.”
“And that’s not it either?”
“Nope.”
“So this is just going to remain a lifelong mystery? D. B. Cooper, Jimmy Hoffa, and why J. J. Rogan rescued Ellie Hatcher?”
His smile faded as he turned onto First Avenue. “I trust my instincts about people. I thought Eckels sticking you with Winslow sucked, and I thought it was going to cost the squad a good cop. And let’s just say I haven’t always had the easiest time with partners myself.”
It was the closest she was going to get to an answer, at least for now. “So you saved me,” she said in a fairy-tale voice.
“If you want to think of it that way.”
“I do.”
“All right, then. Can I listen to my radio now?”
“You may.”
He turned up the volume and began moving with the beat again. “And I’m sorry to break this to you, Hatcher, but I really am spoken for. I was just telling my girl last night you and I were getting on good.”
Ellie looked out the window and bopped her head a little, too.
THE MANHATTAN OFFICE of the chief medical examiner was located on First Avenue and Thirtieth Street, just north of the Bellevue Hospital Center. As they rolled past the canopied glass entrance of the hospital’s new addition, they caught a glimpse of the original building’s historic facade, still standing behind the modern entrance.
Bellevue Hospital is the site of the nation’s first ambulance service and maternity ward and the oldest public hospital in the state. But outside of New York, it’s known for
one thing and one thing only: its crazies. Ellie had lived in the city for ten years now, but it was still hard for her to hear the word Bellevue without envisioning a stringy-haired man in a straitjacket screaming like a hyena.
Rogan found a spot on the street in front of the ME’s office. When they stepped out of the car, the sun was peeking out through a break in the clouds above them, and the air was still.
They made their way through the building’s glass doors and up to the fourth floor. A clerk at the front window checked their shields, buzzed them through to the back, and pointed them in the direction of a stocky man standing at a nearby desk, dictating into a digital voice recorder. He had brown curly hair and a graying beard, and wore a white lab coat over khakis and blue sweater. He held up one finger while he completed his thought, then flipped a button to turn off the recorder.
“J. J. Rogan, right?”
Rogan accepted his handshake. “You’ve got a good memory, Doc. This is my partner, Ellie Hatcher.”
“Richard Karr,” the man said, extending his hand. “We spoke on the phone. First murder case?”
“Second,” Ellie said, “but close enough.”
“All right, well, our first one all together, then. Let’s hope I can help you out. Now when you called, Detective, you said our young Miss Hart was nineteen years old and was last seen alive at a nightclub last night at two thirty a.m., correct?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s consistent with my best estimation of her time of death. Rigor mortis hadn’t set in yet.” Corpses began to stiffen about three hours after death, due to changes in the muscles’ biochemistry. “I found undigested pasta. You said she last ate at ten o’clock?”
“That’s when her friends say they finished eating.”
“Again, it’s consistent. Digestion was well past the gastric phase, and into the duodenum—”
“She was killed sometime between three and five this morning?” Ellie asked, cutting to the chase. Chelsea’s friends last saw her dancing at two thirty; her pallor was gray by the time Ellie saw her at five thirty. It only stood to reason.
“Sorry, some of the detectives are more dazzled by the science than others,” Dr. Karr said. “Okay, so, on to some other findings, then. You probably already know this too, but Miss Hart appears to have taken full advantage of the libations at said club. She had a blood alcohol content of point-two-six.”
“Drunk times three,” Ellie said.
“Three and a quarter, to be precise. Now, it takes the liver sixty to ninety minutes to metabolize the alcohol in a single serving of liquor, so the body’s BAC actually continues to rise during that time before it starts to dissipate. Depending on how long she was drinking—”
“Her friends say she had an early drink before dinner,” Ellie cut in, “but then the real partying started around ten. She was definitely still drinking at ten thirty, and the club closed at four.”
Karr nodded, looking up to the ceiling as he ran the numbers. “Very well, then. Assuming she continued her consumption, I’m probably correct that she was still on the upswing at the time of death. With a body weight of only a hundred and twenty-two pounds, my best guess is she must have consumed nine or ten drinks over the course of the night.”
Ellie shook her head at the stupidity of it all. Attractive girl, scantily clad, underage. Blasted out of her mind. Wandering the streets of Manhattan alone in the middle of the night. A few times a year, a handful of girls were killed after making the identical mistake. And no one seemed to learn.
“Plus we’ve got the tox screen. Positive for crystal meth.”
That one caught Ellie by surprise. She liked to think she could spot a liar, and none of the usual red flags went up with Chelsea’s friends. They’d been clear: no sex, no drugs.
“Can you tell how recent?”
“She used within four hours of her death.”
Add methed up to attractive, scantily clad, underage, and drunk. Ellie couldn’t think of a more dangerous combination.
Rogan cut in with a question of his own. “CSU thought the vic was killed off-site and then moved to the East River scene.”
“Oh, yes. Certainly. As you might know, it’s the power of the beating heart that keeps our blood cells and platelets all mixed together in our vessels.” He pantomimed a mixing gesture with his hands. “So once the heart stops beating, and the mixer loses its power, the red blood cells begin to settle with gravity. That’s what causes the telltale discoloration of lividity—that look of a layer of grape jelly beneath the skin.”
“And the discoloration on Chelsea?” Ellie asked.
“Her body may have been found propped up in a seated position, but the grape jelly was on her back.”
It meant that Chelsea Hart’s body was lying faceup after her death and was then moved into the position in which she was found.
“The movement of the body was not the only postmortem activity. Based on the minimal amount of blood on the wounds’ edges, my best estimation is that the cuts you saw on her arms, legs, and face were inflicted after death. If you told me she’d been immersed in water—a hot tub or a bath, for example—I might revise my opinion to antemortem cuts, but there’s no evidence of that, especially in light of the speed with which the body was discovered.”
“So cause of death is strangulation?”
“I still need to complete the entire autopsy, but yes, I’m confident that’s what I will ultimately conclude. Looking at the pattern of bruising on her neck, you can see she was strangled manually, from the front.” He held his hands out, fingers strong and splayed. “Thumbs at the larynx, palms on the carotid arteries, fingers wrapped all the way around the back of her neck. With her on her back, and him on top of her, it creates a tremendous amount of pressure.”
Manual strangulation was in many ways the most dedicated form of murder. It wasn’t an instantaneous decision, like the pulling of a trigger or the slashing of a throat. It wasn’t remote, like poison or a contracted kill.
And there was nothing to physically separate the killer from his victim—no rope, no scarf, no belt to do the strangler’s job for him. Everything about the act guaranteed that if the killer had any kernel of doubt—any second of hesitation—he could stop. Among murderers, stranglers who used their bare hands were the most committed and least repentant.
And they were almost always motivated by sexual desire.
“Any evidence of sexual assault?” she asked.
“Surprisingly, there was no indication of either vaginal or anal trauma. I did a rape kit anyway, obviously. Sometimes we get a hit on the oral swab. It will take a couple of days for the initial results on the swabs—weeks for any DNA profile, if we do in fact have any fluids to examine. Will there be evidence of voluntary sex within the last few days?”
“Not according to her friends. She has a boyfriend who’s supposedly been in Mexico all week.”
“Well, at least we’ll know that any DNA we find is for us. That’s all I have for you now,” Karr said, switching gears abruptly, “but I’ll be in touch when we get those labs back.”
As they walked back to the car in the sunshine that was warming the cold morning into day, Ellie thought about the last hour of Chelsea Hart’s life and the fear and pain she must have experienced. Then she pictured Chelsea two hours earlier, smiling, dancing, and telling her best friend that she was having the best night ever.
CHAPTER 10
CHELSEA HART’S FAVORITE MOVIES were Run Lola Run, The Notebook, and The Princess Bride. Her favorite books were Wuthering Heights and The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Her favorite drink was called an Angel’s Tip, a mix of dark crème de cacao and heavy cream that she swore prevented hangovers. She wanted to meet Ellen DeGeneres and Johnny Depp.
She had ninety-two friends.
Ellie scrolled through Chelsea’s MySpace profile one more time as she snacked on spoonfuls of the Nutella spread she kept in her top desk drawer.
“You sure you don�
�t want any?” she asked, extending the open glass jar in Rogan’s direction.
He glared at her. “Are we going to continue this ritual every afternoon? You offer me that funky stuff you call food, so I can say, No, thank you?”
She pulled the jar back and removed a healthy spoonful. “Seems rude not to offer.”
“You can offer it to me today, tomorrow, and every day ’til I retire, and I promise I will always decline. So consider yourself excused from all social obligation when it comes to that stuff.”
That was fine with Ellie. No sharing meant more for her.
Chelsea Hart’s top MySpace friends were Stefanie, Jordan, and a Mark whom Ellie assumed was her boyfriend, Mark Linton. She listed as her heroes “my parents, friends, and random-ass people I meet everyday.”
Ellie clicked on the link that read “My Pictures.” The majority of the photographs depicted groups of teenagers clustered together, arms around each other’s shoulders, smiling for the camera. Chelsea was in the middle of most of the clusters. Stefanie was almost always close by.
An entire photo album was devoted to a white-and-brown English bulldog that was apparently named Stacy Keach. Another contained pictures of Chelsea in various high school theater productions—God-spell, A Chorus Line, Into the Woods. Another of Chelsea in a purple-and-gold track uniform. Ellie stared at the intensity in Chelsea’s face—a perfect blend of happiness, pride, and pain—as she pressed through the ribbon across a finishing line, and she wondered how a girl like this had wound up drunk, alone, and on crystal meth in New York City.
“We need to get hold of Chelsea’s parents,” Ellie said. “All I did was Google the name Chelsea Hart, and her MySpace page popped right up. Once the news hits, every member of the press will be scouring this for all the details about Chelsea’s personal life. They need to pull it down.”
“They’ve got to be on a plane by now. When I talked to them this morning, they sounded like they were literally going straight to the airport once we hung up.”
“Knock, knock.” Jack Chen rapped his knuckles against an imaginary door. “Detectives, there’s a couple here to see you. They say they’re Chelsea Hart’s parents?”
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