Cover-up

by Michele Martinez

  Julian clicked off the recorder. “That’s it,” he said. “Dispatch informs that the call came in at eight forty-six P.M. tonight.”

  “Placing the murder at approximately eight forty-one, if you believe what the caller said about timing,” Dan said.

  “The caller sounds like an eyewitness, not the killer,” Melanie said.

  “I agree. He’s scared shitless,” Dan agreed.

  “Any leads on him?” she asked.

  “We got the cell number from the 911 dispatcher. It’s a Verizon prefix, but their subpoena compliance department is officially closed till nine A.M. tomorrow,” Julian said.

  “We can’t wait that long. They must have people on staff overnight. Maybe you should send somebody there in person,” Melanie said. She was starting to get caught up in the urgency of the situation, forgetting herself and her personal concerns, thinking instead of Suzanne Shepard’s stomach, its chilling hieroglyphs, their maker lurking out there somewhere in the bottomless night.

  Dan nodded. “I already called my squad. We’re sending a guy over to Verizon right now with a subpoena and orders to beat the fucking door down if he has to. The second we have a subscriber name, we’re all over the guy.”

  “Okay, good. Any progress on identifying additional eyewitnesses?” Melanie asked.

  “My lieutenant had uniforms fanned out in every direction from the Ramble within twenty minutes of receiving the 911 call,” Julian said. “But it’s not like when somebody gets whacked in an apartment building and you just go push the neighbors’ doorbells. People don’t stay put in Central Park. So far, nobody we talked to saw or heard a thing.”

  “Are we putting out a call for tips?” Melanie asked. “You know, like on television and radio?”

  “Yeah, we’re doing Crimestoppers. And the family’s offering a reward. Fifty large. That should get people’s attention,” Julian said.

  “Great,” Melanie said.

  Julian snapped his fingers. “Wait a minute. Television. You just reminded me of something. My lieutenant wants to hold a press conference, the sooner the better. And he wants the U.S. Attorney’s Office doing the talking, so that means you. Hold on a second.”

  Julian cupped his hands and shouted, “Yo, boss!”

  A heavyset man wearing a rumpled raincoat and a brown corduroy cap turned and waved brusquely.

  “Prosecutor,” Julian called, pointing at Melanie.

  Lieutenant Jack Deaver immediately marched over and introduced himself. “Somebody needs to give a statement to get the reporters off my back,” he insisted. “We set up a perimeter as best we could, but you saw them out there. There hasn’t been a murder in the park in three years. They heard about the hunting knife, so now they’re calling this guy the Central Park Butcher. Once your perp gets nicknamed, forget about it, the reporters are like dogs smelling meat. They’re starting to bypass the barricades, just walkin’ right over the fuckin’ things.”

  “Freedom of the press,” Melanie said. “You can’t keep them out forever.”

  “They’re undermining the crime-scene investigation,” Deaver said. “You want these bozos trampling evidence? Or worse yet, finding it before Brennan’s boys do, so there’s no chain of custody for trial?”

  “Park’s officially closed, right? Frickin’ arrest ’em for trespassing,” Dan suggested.

  “We can’t arrest reporters. Not a good idea,” Melanie said with a nervous laugh. This case was potentially explosive, she was possibly stepping on the toes of the D.A.’s office, and her boss didn’t even know she was out here.

  “Nope, I’m making an executive decision,” Deaver proclaimed, “just like they taught me in leadership training. We’re holding a press conference. Throw the dogs a bone. It’s the only way to corral ’em in one place while we finish up here. Pierre, come with me. We’ll tell ’em to set up their cameras, and that Vargas here’ll be at the park gate in half an hour to give an update.” Deaver strode away, with Julian following.

  5

  After Lieutenant Deaver left, Melanie turned to Dan in a panic.

  “I can’t do it,” she said. “My boss doesn’t know I’m out here. We have a strict press protocol in our office. Even the most routine press releases require supervisor approval.”

  “So here’s a phone. Call your boss and get approval,” Dan said, whipping his cell phone out and waving it at her. But Melanie just stared at it, feeling daunted.

  “What do you, have fear of success or something? You’re about to get on TV. Call her,” he said.

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s getting married.”

  “She’s getting married Saturday. It’s fucking Wednesday. Besides, from what I hear, she’s less of a shrew than usual these days. Vito must be keeping her satisfied.”

  Melanie wrinkled her nose in mock disgust. “What a thought.”

  “The Melanie Vargas I know is stone-cold ambitious. You’d better do it, sweetheart, or you’re gonna be seriously pissed at yourself later. Come on, jump in with both feet. It’s the only way.”

  Dan was right. He was right that Melanie would regret not pursuing this case once she woke up from her torpor. He was also right that her boss, Bernadette DeFelice, chief of the Major Crimes Unit in the New York City U.S. Attorney’s Office, had mellowed out lately. The old Bernadette had struck fear in the hearts of her subordinates, Melanie included. But Bernadette was getting married on Saturday night for the first time in her forty-seven years to NYPD lieutenant Vito Albano, the head of the premier narco-terrorism task force in the city and a beloved figure in the law enforcement community. And she actually seemed happy about it, giving the lie to those who swore up and down that she was marrying Vito for his primo drug cases. What the hell, Melanie might as well pull the trigger. If worse came to worst, Bernadette would yell and then order Melanie to go home, which she sort of wanted to do anyway.

  “Hand me the phone,” she said.

  Melanie dialed Bernadette’s pager number, and in less than a minute, Dan’s phone started vibrating wildly. You might loathe Bernadette, but you had to hand it to her. When it came to her job, she didn’t spare herself.

  “Hello?” Melanie answered.

  “It’s one o’clock in the goddamn morning, Melanie. This better be good.”

  “Turn on your TV,” Melanie said.

  There was silence on the other end. She’d gotten her boss’s attention: Bernadette was doing as Melanie had directed. Melanie prayed hard that the Suzanne Shepard murder was actually on TV or her tactic would immediately backfire and she would never hear the end of it.

  After a few minutes, Bernadette came back on the line.

  “I’m seeing that a couple of local cable channels and one network affiliate are broadcasting live from Central Park about a stabbing,” Bernadette said, her interest clearly piqued. “The Central Park Butcher. Is that what you’re calling about?”

  “Exactly,” she replied.

  “What’s the case, and what’s your connection to it?”

  “Suzanne Shepard was stabbed and mutilated tonight in the Ramble. Do you know who she is?”

  “Sure. The television personality, right? Celebrity crime reporter?”

  “Yes, and listen to this. The killer carved ‘bitch’ on her stomach with a knife.”

  “Very dramatic,” Bernadette said in a jaded tone. “Enlighten me, girlfriend. What’s this got to do with me? Are you suggesting we try to get in on the case?”

  “I’m already in. I’m in Central Park. The A.D.A. couldn’t handle the blood and guts. She left. I just got done reviewing all the crime-scene evidence. The press wants a statement. The NYPD lieutenant asked me to make it. I called you first to get approval. But, Bernadette, if you feel I’m overstepping, I’ll understand completely. Just say the word and I’ll go home.”

  “Are you insane? This is amazing! How the hell’d you swing it?”

  “The Bureau is involved in the case, so—”
/>
  “O’Reilly tipped you off and you tagged along?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they say you can’t teach balls! I admit, I’ve been having my doubts about you lately, but this is excellent work. You done me proud. Do I have time to get there to do the press conference myself?”

  “Maybe. We’re doing it at the Seventy-ninth Street gate in about ten minutes.”

  “Shit, I’m out in Bensonhurst, and I don’t have my TV outfit with me. Can you hold them off?”

  “No, apparently the reporters are about to storm the barricades and trample evidence if we don’t give them something,” Melanie said.

  “Goddamn Brooklyn! Vito, I told you this was the middle of nowhere. I’m missing a chance to go on TV! Melanie, listen up. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to do this on your own.”

  “Okay. I can handle it.”

  “Here’s what you do.”

  “Hold on a minute,” Melanie said, and scrambled to dig her notebook and pen from her handbag. She tucked the cell phone against her shoulder and got ready to write.

  “Go ahead, Bern,” she said.

  “Wear dark lipstick and lots of blush or your face washes out,” Bernadette declared.

  Melanie waited for a moment but there was nothing more forthcoming. “What should I say?” she asked.

  “Oh. Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Never say anything to the press. Give them no information, not even the victim’s name. Tell them you can’t until next of kin is notified.”

  “NYPD already notified next of kin.”

  “So what?”

  “The press already know the victim’s name. I’m not sure who leaked it, but they know.”

  “You’re not listening, Melanie. When you’re on the record in front of the cameras, you keep your lips zipped, or else the defendant ends up moving for a change of venue for adverse publicity and you lose. You don’t want to be forced to try this case in goddamn Hauppauge or Schenectady, for Chrissakes.”

  “Okay, but how do I—”

  “Get a bunch of the law enforcement guys to stand behind you so it looks like you have a huge team working on this. Cops, agents, whatever. Get the precinct to send over everybody they have, whether they’re officially assigned or not. And make sure the cops are ethnically diverse so we don’t get accused of racism if it turns out the defendant is black. In fact, if you have a black cop, put him next to you.”

  “But—”

  “This is television, goddammit. What matters is how things look. Do you comprende?”

  “Yes,” Melanie said, borderline offended. But Bernadette probably would have said that to anybody. She was an equal-opportunity bitch.

  “Good. Then you introduce yourself. Say the U.S. Attorney’s Office and the FBI are on the case.”

  “And the D.A.’s office?”

  “Forget them. They can do their own goddamn press conference.”

  “Yes, but the A.D.A. was here earlier and—”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Her name is Janice Marsh.”

  “Fine. I’ll make some calls. Don’t give it another thought.”

  “But what’s our jurisdiction? What’s the federal crime?”

  “We’ll figure something out before we indict. Where there’s a will, there’s a way into federal court. And, Melanie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Remember the makeup. If I can’t be there to lend substance, let’s get some mileage out of the fact that you’re young and attractive. You look like a prosecutor from a TV show. Our goal is to get the press focused on you instead of some psychotic killer terrorizing the city.”

  “All right.”

  “Good luck, girlfriend. And good work.”

  Melanie hung up. Dan was staring at her.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “She was happy. Happier than she’s been with me in a while.”

  “What’d I tell ya? Stick with me, kid. We’re going places.”

  6

  Before the press conference, they convened an impromptu team meeting in an NYPD mobile command center, a fancy name for a trailer outfitted with a bunch of communications equipment that the cops kept parked in a gravel lot near the Central Park precinct. It was cramped and hot inside. As the lone female, Melanie was given the only chair, an old swivel number with a ripped seat. Dan, Julian, Butch, and Lieutenant Deaver, not one of them a small man, crowded around her close enough that she smelled coffee on somebody’s breath. By unspoken agreement, Melanie ran the meeting—whether because she’d be doing the talking at the press conference, because she was the prosecutor, or just because she was the one in the chair, she didn’t know.

  “I plan on saying very little,” she explained, “but I still want us on the same page before I go out there. As I understand the forensic evidence, there’s a strong possibility this was a random killing. Are we in agreement?”

  “Either a robbery gone bad, or some sicko getting his rocks off by hurting women,” Butch said.

  “Or both,” Dan put in.

  “Nobody’s gonna want to hear that,” Deaver pointed out. “Not the commissioner, not the mayor. It says to the public there’s a psycho on the loose and we ain’t caught him yet. I’m not sayin’ lie. I’m just sayin’ that don’t look good.”

  “We do have one piece of evidence indicating the victim knew her attacker,” Melanie said.

  “What evidence?” Butch asked. “Nothing I seen. From the way he stunned her, and the way she fought, this wasn’t anybody she trusted.”

  “I said somebody she knew, not somebody she trusted,” Melanie replied. “What was she doing in the Ramble on a rainy night, if she didn’t go there on purpose to meet someone?”

  “Eight-thirty,” Deaver said, nodding. “Good point. I put my trash out right about then. It’d let up from what it was earlier, but it still raining plenty.”

  “Drizzling at most,” Butch said skeptically, shaking his head.

  “Whatever. It’s enough to strike the reassuring note,” Deaver said.

  “I’ll just say there’s a possibility the victim knew her attacker,” Melanie said.

  “Yeah. Why get the whole city up in arms for no reason?” Deaver said. “Let’s do it.”

  It turned out that facing the cameras with blinding light shining in her eyes, microphones shoved in her face, and reporters screaming questions at deafening volume was just about the most exhilarating thing that Melanie had ever experienced. Almost exhilarating enough to make her forget her burnout and go crazy for her job again. She’d expected to feel dazed and nervous, but the second she got up there, she felt like she’d come home. Armed with Bernadette’s advice, Melanie knew exactly what to say. She introduced herself and the key law enforcement personnel working the case. She confirmed the bare fact that a murder had taken place and assured the public that the authorities were hot on the killer’s trail. In response to each and every question, she deftly avoided revealing any details while nevertheless managing to satisfy the questioner that he or she was getting an answer. She parried and feinted and explained and even got a few laughs. Melanie could have stood up there jousting with the press all night, but after about twenty minutes, Lieutenant Deaver leaned across her and said they only had time for one more question. He practically had to drag Melanie away from the microphones when that question was done.

  “The most dangerous spot in New York—between Vargas and a camera,” Lieutenant Deaver joked once they were away from the reporters. But for the first time that night, he smiled, and before he left, he said, “Nice job, Melanie. That oughta hold those piranhas for a while.”

  Dan and Julian couldn’t stop telling her what a natural she’d been, how poised and in control, how articulate. She felt high as a kite on the excitement.

  “You’ve got a television career ahead of you,” Julian said.

  “Not ahead of her, she’s got it now,” Dan said. “You’re gonna be all over the news.”

/>   “And the papers,” Julian added. “I can see the morning headlines. ‘Melanie Vargas takes on the Central Park Butcher.’”

  “See, you’re back on the horse. You’re like me when it comes to this job. You love the glory.”

  “I do love it!” she said, and laughed giddily.

  Only later would she think, Pride goeth before a fall.

  7

  It was just past four on Thursday morning, warm, blustery, and still dark out when Dan pulled up on a nondescript side street in midtown. He was dropping Melanie off on his way to Verizon’s offices, where he planned to get information about the 911 caller. While the cops searched out eyewitnesses Melanie would attack on other fronts, like trying to figure out why Suzanne Shepard had gone to Central Park last night. She thought it might have something to do with a story, so Dan had brought her to the ugly glass box of a building that housed the Target News Network studios. Melanie reached for the door handle, ready to leap out and race inside the building, which was brightly lit despite the early hour.

  Dan caught her by the arm.

  “Hold on there, princess. I go out of my way to give you a lift, and you run off without saying good-bye?”

  She turned back, startled. She’d been thinking only of the upcoming interview, almost forgetting that it was Dan in the car with her. But when she saw the lust in his eyes, her blood slowed down and grew sluggish in her veins, and her thoughts scattered.

  “It’s four A.M., and we’re working a murder. Are you crazy?” she asked, but she heard the desire in her own voice. She leaned back in her seat, making no further attempt to leave the car.

  “When it comes to you, damn right I am. You should know that by now. Watching you up there in front of the cameras. You were something else.” He reached out and ran his thumb slowly over her lower lip. Leaning forward, he parted her lips with his tongue and kissed her until she was breathless. God, what this man did to her should be against the law. By the time he pulled away, she barely remembered her own name let alone who she was supposed to interview.