Silent Mercy

by Linda Fairstein

  “What she’s really thinking, Loo, is what’s a nice Jewish girl doing in a place like this? Maybe a not-so-nice girl. Think of that angle.”

  “I figured for certain the tabloids would start blaming the victim before you did.”

  “Motive?” Peterson asked, using the embers of his cigarette to light the next one. “You’re already writing your closing argument, Alexandra. We’ll never get there till we find this bastard.”

  We had lost the sunlight altogether now, as shadows lowered themselves down the sides of the cathedral and over the somber faces of the disapproving martyrs and prophets. Beyond the yellow lines of police tape, the gawkers were dispersing as some of the medical personnel and uniformed cops left the scene.

  I shielded my eyes with my hand, spotting a familiar face as a man emerged from a yellow cab on Amsterdam. He headed directly toward the entrance of the cathedral, through the gold-plated doors of the main portal. “Mike, isn’t that Wilbur Gaskin? The guy from Mount Neboh, last night?”

  “Good eye, blondie,” Mike said, taking off after him. “Hold that thought, Loo.”

  I was a few paces behind as Mike called Gaskin’s name, but the determined banker never looked back as the heavy door started to close slowly behind him.

  Mike broke into a jog and managed to wedge himself in the entrance, getting Gaskin’s attention this time as he yelled loud enough to fill the huge nave of the church.

  “What brings you here, Mr. Gaskin?”

  I was inside the cool, damp building, my five-foot-ten-inch frame dwarfed by the immensity of the interior space.

  Gaskin was obviously surprised to see Mike, fidgeting as he tried to make me out in the background. “I heard the news, Detective. I heard the terrible news on the radio and thought I should talk to the bishop.”

  “About the case? About something you know that I don’t?”

  “About our churches, Mr. Chapman. By the time this is on the nightly news, we’ll both have the same—uh—issues on our hands.”

  “Publicity? You got yourself all worried about the PR aspect of things, while me and my buddies just have to think about who killed the girl.”

  “We have security problems to consider, and I think it would be tasteful to offer a prayer service in her memory.”

  “The bishop know you’re coming?”

  “Well, no. I didn’t call.”

  “Just hoping to get the bishop in his seat, huh?”

  “There’ll be somebody here to help me, Chapman. It’s a church,” Gaskin said, snarling at Mike as he kept glancing over his shoulder as though expecting someone to appear.

  “Why don’t we take this walk together? You must know the way to the office.”

  I could see Gaskin hesitate before turning to start down the long nave. “I think I do.”

  I was twenty steps or so behind the two men as they passed through the center of the church, having walked at least the length of an entire football field in silence.

  Out of the corner of my eye, as I glanced over my shoulder, I could see a flash of movement in the ornate choir loft that ran half the distance of the nave, built out as though suspended above the end of the pews to my far left.

  I cocked my head and turned to see whether we had company. Mike said something to Gaskin and I swiveled back to try to hear their conversation at the same time.

  I couldn’t shake the sense someone was moving in that space overhead, and though I continued forward to keep up with Mike, my eyes swept the choir loft again.

  Now I could see the figure—a tall, thin young man with a clerical collar visible beneath his overcoat, weaving a path to the rear of the loft, closer to the massive church door behind me. His head was bowed and he seemed to be talking to himself. His skin was a ghostly white, blurring into the bleached collar beneath it.

  I tried to get Mike’s attention, but the man had slipped behind one of the colossal columns that extended from the floor of the church up to the great ceiling. Not a sound accompanied his fluid movement.

  I slowed down for another look just as Mike turned to wave me forward to him.

  The man looked familiar to me, just as Wilbur Gaskin had. But this time I wasn’t so sure. Maybe I was spooked and looking for quick solutions when there wouldn’t be any.

  “Put a move on, Coop,” Mike said.

  “Excuse me, sir,” I called after the silhouette, shimmying my way across one of the long pews to get closer to the area below the choir loft, looking down so as not to trip over any of the prie-dieu kneelers along the way.

  There was no response.

  I picked my head up again and leaned back, but the loft above was empty.

  Only seconds had passed, but off to my left the church door opened, and though the man was farther away from me now, the feature that was most prominent in my memory showed clearly as I viewed his back. The long hair, bunched together like a ponytail, was tucked into the rear of his coat—just as it had been in the courtroom that morning.

  I broke into a trot to get to the door before it closed behind him, struggling to remember from earlier visits to the cathedral whether there actually was a staircase in that corner of the loft. Even if there was one, how had this man descended it so quickly and silently? I’d have to figure that out later. Now all I wanted was to find out who he was and why he had twice crossed my path.

  I dashed out and gasped as the wind whipped at my face while I continued the hunt for this fast-moving apparition. The CSU detectives were still working off to my left, so I ran down the steps and around to the right—the north side of the great cathedral.

  Against the blue-black sky and the dark gray stone of the old building I could barely see more than a few feet in front of me. I came to an abrupt halt as the walkway ended fifty yards from the corner I had turned. I found myself pressed against the waist-high railing that formed a balcony over the steep incline toward Morningside Drive.

  No one there. I thought for a second that I heard a sound coming from below the ledge on which I stood, but that didn’t seem possible. I was sure it was just me, panting to catch my breath before turning back to go inside.

  SIXTEEN

  GASKIN was fuming about being intercepted in the cathedral, and even more annoyed when Mike left him to follow me out onto the church steps. Darkness had overtaken the streets, and we looked in vain for any sign of the elusive cleric.

  “Is there a staircase that leads down from the choir loft?” I asked.

  “Not on that end, Coop.”

  “Then he must have moved even faster than I thought he was going.”

  “Or he sprouted wings,” Mike said, exasperated with me. “Let me get this right. You didn’t recognize his face.”

  “I didn’t really see his face in court this morning.”

  “But it was well-lit there.”

  “Yes, but he had on a big pair of sunglasses. I didn’t see any of his features, except that his face was long and angular, and his skin was unusually white with irregular red scabs or something.”

  “So, you’re giving me a make on a tall, thin guy with a ponytail?”

  “I told you he was wearing a collar. And I said a gray overcoat.”

  “Detail on that?”

  “Generic.”

  “One of retail shopping’s best consumers and you can’t detail the coat? Would you buy this scrip from a witness, Coop? ‘Oh, yeah, Ms. DA. Ask the man to turn around so I can see the back of his head. Bingo! That’s the guy who did it.’ Come in out of the cold, Madame Prosecutor. I think you’re having a brain freeze.”

  “I’m not exaggerating, Mike. See if that’s who Gaskin was here to meet. Maybe there are connections between this murder and the trial of the defrocked priest, but I’m just too thick to make them. It’s almost like Battaglia wished this on me.”

  Mike pushed open the door and practically rammed it into Gaskin’s chest. “I asked you the nicest way I know to stay right where you were, didn’t I?”

  “I thought y
ou’d gone off and left me, Detective. You’re correct about my calling the bishop first. I should have done that. I’ll go back to my own church and make a plan.”

  “You happen to see the young man who just left the cathedral?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry? I didn’t notice anyone,” Gaskin said.

  “He must have been waiting in the choir loft when you entered.”

  “Waiting for what? Are you implying? …”

  “He only started to move when Mike and you got halfway down the nave, closer to him.” I was creating a scenario that had the two men planning an assignation in the cathedral.

  “You were off base last night when I came to my own church to try to help, and your techniques of information-gathering are even more preposterous today. What young man are you talking about?” Gaskin said. “Who is he?”

  “Ms. Cooper was hoping you could tell us that. Might be a man of the cloth, Mr. Gaskin. Caucasian. Tall and thin, hair in a kind of ponytail, hasn’t outgrown his acne.”

  “I’ll sleep on it, Chapman.” Wilbur Gaskin pulled on the door handle and let himself out as the cool evening air rushed in, the chill attaching itself to me like a second skin.

  Mike’s fingers were riffling through his hair, and when his eyes wouldn’t meet mine, I knew he was trying to curb his annoyance with me.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nice job, Coop.”

  “Hey, I told you I saw Gaskin—”

  “And then you freaked him out so he wouldn’t even wait to talk to us.”

  Two young men, both in the garb of Episcopal priests, appeared through a large oak door behind the altar, looked up when they heard our voices, and started toward us down the long nave.

  “I’m telling you I think that guy with the collar was the one who showed up at the Koslawski hearing.”

  “Heads up, Coop. Everybody in this joint has a collar. It’s a church. Your guys wear beanies, our team likes the white choker around the neck. Makes sense that whoever came to court to watch Bishop Deegan testify was one of his troops.”

  “Then what’s he doing in an Episcopal cathedral, at the precise moment when a crucial piece of evidence is found?”

  “Tall guy, long hair, gray overcoat, and acne. Won’t exactly make for a riveting AMBER Alert. Let’s hit the road.”

  “May we help you?” one of the young priests said as he approached.

  “NYPD Homicide. We’re just about to leave, thanks. Is the bishop in, by any chance?”

  “No. He’s not. I’m his secretary. May I give him a message?”

  “Sorry this happened here is all. Some of the Homicide Squad detectives will be questioning your staff—what they saw, what they know.”

  “We understand that, Detective. We’ll do everything to help. They’ve already told us they’ll be searching the cathedral.”

  “So long as you understand. You know a man called Wilbur Gaskin?”

  “I don’t recognize that name.”

  Mike gave me a self-satisfied grin. “I knew he was full of it.”

  “There was a gentleman who left the church about five minutes ago,” I said.

  “I just asked about him, Coop. They don’t know Gaskin.”

  “Possibly a priest,” I said. “Tall, thin with very long hair and—”

  “I believe we’re the only two in the church this afternoon,” the bishop’s secretary said. “The police officers took the names of people who were here when the young lady’s—uh—when her head was found. Then they asked everyone to leave. Perhaps it was a tourist. They’re in and out all the time.”

  Mike pulled his phone from his pocket and answered the call. “Hold on, Mercer. Let me get out of church and back on the street.”

  He turned and thanked the two men and we were on the broad cathedral steps, walking down to Amsterdam Avenue.

  “It’s Mercer, for you. Wants some legal advice.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Wallace,” I said as I took the phone. “It’s been a long day. What have you got?”

  “Cops at Port Authority are holding Daniel Gersh. He was about to board a bus to Chicago.”

  “Holding him? What’s the charge?” Giving me the slip earlier in the day wasn’t exactly a criminal offense.

  “That’s what they want to know.”

  “Where’s his stepfather?”

  “All signs are that he hasn’t left home—you know, the house and his office—in more than a week. He bought Daniel the ticket and made all the arrangements.”

  “Mike can whip me down to the terminal. There’s no way to keep him with what we’ve got now. But I have so many more questions to ask him.”

  “Too late for that, Alex. His old man has him lawyered up. He’s tighter than a tomb.”

  SEVENTEEN

  “OF course she’s drinking, Adolfo,” Mike said to the maitre d’ at Primola, an Upper East Side Italian restaurant that was my hangout several times a week. “I told you she’s tired, but I didn’t say she’d lost her mind. Dewar’s on the rocks. Tell Fenton not to be stingy with the scotch.”

  “And for you, Detectivo?” Adolfo smiled at me as I held up my thumb and forefinger to show him I wanted only a short cocktail while he took Mike’s order.

  “A vodka martini with the works. Olives, onions, capers. Back it up when you see me running low.”

  Mercer arrived ahead of us and was already sipping a glass of red wine. I excused myself to go downstairs to the restroom. When I emerged five minutes later, refreshed after scrubbing my face and reapplying some makeup, Mike was waiting for me with my drink in hand.

  “Giuliano said we could use the television in his office. It’s all tuned up.”

  For more than a decade, Mike had engaged us in his habit of betting on the Final Jeopardy! question every weeknight. He did it at the morgue and in station houses, at crime scenes in mansions and tenements, in front of startled witnesses and crusty old NYPD bosses. He had no time or use for the entire show, but was fascinated with the trivia of the last brain teaser often worth many thousands to the contestants, and happy to wager twenty dollars of his own.

  “So much for my privacy.” I took the glass and clinked it against Mike’s.

  The owner of Primola—Giuliano—had been charmed by Mike’s humor and intelligence for years and was always pleased to let us into his tiny business office for the three minutes that closed the evening game show.

  “You look a hell of a lot better than you did an hour ago. D’you put that blush on for us? I thought you said you wanted an early night, but here you go trying to be your most fetching for Mercer and me. Wish you could do something about those dark circles under your eyes. I’ve seen raccoons more attractive than you.”

  Mercer was sitting on the edge of the desk. “If we’re talking attractive through your eyes, Detective Chapman, then we’ve got to build in a whole new set of standards. Rumor has it you were spotted at closing time at Elaine’s last week with a real—”

  “Don’t go telling secrets on me. It was the forty-eight-hour rule.”

  “What rule?” I asked.

  “Still within forty-eight hours after the St. Patty’s Day parade—like a temporary blindness sometimes sets in, on account of the green beer. Errors in judgment don’t count.” Mike passed behind me, giving a quick squeeze to the back of my neck, and took the cushy leather chair, resting his feet on the desktop. I plopped down on the small stool in the corner of the room, barely able to see the wall-mounted television.

  “Who was she, Mercer?” I said, smiling for what seemed like the first time in hours. “What did you hear? Spare nothing.”

  “Code of silence, m’man,” Mike said, pointing his finger at Mercer.

  “Can’t go there, Alex. Sorry.”

  “So back to business, then,” I said, drumming my fingers on Mike’s knee. “What happened with Daniel Gersh?”

  “Port Authority police managed to delay the departure for about fifteen minutes, to give us a shot at the kid. But he wasn
’t the least bit cooperative. I think his old man really put the fear of God in him.”

  “With good reason. I’d like to talk to the stepfather as badly as to Daniel,” Mike said. “Shh. Here’s the category—it’s ASTRONOMY. Let’s see your money.”

  “I’m good for it. I left my bag upstairs.” It was safer there than just about anyplace in the city.

  “Ready to double down?”

  “Not a chance. Unless you tell me more about the girl you were ogling at Elaine’s.” The famous watering hole was a last-call stop for many reporters and detectives on their way off duty in the early morning hours.

  “She reminds me of you.” Mike was inhaling his drink and already seemed more playful.

  “Brace yourself, Alex. This won’t be pretty.” Mercer laughed.

  “Too skinny for my taste, for starters. Actually, that’s where the resemblance ends.”

  “See, Mercer? Painless for me.”

  “Almost forgot. Good-natured. Quick to laugh.”

  “Who’s faster than I am when it’s not over a dead body?”

  “Very solicitous of my needs. Patient with me and all that.”

  “She’s got me there. Not happening. Ever.”

  “And instead of the ice water that courses through your veins, she’s all heart. Somehow, I have the feeling that girl gets under the sheets and gives in to it, you know? Isn’t all Miranda warnings and Fifth Amendment, reciting sections of the Penal Law and worrying if what you’re doing is okay with Paul Battaglia.”

  “That’s your idea of me in bed, Mikey? Love-locked because of the law and too much Battaglia on the brain? Sweet.”

  Alex Trebek read the Final Jeopardy! answer aloud: “‘Friday the thirteenth, April 2029, this object will come uncomfortably close to Earth.’ Too close to Earth, folks. That’s your final answer.”

  The three contestants earnestly peered at the game board before starting to write.

  “You good for forty, Mercer?” Mike asked.

  Each one of us had our favorite subjects. For me, with a heavy concentration of literature studies at college, I usually cleaned up on book and author questions. Mike knew more about military history than most scholars I’d ever encountered, and his knowledge of war and warriors took him deep into myths of ancient cultures. Mercer’s lifelong fascination with geography made him a whiz in that category, and most of the time we hedged our bets on the strength of our friends’ wisdom.