“How do you get into the cemetery?” I asked. Many of the centuries-old churches of lower Manhattan still had adjacent graveyards. Trinity Church and St. Paul’s were even tourist attractions, and my route to the DA’s Office took me past the last man-made remnant of Manhattan’s seventeenth century—the cemetery of Sephardic Jews from Brazil who immigrated here in the 1600s, neglected but still standing on St. James Place.
“This entrance is the only way, Alex, but it was gated and locked.” Manny led us down the corridor and onto the damp soil of the burial ground. “Maybe it was a couple of men—one helping the other scale the wall and carry the girl over. I’ve got Crime Scene checking out this old oak inside the walls, as well as the tree branches that overhang from Prince Street, for any trace evidence.”
“Still liking my orangutan theory, Coop. The guy must have been swinging from a tree.”
The exposed body of the young woman lit up in the flash of the camera. I stood about three feet from her, taking the measure of her young life. She might have been a few years older than I. She was certainly shorter—probably only five feet five or so—and rounder in the stomach and hips. Her cropped brown hair looked wet from the dew, and the gaping wound in her throat appeared to be large enough to spill out all her innards.
“Who found her?” I asked.
“The caretaker,” Manny said. “He doesn’t usually show up until six a.m., but he’s got a guy coming in to fix the organ this morning, so he just woke up early and strolled over at four o’clock. No better reason than that. I’d say he missed our perp—or perps—by less than an hour.”
Mike and Manny were crouched around the body like a pair of bookends. They had gloved up, and Manny was showing Mike the back of the victim’s head.
“I think he must have bludgeoned her with something to subdue her, in order to bring her in here and finish her off. See that crack in the rear of her head?”
Mike nodded. “The ME say anything?”
“They just sent a cleanup crew. No docs. Shorthanded. Hal got all the photos, so we’ll just ship her off to them.”
“What do you make of the tongue, Manny?” I asked. “It’s still Little Italy. You think the Mob?”
Mike stood up and I could see that he was taking a measure of the entire setting. There were five tall stained-glass windows that decorated the south side of the old cathedral. The body had been deposited directly below the one in the center.
“The Mob cuts off balls, Coop. Not tongues.” Now Mike was back to examining the dirt around the body. There were so many imprints of footsteps, it would be impossible to know what the disturbance had looked like before the cops arrived.
“If she was a snitch, I’d say of course it could have been an organized-crime operation. They might go for the tongue. But after last night’s case? There’s something else going on. This isn’t an OC dump. Doesn’t have the look or feel of that. And no way wiseguys would desecrate an old Catholic church in the ’hood. There’s a different message here, even though I don’t know what it is.” Manny Chirico got to his feet. “I leave that to you and Mr. Chapman.”
“I’m working on it, Manny.” Again, Mike turned his attention to the windows. “Our first vic winds up on the steps of a church that used to be a synagogue.”
“What does that tell you?”
“I’m trying to brain it out. At least it’s what I got Coop here for,” Mike said, pointing to the dark images worked into the old glass windows above our heads. “You think maybe this placement wasn’t accidental? I mean, the cemetery for sure. But maybe she’s dumped under this particular image for a reason.”
“I was thinking where she is has something to do with the tombstones, not the stained glass. Maybe these names are meant to connect, once we get a make on her.” Manny Chirico shrugged, then began to pace around the grave markers, reading the names aloud. “ ‘Right Reverend John Dubois, Third Bishop of New York. Francis Nealis. Brendan Callahan.’ ”
“Possible, but not a lot of broads buried here,” Mike said. “Can you have one of your men do a list of all the dearly departed? Who they are and where, relative to her body?”
“On it.”
“Can we get inside? I’d like to see what the stained-glass windows depict. Is the caretaker here?”
“Yup. He’s in the church.”
We let the crew with the body bag get to work and retraced our way to the narrow corridor through which we had entered.
Manny took us into the main chapel, which was dark and cool, much grander than it appeared to be from the street. It indeed had the feel of a large, old cathedral interior.
I couldn’t see anyone at first, but I was surprised by the beauty of the huge white marble altar that spanned the entire western wall, and by the stunning collection of carved gold-leaf reredos, the ornate religious statuary that surrounded it.
Only when I glanced around did I see the caretaker, on his knees in the very first pew, bent over the railing as he wept.
We stayed in place, giving him a few minutes alone. When he got to his feet, Manny asked him to turn on the lights, and Mike started along the wall to look at the windows, which displayed themselves far more vividly from within the church.
I planted myself below a striking image of Madonna and child, straining my neck to look up at it, wondering whether that feminine portrait had anything to do with the position of the corpse in the graveyard.
“Can’t you count, Coop? Wrong one.” Mike was twenty feet away from me. He stepped up onto the seat of one of the pews for a closer examination of the center window, and I walked directly in front of him.
Below the figure of a solemn, gray-bearded man, pen in hand, apparently writing his gospel, was a name, the lettering made of deep-brown stained glass, barely visible with such low lighting.
“Matthew the apostle,” Mike said. “Matthew the Evangelist.”
“What does that say to you about your killer?”
He leaned a hand on my shoulder and got down. “I’m not sure yet. But if Mount Neboh wasn’t a random dropping-off point, then neither is this place. I got things to do, kid. You get the tombstone map and start reading your Gospels, and we’ll talk later.”
Again I followed Mike, this time from the chapel through the corridor and out onto the street. As we emerged from the church, I could see Mercer approaching from behind the parked RMPs.
“Bad way to start the day. Slow down, Mr. Wallace,” Mike said. “You haven’t missed much.”
“I got waylaid. Something else to stir the pot.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Port Authority cops cut short my sleep. Daniel Gersh was quick to board that bus to Chicago last night. Get himself out of our hair. Problem is, the first stop was Philadelphia.”
“Don’t tell me—”
“He got off there and crossed town to the Thirtieth Street Station. Used his credit card to buy a ticket on the last train back to New York.”
“So he was here? …” I wasn’t able to finish the sentence. In time to do this, was what I was thinking.
“By midnight. It’s no wonder he didn’t fly. Daniel Gersh had no mind of leaving town, no matter what his stepfather told him to do.”
NINETEEN
WE found a dive a few blocks away for coffee and eggs. Our plans for the day hadn’t changed. The forensics work on the new case would be under way, and the investigative piece would pick up steam as detectives tried to make an identification.
Mike left for the morgue at seven thirty, while Mercer and I made the short trip to my office.
“I’ve just got a few things to clear on my desk. I’d really like to get out of here before Battaglia shows up. Just leave a message with Rose that we’re on top of this.”
“I got calls to make. Do what you got to do.” Mercer made himself comfortable in Laura’s cubicle and I turned on the lights in my office.
There was a note on top of the center pile of manila case folders. Barry Donner was going to
sum up today in the case of Denys Koslawski. The judge was giving signs that he was going to reserve decision, so there might not be a verdict in the case for a couple of weeks. I’d expected better of Lyle Keets, but I guess he didn’t want to embarrass Bishop Deegan and rule so quickly on the heels of his testimony.
I dialed Luc’s number at Le Relais, his restaurant at Mougins, and held until the hostess got him on the phone. As I waited, I took the Xerox I’d made of the letters Mike had found in Daniel Gersh’s apartment and placed the pieces in front of me, trying to move them around to form parts of words. When Luc said his faint “Oui?” I swiveled my chair around, my back to the door.
“Ça va, darling? Is everything all right?”
It was unusual for me to try to find him in the middle of a working day.
“I’m okay. It’s—well, another young woman was killed a few hours ago. Her throat was slit, and we’re sure it’s the same perp.”
“That’s so awful—I don’t really know what to say. Are you taking care of yourself? Do you want me to come immediately?”
“No, no. I’m fine. I just wanted you to hear it from me and not some Internet news report. I know I haven’t been easy to find, but I adore coming home to your messages.”
Luc laughed. “Less of a nuisance than coming home to me, with all this going on.”
“Probably so. Mercer’s here at the office with me now.”
“So, you can’t talk?”
“You mean tell you I love you? Of course I can.”
“I hope that’s why you called.”
“I needed to hear what you have to say. To get me through the day.”
“Je t’aime, Alexandra. I’ll say it as many times as you’d like and loud enough so everyone in Mougins can hear.”
Mercer whistled to get my attention, and I spun the chair around. “I hate to break this up, Alex, but you’ve got your first customer.”
“How fast can you talk, Luc? I’ve got a new case. Have to run.”
“Three days, darling. Hold tight. Tell Mercer and Mike to keep you safe.”
“That’s not their job, Luc. I take care of that myself. Talk to you later.”
“That’s Ms. Cooper,” Mercer was saying to the young uniformed cop.
“Good morning. I’m Terence Seckler. Nineteenth Precinct.”
“What have you got?” I reached for his arrest report and paperwork.
“Unlawful surveillance. Second degree. They told me to bring it up to your unit—Special Victims.”
“Thanks. I’ll look it over and we’ll assign it to someone as soon as my secretary gets in. Looks like it’s got a twist.”
“Yes, ma’am. Different angle. Technology is amazing.”
“Inside Bloomingdale’s?”
“Riding the escalators up and down all day.”
For ages, up-skirting had been a sport of many perverts. Sitting on the sidewalk or on the steps of institutions like our great museums or on crowded subway cars, these men found ways to position themselves to be able to see—and sometimes photograph—the more intimate zones of a woman’s body. The actions had never been criminal until, with the proliferation of pocket-size cameras, the conduct got so out of control that the legislators went back to work on it. Now it was a crime—section 250.45 of the Penal Law.
“He strapped a camera to his shoe?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And you recovered that too?” The jury might have to see the contraption to believe it.
“It’s vouchered. The captain told me to bring the camera on down to you, so you could view the images. It’s got crotch shots—excuse me, I don’t know what else to call them—of about three hundred girls—teenagers, mostly.”
“You find any of the victims?”
“Three. The last one sort of figured it out and attacked him. She nailed him pretty well, right on the beak.”
“Good for her. How was the camera attached?”
“I took a photo here, with my cell,” Seckler said, showing me a close-up of the image. A small device had been set into the panel of laces of one of the perp’s sneakers, held in place when the shoe was tied tightly.
“Nice job. Have a seat in the hallway. My secretary will find you an eager prosecutor as soon as she gets in.”
“Why don’t you just let me steer all this away?” Mercer asked as Seckler left the room.
“’Cause it’s what keeps me sane. Not everything that crosses my desk is a murder or a rape. It keeps things in perspective for me to handle all the daily fallout of street life in the big city. Sometimes it even amuses me. Like what could possibly be so thrilling about taking pictures up a girl’s skirt?”
“And on the downside, what does that perversion lead to? Used to be peeping Toms were the first step in a rapist’s training regimen. From peeping to breakins to sexual assaults. How many of these fools go on to forcible touching? That’s what you’ve got to worry about.”
“I do. That and how fast our killer seems to be moving.”
“Sorry to interrupt. Ms. Cooper?”
“Yes,” I said. Mercer stepped aside and I nodded to the woman standing behind him.
“I’m Alison Borracelli. You have an appointment with my daughter this morning. At eight thirty, I believe.” She was soft-spoken, with a hint of an Italian accent.
Gina Borracelli. I had completely forgotten the Thursday-morning lineup. I flipped open my diary and saw the notation.
“Yes, of course I do. I’ll be with you in just a few minutes.”
It was only in movies that the detectives and DA caught the big case, and everything else on the table stayed quiet. In real time, rapists continued to attack, pedophiles preyed on kids, victims needed legal guidance and hand-holding, and death never took that longed-for holiday.
“But Gina—she wouldn’t come. She insisted on going to school today instead. She said you didn’t believe what she told you. That you were very tough with her. I came to talk to you about that, Ms. Cooper.”
I wasn’t completely surprised that the sixteen-year-old was a no-show. This would have been my third go-round with the arrogant teenager.
“Give me a few minutes with Detective Wallace, please, and then I’ll be happy to discuss the case with you.”
“I’ve got to get to work myself. Can we do this quickly?”
“Just step out for a moment and let me pull the paperwork,” I said, moving in front of my desk to close the door between us.
“You need me to back you up on this?” Mercer asked.
I stood up and went to the last in a wall-length row of filing cabinets and pulled out the case folder. “Alan Vandomir’s case,” I said to Mercer. “I caught this kid—Gina—in so many lies, that’s why Alan hasn’t made an arrest. She asked me for the chance to go home and tell her mother the real story herself. But she obviously hasn’t done that yet.”
“You get to be the bad guy.”
“Again. It’s wearing thin.”
It was smart to have a witness present when the possibility of confrontation so clearly loomed, and I couldn’t ask for a better one than Mercer.
Gina was a sophomore at an expensive prep school on the Upper West Side, the daughter of two professionals. The accused, Javier Valdiz, was a scholarship student at the same school. On the night she claimed a crime occurred, Gina’s parents had invited Javier to spend the night at their apartment, in her older brother’s empty bedroom, after a party that both kids attended.
Unbeknownst to the Borracellis, on the way to the party, Gina had filled an empty sixteen-ounce seltzer bottle with her father’s vodka. She and a girlfriend had finished drinking the entire thing by the time Gina and Javier returned home.
I went over the facts with Mercer and invited Mrs. Borracelli to sit down opposite me. She knew the claim—that two days later, Gina told her boyfriend that Javier had forcibly raped her in her bedroom that night, while her parents slept in the next room.
I began by asking Mrs. Borracelli to repe
at the story to me, as Gina had related it. I listened, but my eyes were still playing with the letters of the alphabet that Naomi Gersh had scribbled on a piece of paper, trying to make sense of them.
“Did you know Gina had been drinking that night?”
Mrs. Borracelli pulled herself up, looking at me indignantly. “No, not at my house. She’s too young, but for the occasional glass of wine with dinner.”
“Would it surprise you to know where she got her vodka, and how much she had?”
“From Javy, I’m sure. From the boy.”
“That’s not what she told me. I suggest you ask her that directly, and check your own liquor cabinet.”
“I would be totally shocked. I’ll ask, but that would shock me.”
“Does Gina have a drinking problem, do you think?”
“All the girls at her school drink, Ms. Cooper. What’s your point? I can’t police her all the time. You think that means she can’t be raped?”
“Not in the slightest. A great percentage of our cases occur when the victim has been drinking. The alcohol intake often makes them more vulnerable. I’d just expect my witnesses to be honest about it. I can’t help girls who won’t be candid with me. A judge and jury won’t help them either.”
“And my Gina—she didn’t tell you?”
“No, she didn’t. It was the other girls at the party—and Javier’s lawyer—who told me. She denied it completely until I confronted her with what her best friend had said.”
Many of these investigations took more time than a straight-forward stranger rape. In those instances, victims had no reason to dissemble. They didn’t know their assailants and hadn’t spent time together, as acquaintance-and date-rape survivors did before the assault. The latter sometimes tried to make themselves appear more “proper”—to family and to law enforcement—by minimizing their alcohol and drug intake, or the amount of consensual foreplay. In the end, there was often a rape charge, but it was muddied by facts the witnesses foolishly tried to conceal.
“What else, Ms. Cooper?” Mrs. Borracelli was arch now. “Gina said to ask you about other things she told you. She said it was easier for me to hear them from you.”
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