Skeleton Justice

by Michael Baden

  The driver of the livery cab, distracted by talking on his cell phone headset, allowed a small gap to open up in front of him. Manny jerked the wheel and accelerated, shoehorning her way into the space and inching past the bagel delivery truck. The maneuver gave her a sense of accomplishment until she saw the broader vista of jammed traffic ahead of her. Out of one tight spot and into another—an uncomfortable metaphor for her behavior today. She didn’t think of herself as reckless. As a lawyer, she was trained to be logical. But somehow, Jake, with his methodical and painstaking approach to every problem, made her seem impulsive.

  A sudden cavalcade of horn blowing interrupted her reverie. Manny leaned on her horn, too. What the hell—it didn’t change the pileup of cars, but it felt good.

  When the horns subsided, a chirping sound remained. Manny cocked her ear, then pawed through her purse for her Black-Berry. It was chirping to remind her of an appointment. She didn’t remember scheduling anything for today—certainly no court dates. Her hand closed around the gadget and she scrolled to the calendar function. “Mycroft to vet 3:00” flashed before her eyes.

  Oh shit! Because Kenneth was filing papers in court, she was supposed to take Mycroft in to Dr. Costello for a follow-up to make sure the bite he’d received from Kimo was healing properly. Even if she turned around—even if she could turn around—she’d never make it to collect the dog and get to Dr. Costello’s office by three o’clock. Better just to call and reschedule.

  Manny expected to get the receptionist, but the voice coming over the line was male and familiar. “Dr. Costello? It’s Manny Manfreda.”

  “Ah, hello, Ms. Manfreda. How are you? And how is Mycroft?”

  “At the moment, I’m not so good. I’m stuck in traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge, pointed away from your office, so I’m afraid I have to reschedule Mycroft’s appointment. I’m sorry it’s at the last minute, but could we come in tomorrow?”

  “I don’t have the appointment book—it’s on my wife’s computer. Let me go and check.”

  Manny could hear rustling and shuffling over the line, but Dr. Costello kept talking as he worked. “I see we have a celebrity in our midst. TV news in the taxi on the way in kept repeating you were representing some kids in that case out of New Jersey. It sounds like it is an interesting matter.”

  “Well, the government’s case is shaky.” Manny figured she might as well practice projecting the cocky air of confidence all prominent defense attorneys had mastered, even if she was just talking to her dog’s vet.

  “Good. It’s up to lawyers like you to keep the government from overstepping its boundaries.”

  Manny smiled. Not only was her new vet very attentive to Mycroft but he also shared her own libertarian views. It wasn’t essential to be in political harmony with your pet’s doctor, but it was a nice bonus. “It’s refreshing to hear you say so, Dr. Costello. I think there are a lot of people who think the Preppy Terrorists deserve to be locked up.”

  The doctor made heavy breathing sounds, which came over the line along with the pinging of a computer program being launched. “Ah, finally I come to tomorrow’s schedule. It seems we can fit you in at two or at three-thirty.”

  “I’ll take three-thirty.”

  Dr. Costello sighed. “It doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Oh, really, I appreciate your squeezing me in. Three-thirty is just fine.”

  Dr. Costello laughed. “Can I have your autograph tomorrow?”

  Manny accelerated and drew two car lengths closer to the end of the bridge. She repeated now what her professors had pounded into her in her fist year of law school. “Justice is never perfect. As long as I’m allowed to be heard, the system is working.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  For no discernible reason, the cars ahead of Manny began to move. She pulled onto the BQE, thrilled with the sensation of traveling at fifty miles per hour. She now understood why in California they called a high-speed chase anything approaching double digits. “I know I am.”

  Manny pulled up beside the last parking spot on Rosamond Street. A man walking by shook his head, doubtful she could squeeze the Porsche into such a tight space. But with a few deft pulls of the steering wheel, Manny had her car snugly aligned with the curb. Success in parallel parking, as so much in life and the law, all hinged on your approach.

  She relaxed as she sized up her surroundings. Rosamond Street was a nice middle-class block, lined with nondescript low-rise redbrick apartment buildings. Not fancy, not funky, not scary—the kind of place where schoolteachers and firefighters and mail carriers raised families, avoiding the drama of the highest and lowest ends of New York society.

  She found number 329 and stood on the stoop for a moment, considering her approach. If she buzzed apartment 4E and announced herself, would Travis let her in? Her problem solved itself when a man exited the building and obligingly held the door open for her.

  Trusting soul, Manny thought. Guess I don’t look too threatening. Inside the building’s small lobby, Manny hesitated: ancient claustrophobic elevator or dark, steep stairs? Figuring she wouldn’t come across as masterful if she arrived at Travis’s hideout gasping for breath, Manny reluctantly stepped into the tiny elevator.

  Several lurching, grinding minutes later, she stepped out on the fourth floor. As she looked down the L-shaped hall to get her bearings, a slim figure in a baseball cap and denim jacket appeared from around the corner and slipped quickly down the stairs.

  “Travis!” Manny shouted, and raced toward the stairs. She got to the railing and peered down at the person on the landing one floor below. She saw a ponytail protruding from under the baseball cap and heaved a sigh of relief. Not Travis after all.

  Continuing down the hall, Manny saw the third door on the left was ajar: 4E. The gyro special gave an unhappy lurch in her stomach. New Yorkers, even ones who lived in safe middle-class neighborhoods, did not leave their apartment doors hanging open.

  Manny hugged the left wall of the hallway and cautiously approached the door. It was dark inside, too dark to tell if someone was standing there watching her. When Manny got within a foot of the door, she reached out, quickly shoved the door open, and flattened herself back against the wall.

  Nothing happened.

  “Travis?” she called. “Travis, it’s Manny Manfreda, your lawyer. I’m here to help you. Can you hear me?”

  No sound. No movement.

  Now what? Call 911? And tell them what? “Hi, my client is an escaped federal prisoner and he was supposed to be in this apartment, but he’s not, and the door’s wide open, so can you send someone right over?” She’d get help all right—two attendants from the psych ward at Kings County Hospital and a syringeful of sedative.

  Could she just walk in there and check out the apartment? No, it seemed too much like those teen slasher movies where the girl hears a sound in the basement and goes down alone to investigate even though she knows there’s a crazed killer on the loose. TSTL: too stupid to live.

  Manny suddenly heard loud voices through the wall, but they weren’t raised in anger. She listened. A woman’s voice: “You wanna soup?” A man: “Not now. Maybe later.” “Oh, later. You letta me know, prince.”

  She inhaled. The smell took her back to her parents’ kitchen in Red Bank. Pasta fagioli, definitely. She could make friends with the people in 4D.

  She knocked on the door and heard approaching footsteps.

  “Who that gonna be?” the woman inside muttered.

  Manny stood in front of the peephole for inspection, smiling and waving like Queen Elizabeth. The door opened a crack on the chain and one dark eye peered out.

  “Hi! I wonder if you could help me? I’m looking for your neighbors here.”

  “Maria and the kids? They move-a last month. Buy a house in Jersey.”

  “No, not Maria. The people who live there now.”

  “No one live there now. Landlord gonna fix nice, jack up the rent.”

  Manny relaxed a bit
after the woman introduced herself as Lena Castigliore. Mrs. Castigliore spoke with the same broken-English accent of Manny’s beloved grandmother Adeline. Maybe that’s why the door was open—workmen coming and going. “Oh, I was just worried because the door is open.”

  Now the woman in 4D opened her door and shuffled into the hall in her blue quilted slippers, unable to resist investigating this impropriety in her building. “That no good. I call-a da super.”

  “Good idea.”

  Manny used the interminable minutes waiting for the super’s arrival to befriend Mrs. Castigliore. Compliments on the aroma of her soup got the old lady talking. At her age, she welcomed the opportunity to talk to anyone about anything and wasn’t too particular about the reason she was being asked.

  Yes, she had heard the door of 4E open and close a couple of times these past few days. She had assumed it was contractors. No, she hadn’t actually seen them. But wait, once she had seen a man go in. Yes, a young man. Oh, no, not eighteen; more like thirty, thirty-five. No, she hadn’t heard any talking—no noise at all.

  Now the super arrived, a small Hispanic man with a mop of dark hair and the requisite large bunch of keys. Despite the fact that Mrs. C. had called to report the door being open, he stood in front of the apartment with his head cocked and his eyes narrowed, obviously very puzzled to see that the door was indeed open. Manny’s uneasiness returned.

  “So, have there been workmen here the last few days?”

  “No, no guys yet. The boss, he say they coming miercoles, Wednesday.” Cautiously, the super stepped into the apartment. Manny and Mrs. C. trailed behind him. Manny was all prepared with a story of how her sister was moving to New York and needed an apartment, but no one thought to ask why she was there.

  The front door opened directly into a large living room. Scratches on the floor showed where the furniture had been, but the room was empty except for a child’s partially deflated ball. They proceeded in a line across the room to a hallway leading to the bedrooms. The wood trim around the first bedroom door was deeply scratched. The super shook his head and muttered, “El gato.” Inside the room lay a crumpled sleeping bag.

  “Did Maria leave that?” Manny asked.

  Mrs. C. shook her head. “I went over to say good-bye the day she moved. I see her check every room. She no leave this behind.”

  They peeked in the bathroom—a paper cup, a flattened tube of toothpaste, and a dirty towel.

  “No,” Mrs. C. said. “Maria leave-a the place clean. Someone been staying here.”

  Manny’s eyes darted back and forth, searching for a sign that the someone had been Travis. There were no papers or clothing out in the open. Could she press her luck and start opening closets?

  Now the super and Mrs. C. moved into the tiny kitchen. At the doorway, the old lady stopped short. Manny, following, bumped into her. The room erupted into a Tower of Babel, cascades of Spanish pouring from the super, a competing torrent of Italian from Mrs. C. Manny elbowed her way past them and added her own contribution to the mix.

  “Oh, dear God!”

  Blood, lots of it—dried, brown, but still unmistakably blood. It had spattered the kitchen counter, dripped down the cabinets, and smeared on the floor. When it had been fresh, someone had stepped in it, leaving a trail of smeary footprints to the refrigerator. Bloody prints marked the fridge handle, a ghoulish version of the sticky smudges the kids who used to live here must have once left.

  Manny could feel her own blood surging through her arteries, propelled by a heart beating twice as fast as normal. Was this Travis’s blood? What if he had died because the feds had refused to question the Sandovals?

  “We gotta call-a da nine-one-one.” Mrs. C.’s English had come back to her as she backed away from the gruesome scene.

  “Yes, call them from your apartment,” Manny said. “We’ll wait here.” She grabbed the super’s elbow, pulling him toward the hall. “We shouldn’t touch anything. The police won’t want us in here.”

  “I’m going downstairs,” he said. “I don’t know nothin’ about this anyway, and I don’t like blood. Cops can come see me there.”

  Manny was happy to see him go. She knew she should go out in the hall to wait for the cops, but she couldn’t resist looking around a little more. She’d already contaminated the crime scene by walking through each room. Walking through again wouldn’t make matters any worse, would it? She knew how Jake would answer that question, but she shut his voice out of her head.

  But as she prowled through the apartment, Jake’s voice continued to follow her. Don’t touch anything, it said.

  “I won’t, I won’t,” Manny murmured, barely realizing she was speaking aloud. “I’m just going to look in the bathroom again. Isn’t that one of the first places you check out?”

  She poked her head in that door again. The toilet seat was up, confirming a man’s presence. She looked in the bowl in case something had been carelessly discarded there, but it was empty. She knew this room could be a trove of fingerprints—you wouldn’t wear gloves in the john. She didn’t want to smudge anything, or add her own prints to the mix. Still, the medicine cabinet tempted her. “Oh, like you wouldn’t open this? I’ll be careful,” she assured her inner Jake.

  Rooting through her purse, Manny produced a pencil. Placing the eraser end under the edge of the cabinet door, she clicked it open. Rusty, dusty, and empty, except for two paper-wrapped tubes. Tampons. Left over from Maria’s occupancy, or had there been a woman here, too?

  She went back into the bedroom. Don’t even think of touching that sleeping bag! Jake’s voice cautioned.

  “Don’t worry. I know it’s full of fibers and hairs and skin flakes. I’m just going to peek in the closet.” But the closets in both bedrooms were empty, and Manny felt herself drawn back toward the kitchen. She swore she could feel Jake dragging her back.

  She shook him off. “The police will be here any minute. This is my last chance. I’ll be careful.”

  Manny stood on the threshold and surveyed the kitchen carnage. She thought of all the hours she had spent with Jake in his lab, reviewing crime-scene photos… all the things he’d taught her about blood-spatter patterns. Low velocity: Large round symmetrical drops meant someone was dripping blood while moving very slowly or standing still. Medium velocity: More elliptical drops with a tail showing the direction the blood drop was traveling. High velocity: usually from a weapon exerting force, a multitude of tiny, fine particles. This blood didn’t seem to fit any of those patterns.

  “There’s something weird about this, don’t you think?” she whispered.

  Why was most of the blood on the counter, not the floor? She tried to imagine a scenario that would account for this. The victim was shot and fell against the counter? Then where was the bullet hole? And why hadn’t Mrs. C. heard anything? Okay, not shot—knifed. But if the victim fell onto the counter, that would indicate the attacker came at him from the middle of the kitchen. The blood would spurt out and spatter across the kitchen, not drain out the victim’s back onto the counter. And why those perfect drips down the front of the cabinets? If the victim had slumped to the floor, that blood would be smeared.

  This pattern looked familiar all right, but not from crime-scene photos. It reminded her of something that had happened in her own kitchen last week. She’d knocked over a glass of orange juice; it had formed a puddle on the counter, then dripped down the cabinets and formed a smaller puddle on the floor. Then Mycroft had come in to sniff, and tracked juice across the floor.

  “Look at that, Jake. Doesn’t it seem like that blood has been spilled, literally? Like from a container? But who has a container of blood?”

  A tingle pricked Manny’s scalp. Her gaze shifted to the bloody prints on the fridge. “C’mon, Jake, I’ve got to. I can’t not open it.” Manny dug through her purse again, this time producing a silk scarf. She sighed. “Oh well, at least it’s not the Hermès.” Wrapping it around her hand and using just two fingers, she opened the
refrigerator.

  Inside, more blood. Not spilled, but stored neatly in vials. Manny counted seven. One for each of the Vampire’s victims.

  Jake and Mycroft surveyed the limp form on the couch. Whimpering, Mycroft licked the slack hand dangling near the floor. Jake massaged the blistered feet.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to send out for food?” he asked.

  Manny raised her hand in protest and turned her head. “I’m too exhausted to eat.”

  About seventeen hours had passed since Manny and Jake had infiltrated the Sandovals’ apartment. Over fifteen since she had headed to Brooklyn searching for Travis and Jake had been called to the scene of the Vampire’s latest victim. To Jake, it felt like enough had happened to fill three weeks. To Manny, it must have felt more like three lifetimes.

  He moved to sit beside her and smoothed the hair away from her brow. “Stop blaming yourself. No one could have anticipated this.”

  Manny pushed off his hand and sat up. “You’re right. No one could have anticipated that of all the millions of apartments in New York, Paco Sandoval would send me to look for my client in the one that’s apparently being used by the Vampire.” Manny jumped off the sofa with a jolt of energy that sent Mycroft scampering for cover. “No one could have anticipated that a kid who was already in a ridiculous amount of trouble for being in the vicinity when a mailbox blew up is now in an absolutely mind-boggling amount of trouble for being an escaped federal prisoner and a suspect in the most bizarre murder case New York has seen since the Son of Sam.”

  Manny kicked at a pile of magazines that blocked her restless pacing. “You’re absolutely spot-on, dear. Even someone with an imagination as overactive as mine couldn’t have predicted this!”

  Jake observed her with mounting concern. The hours of interrogation she had been subjected to by the New York police, the federal prosecutor, and the FBI had taken a toll. Manny was teetering on the edge of total exhaustion.