Silent City: A Claire Codella Mystery

by Carrie Smith

  Muñoz was paying careful attention. “So you think the murder does have something to do with the school.”

  “I didn’t say so at the press conference last night, but yeah. I think someone connected to PS 777 killed him, or someone who wanted us to think his murderer was someone at that school. And right now the killer—whoever it is—is waiting to read about his mock crucifixion, only that’s not going to happen. We can’t let that detail find its way into the paper. That detail is going to be our weapon, not his last laugh.” She tapped her iPhone screen to close the photo.

  Gambarin nodded. “What else can I tell you?”

  “Is it conceivable that the killer left the victim before he died?” she asked.

  Gambarin considered. “Possible,” he said, “but unlikely. Although the victim was paralyzed, he might have been able to cry out for several moments. I doubt the killer would have removed the gag if there were any remaining danger of him calling for help. If Sanchez was still alive when the killer left, he was most likely unconscious. I would speculate that the killer was in that apartment for at least fifteen to thirty minutes seeing his job to the end.”

  Muñoz frowned. “Nothing appears to have been taken from the apartment. His laptop was there. His wallet was still on his bedroom bureau with money and credit cards in it. Only his phone is missing.”

  “Was the perpetrator left or right handed?” asked Codella.

  “The head was snapped violently to the right. My guess is the killer came behind him and grabbed his head around the front with the right hand and the back of the head with his left, like this.” He moved behind Muñoz to demonstrate. “He would have pushed hard against the victim’s left temple with the palm of his right hand.”

  “So right handed,” concluded Codella.

  “Almost certainly.”

  “What was the time of death?”

  “The rigor was completely fixed. Between five and seven, I estimate, but I can be more specific if you find out when he last ate.”

  “There was no indication he ate anything at his apartment before he died.” She turned to Muñoz. “Call Ragavan. Tell him to find out if Sanchez ate lunch at the school.”

  Gambarin nodded. “He was moved into the crucifixion pose soon after the attack and remained in that position. The blood settled into the lower back and legs.”

  Codella looked at Muñoz again. “He left the school at three thirty. If he went straight home, he would have been there in five to ten minutes, but if he went straight home, why did he tell Marva Thomas he was going to visit Vondra Williams?”

  “Maybe he visited a different student. Maybe he went somewhere he didn’t want her to know about. People duck out of work early all the time.”

  “Yeah, but they don’t end up dead on their living room floors.”

  He acknowledged her point with a rueful expression.

  “We have to look at the street cam footage as soon as we get it. We might get lucky and spot him coming home.” She turned back to Gambarin. “Anything else?”

  “Not until we get lab results. I’ll call you if I have more.”

  She nodded. “We’ll let you get back to your work.”

  They emerged from the First Avenue building into the brisk winds off the East River and walked in silence toward the car as Codella fitted the new details into the scene forming in her brain. Muñoz took longer strides, and she had to quicken her own pace to keep up with him. They got in the car and she said, “Let’s go meet the suspended teacher with anger issues.”

  Chapter 22

  John McGreevy slid the Post across his polished, paper-free desk. CEOs of publishing companies didn’t have to deal with the manuscripts, page proofs, catalog layouts, schedules, and tracking sheets that cluttered the desks of the low-paid editors who actually put out the multimillion-dollar programs McFlieger-Walsh published. “Did you see this?” he asked.

  Dressler read the blaring, all-caps headline. “No, but I saw the news.”

  “This guy was in Barton’s district,” McGreevy observed. “Did you know him?”

  “I knew of him. He was at the meeting on Monday.”

  “Where did he stand on iAchieve?”

  “He wasn’t a fan,” Dressler acknowledged without elaboration. Why mention the heated technology debate Sanchez had incited at the meeting? It hardly mattered anymore, now that he was dead. Besides, Margery had all the adoption votes she needed lined up.

  “Is this event going to affect Barton’s purchasing timeline?”

  Dressler wanted to say, How am I supposed to know? He felt like shouting, I can’t possibly do any more than I’ve already done. Instead he said, “I hope not. Margery has a meeting with her Technology Leadership Team next week. Bernie Lipsie may come to that meeting. He’s interested. He’s heard we have good results.”

  McGreevy massaged his jaw. How did the man manage to have such a pronounced five o’clock shadow at ten o’clock in the morning? “Will the numbers stand up to intense scrutiny?”

  Dressler considered how to answer that question. As long as the district people studied what was presented to them, they would surely like what they saw, but if they hired an analyst to lift the veil of elegantly colored bar graphs and study the raw data below, well, that was another story. Of course, how likely was it that the New York Department of Education would hire its own analysts to audit results already certified by an independent, university-based research firm? “I think we’re good,” he said.

  McGreevy stared at him for several seconds, obviously trying to discern the specks of doubt beneath his words. “This is critical, Chip,” he said, as if Dressler didn’t already know this. “This sale could put us back in the game with iAchieve.”

  “I realize what’s at stake.”

  “Two hundred million,” said McGreevy. “We’ve got two hundred million sunk into this, and so far all we’ve gotten out of that investment is bad publicity.”

  Dressler nodded. He knew the story end to end. He was sitting here because of that bad publicity. His predecessor had used a significant portion of the iAchieve national sales and marketing budget to send urban school district administrators who controlled lots of federal funding on an all-expenses-paid “educational seminar” to Oahu, where they’d spent exactly one hour a day listening to academic scholars discuss “Literacy 2.0” and the Common Core State Standards until it was time to tan themselves, climb into helicopters, take surfing lessons on the beach at the Turtle Bay Resort, or sit at the beachside bar with McFlieger-Walsh marketing VPs. Dressler knew McGreevy was hoping the sale to New York City would end McFlieger-Walsh’s prolonged PR nightmare and jumpstart sales across the country. After all, where the biggest district in the country led, others were sure to follow.

  “Have you spoken to Dr. Barton since this happened?” McGreevy sipped his coffee.

  “No,” Dressler lied. “I thought I should stay below the radar for a while. Let her deal with her crisis. I’m sure she’s got her hands full.”

  McGreevy nodded. “That makes sense.”

  “But I’ll keep you posted if I hear anything.” Dressler stood. There was nothing more to say. He returned to the small office he used when he was in town and called Margery on his cell phone. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine.” She sounded calm and in control, and he wondered why he had even worried. Margery always knew how to handle her district. She was more confident than most of the men he knew. That was one of her qualities that turned him on the most.

  Chapter 23

  They found Eugene Bosco in a windowless storage closet on the first floor of Middle School 52. He was sitting at a long table tapping on a laptop keyboard as they entered the claustrophobic enclosure. “Mr. Bosco?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “I’m Detective Codella, and this is Detective Muñoz.”

  Bosco shut the laptop. A crinkled copy of the New York Times lay beside it along with an open can of Coke and a half-consumed packet of Double Stu
f Oreos. Stacked against the wall behind him were bulk-wrapped rolls of toilet paper and industrial-sized crates of hand soap. “Took you long enough to get here.”

  Apparently a professional demeanor was not required of suspended teachers given “temporary reassignments.” Coke had dribbled down the front of his wrinkled shirt, and he had not shaved for at least two days. His combed-back hair looked greasy, and his glasses were dirty.

  Codella ignored his sarcasm. “We want to ask you some questions.”

  “I bet you do.” He scratched his jaw, flicking his fingers upward against his whiskers to produce an unpleasant sandpaper sound. Codella’s father had done that, too.

  Muñoz pulled out two chairs on the opposite side of the table, and Bosco picked up his Oreos packet as they sat. His puffy fingers pinched one of the remaining cookies, and he slid it into his mouth whole like a miniature DVD. Then he sat back in the chair with his palms massaging his large stomach.

  “You saw Hector Sanchez the day he was murdered. You spoke to him that afternoon. What time was that?”

  “You mean when he blew up and suspended me?” He sniffed mucous into his throat while chewing the Oreo. “Honestly? I can’t remember.”

  “Try harder.” She leaned into the table and met his eyes.

  He shrugged. “Maybe two thirty.” A speck of cookie flew out of his mouth and landed next to a deep gouge in the table.

  “And who was there?”

  “Just Sanchez and his minion.”

  “His minion?”

  “Sofia Reyes. You haven’t heard about her yet? She and Sanchez are the dynamic duo. Changing the world of PS 777 education as we know it.”

  “Minion is a pretty unflattering description.”

  “I just say it like I see it.” He wiped his mouth and brushed his hands together. “Which is why I’m in this closet like a roll of toilet paper.”

  “You sound pretty angry, Mr. Bosco.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You’re fucking right I’m angry. He accuses me of sleeping on the job, which is bullshit. He takes me out of my classroom. And this is my temporary reassignment. You know what my big job was yesterday? Counting the rolls of toilet paper over there.” He gestured toward the wall. “The taxpayers of New York City are now paying me eighty-nine thousand dollars a year to count two-ply toilet paper. You’re a taxpayer, Detective. Should I thank you?”

  She ignored the question. “Were you angry enough at Sanchez to kill him?”

  Bosco pushed out his chair and stood. “Why do teachers always get the blame? We’re not the problem, you know. The problem,” he pointed his left index finger between her eyes like a gun barrel, “is rich people who won’t pay their fair share to support public education. If we weren’t spending all our tax dollars protecting oil in the Middle East, maybe we could have realistic class sizes and special programs for troublemakers like Miguel Espina. Then I could do my job. Instead, they make me babysit delinquents, and it’s all my fault when they do something wrong.” His teeth were clenched. His fist was so tight it was white.

  “You’re not answering my question, Mr. Bosco. Did you kill Hector Sanchez?”

  He leaned across the table and smashed his fist onto the wood surface right in front of her. “I wanted to. Oh, did I want to.”

  Codella glanced at Muñoz. The look said, Get ready.

  Muñoz stood. He towered over the suspended teacher. He said, “Please take your seat, Mr. Bosco.”

  “Fuck you!”

  “If you don’t take your seat and relax, you may end up inside a cell.”

  “Like I said, I’m already in one.”

  “I assure you this closet is luxurious compared to where we’ll take you.”

  Nice, thought Codella.

  Perspiration dripped down Bosco’s forehead, and he breathed like someone with a boot pressed into his chest. He collapsed into the chair and looked on the verge of crying. “I don’t deserve this. That bastard had no right to take me out of my classroom. He only did it because I had the guts to stand up to him. I’m the only one who wasn’t afraid to tell him to his face he was full of shit.”

  Codella felt an unwanted wave of sympathy for the man. She knew what it felt like to be confined, in her case to an aluminum pole and bed and constant fevers and infections. But he had done things to deserve his fate. “According to the reports I’ve heard, you were sleeping right in front of your class,” she reminded him.

  “Says who? That lazy security guard who can barely see past her layers of blubber? She’s a fucking liar.”

  “If you weren’t sleeping, how did Miguel Espina get up and walk out of the room without you noticing?”

  Bosco shook his head. “You’re as bad as he is. You all want to blame the teachers. Now you want to pin a murder on me, too. Well, go ahead. See if I care.”

  “Where did you go when you left the school on Monday afternoon?” she asked.

  “Home. Where else would I go?”

  “What time?”

  “I left at four o’clock. Ask Chris Donohue if you don’t believe me. She helped me clean out my desk.”

  “When did you get home?”

  “Five fifteen. I live in Bay Ridge. It’s a long ride.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “I live alone.”

  “Anybody see you on the way?”

  “Yeah. About five thousand other New Yorkers riding the MTA.”

  “That answer’s not going to prove your innocence.”

  “What’s the point of proving anything?” He laughed. “Is it gonna get me out of the storage room gulag?”

  “As Detective Muñoz just pointed out, there are far worse gulags than this.”

  “I didn’t touch the guy. You want me to take a lie detector?”

  “We’ll find out the truth, Mr. Bosco. Sooner or later. We always do.” She stood.

  Five minutes later, they were back in the car. “Man, was he on edge,” said Muñoz.

  She turned the ignition. “Yeah. He definitely has a short fuse and a persecution complex.”

  “You think he could have done it?”

  She shook her head. “Do you?”

  “He’s pretty small. Doesn’t fit Gambarin’s profile, but then he did bang all over that old lady’s car at the Triborough.”

  “Exactly. He’s the kind of guy who does things in the heat of the moment. He acts on impulse. But I don’t see him snapping the neck of a six-foot-two man like a trained professional. Besides, he’s left handed.”

  She pulled away from the curb while Muñoz pondered how she’d figured that out. “Let’s leave him on the back burner for now,” she said. “You and Portino check out the street footage. I’m going to check in with McGowan and then go meet the superintendent.”

  Chapter 24

  Codella was managing him better than he was managing her, McGowan thought when he looked up and saw her in his doorway. She had called him first thing this morning and now she was here to update him. She was playing by the book, giving him no possible reason to find fault with her.

  He would have preferred if she hadn’t called or come in. Then he’d have an excuse to take the case away from her. He could even start a paper trail to document her insubordination. A good paper trail might justify her demotion or reassignment to a low-profile precinct in an outer borough where he would never have to see her again. But she was too savvy. For all he knew, she had her own paper trail. And if it ever came to he said, she said in front of a review board, she could play the cancer card and score more points than him. He kicked himself for handing her this case on a silver platter. Now she was going to make them all look bad compared to her.

  She passed him a report, and he skimmed the pages while she sat across the desk from him and waited patiently. “You have no suspects.”

  “There are people of interest, but no,” she acknowledged, “I wouldn’t call any of them viable suspects. Not yet.”

  “This is too big for you.”

  “It’s
too big for the team I have,” she corrected him.

  “Let’s split it up between you and Fisk. Two teams. You run one, he’ll take the other.”

  She shook her head. “I need manpower, not a parallel team. It would be counterproductive to bifurcate the flow of information in this case. There’s not much forensic evidence to go on. We’re not going to solve this with fingerprints and fibers. And everybody’s got a different story to tell. This case needs someone to hear all the stories and listen to the silence, too.”

  He laughed. “What are you? A goddamn horse whisperer? You’re going to solve this by listening to the silence?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” She smiled. “I’m going to listen to what people don’t tell me.”

  He looked at his watch. Liverpool was kicking off in an FA Cup game in ten minutes, and he wanted to hear the pregame analysis. She had picked a lousy time to play the duteous detective. “So what kind of help do you want?”

  “I’ve got two computers to download. One of them’s still sitting in evidence. I have phone records to analyze. I need background checks on thirty-six parents who were in the building the day he died. And there are twenty-two teachers and eleven staff members to follow up on. I’ve got as many precinct detectives and officers assigned to the case as Reilly can spare, and I’ll take anything else I can get. I’d like to shift command up here and start holding briefings here.”

  She was putting him in an untenable position. He didn’t want her to succeed, but if she didn’t succeed, he would look very bad. He had thrown her the case, and she was doing her job. What choice did he have? But no one would want to work under her. When she had arrested Wainright Blake, she had made them all look ineffective by connecting the dots five other detectives—including Fisk and himself—had missed. “Send over the names you need analyzed. I’ll get your team together. You can hold your first briefing in . . .” He looked at his watch. The game would end at noon. “Let’s say two hours.”