Acevedo shook his head. “My dad will be angry.”
The statement caught the women off guard. “Because you’ve been arrested?” Watkins asked.
Felix shook his head again. “Because lawyers cost money.”
The women smiled. “That’s okay, Felix,” Watkins said. “We’re going to help you for free. All you have to do is tell us the truth. Remember, we’re your lawyers; anything you tell us is a secret and we won’t tell anyone else without your permission.”
Acevedo looked troubled. “I told the truth but they didn’t believe me.”
“Who didn’t believe you?” Marlene asked.
“The detectives.”
Marlene leaned across the table. “Were you telling the truth when you said you killed Dolores Atkins, Olivia Yancy, and Beth Jenkins?”
“They said I did.”
“That’s not what I asked you, Felix,” Marlene said gently. “Did you kill those women?”
Felix looked frightened for a moment. Then he shook his head as tears sprang into his eyes. “I didn’t kill nobody. I would never hurt no ladies.” He looked around fearfully as if he expected the detectives to materialize. “They showed me horrible photographs and said I did that to those ladies. I just wanted them to stop. Now I can’t sleep. I have nightmares… And it’s terrible in here. It smells bad and people are mean. And at night… at night… they scream and cry. Please, can I go home?”
It took the women a few minutes to get Felix to calm down. When he finally relaxed a little, Marlene asked him to recall everything he could beginning the night before his arrest. Although Alejandro had told her about Acevedo’s special ability, they were both surprised at the detail of his recollections of what had happened, especially conversations. He seemed to recall these verbatim-from the confrontation with the coat-check girl’s boyfriend to his conversations with Garcia and the police officers who arrested him.
The two women had not yet seen the transcripts of his alleged confession to Graziani and the Q amp; A statement he gave to the assistant district attorney; because of the magnitude of the investigation the DA was still gathering the voluminous police reports to give to the defense. Yet he repeated the back-and-forth between himself and the detectives as though he’d memorized lines from a play.
“I told Detective Graziani that I wasn’t at Olivia’s apartment and he said, ‘You’re lying, Felix. We showed a witness your mug shot; he’s sure it was you he saw coming out of the apartment building. Don’t bullshit me, Felix.’”
Marlene and Alea Watkins had exchanged looks at the mention of a witness claiming to have seen Felix leaving the apartment building. “What did you say then?” Watkins asked.
“I said, ‘Okay, I won’t.’ And he said, ‘You remember being in Olivia’s apartment, right?’”
Acevedo sighed and slumped down in his seat. “I just wanted him to stop asking me questions so I told him, ‘Yeah. I remember now. Olivia. She’s my girlfriend.’”
Marlene and Watkins looked at each other in alarm. This was a new twist. “Your girlfriend?” Marlene asked.
“That’s what he said, too,” Felix replied.
“Olivia was your girlfriend?”
Acevedo started to nod his head but then stopped and covered his face with his hands. “I don’t have a girlfriend,” he said. “I don’t know any Olivias. I hope Maria Elena will go out with me someday.” He wagged his head sadly back and forth. “She probably won’t now that I’m in trouble with the police.”
Marlene reached across the table and patted his hand. “I’m sure she’ll understand when we clear this up,” she said, earning herself a shy smile. “But right now we need to know why you told the police that you killed these women.”
Acevedo looked miserable. “Because they wanted me to,” he said. “And they were angry at me. I thought it would make them stop being mad.” He hesitated and looked at her with his one good eye. “Are you angry at me, too? What should I have said?”
“No, we’re not angry, Felix,” Marlene said, trying to reassure him. “We’re not ever going to get angry, but we need you to tell us the truth, not what you think we want to hear. Okay?”
Acevedo brightened. “Okay.”
That’s when Marlene asked him about the ring. The details of the case against him had already been leaked to the press and then pontificated upon by the so-called talking-head TV experts, who focused on his confession and a mention of the engagement ring found on his person that had allegedly belonged to Olivia Yancy.
Acevedo smiled at the mention of the ring. “I told Detective Graziani I bought it from Al in the park. But he didn’t believe me. He said, ‘You know what, Felix? I think you’re lying about that. I think you took the ring from Olivia Yancy.’ I told him, ‘No, I bought it from Al. It’s for my girlfriend.’ But he said I cut it off of Olivia Yancy’s finger.”
The thought that “Al” might be the killer who cut the ring from Olivia Yancy’s hand quickly crossed Marlene’s mind. Of course, if the cops were doing their jobs, they would have already checked that out and discounted the story. But I still need to follow up, she thought. It wouldn’t be the first time a detective got lazy when he thought he had a case wrapped.
“Do you know where I can find Al?” she asked.
“I see him at Mullayly Park.”
“What does he look like?”
“He’s got a lot of pimples,” Acevedo replied. “And white hair.”
“White hair? Is he old?” Watkins asked.
“He’s older than me but not old. I think it’s not his real hair color.”
“So he dyes his hair,” Marlene said. “How tall is he? Is he fat or skinny?”
“A little taller than me. Skinny.” Acevedo hesitated then spoke. “Am I giving the right answers?”
“Are you telling me the truth?” Marlene asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you’re fine,” Marlene replied. “Was anybody else there when he sold you the ring?”
Acevedo thought about it. “No,” he said. But he must have noticed the disappointment on Marlene’s face because he’d quickly added, “But Raymond was there when Al told me I should buy it for my girlfriend.” Acevedo scowled. “Raymond made fun of me. He said I didn’t have a girlfriend. He might know how to find Al.”
Which is what had brought Marlene and her dog to the park. “Well, Raymond,” Marlene responded to the black kid’s question. “My name is Marlene Ciampi, and I’m a private investigator working on behalf of Felix Acevedo, who you may have heard has been arrested.”
A short Hispanic girl with heavy makeup stepped up next to Raymond. “Yeah, I heard that he cut up some women, which sounded strange to me. I mean, he’s a wimp. I could kick his ass without hardly trying.”
Marlene chuckled. “I bet you could. I don’t believe he’s guilty, either, but to prove it, I may need your help.”
“How’s that?” Raymond asked.
“Well, for one thing, does anybody remember Felix buying a ring from somebody named Al a couple of weeks ago?”
The Hispanic girl started to say something but Raymond stepped in front of her. “Maybe. But this ain’t no tourist booth. Information here costs money.”
Marlene reached in her purse and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “I need twenty dollars’ worth of information,” she said, holding the bill over Gilgamesh’s muzzle. “But it better be good if you want to get paid without losing some fingers.”
Raymond looked from the bill to the dog, who gave a low growl. “Yeah, I remember a dude was trying to get him to buy a ring. Felix said it was for his girlfriend, and I gave him shit about it ’cause he ain’t got no girlfriend. The man’s cherry, if you know what I mean.”
“And this guy with the ring, do you know his name?” Marlene asked, handing over the twenty-dollar bill.
“It’s something Spanish, like Jose,” Raymond replied.
“It’s Jesus… Jesus Guerrero,” the girl said, correcting him. “He tried to
hit on me, like I’d do that pizza-faced rat.”
“How would I find him?” Marlene asked.
Raymond gave her a sly smile. “I sure can tell you how to find him,” he said. “But it’s going to cost you ten more.”
Marlene dug in her purse for another ten dollars. “Okay, where’s he at?”
Raymond laughed as he took the money and looked over her shoulder. “He’s heading this way right now.”
16
As he waited for Ray Guma to settle into his favorite chair next to the bookshelf, Karp considered what he’d gleaned from reading the Yancy-Jenkins case file over the weekend. And he was none too happy about it.
Reading for several hours at a time, he digested the entire case file, including the autopsies and toxicology reports, the transcript of the defendant’s taped confession to Detective Graziani, and the Q amp; A statement subsequently given to ADA Danielle Cohn, as well as the initial police reports and supplemental detective investigative reports, known as DD-5s. All told there were some 1,500 pages worth of DD-5s, including a chronology of the events leading to Acevedo’s arrest in the Bronx and subsequent interrogations.
Guma had dropped by the loft Sunday evening after arriving back in town and getting the news about Acevedo’s arrest and indictment. Karp handed him the case file. “Let me know your thoughts tomorrow afternoon” was all he’d said.
Guma had just entered the office-after a quick flirtation with Darla Milquetost-and tossed the case file on Karp’s desk. He then plopped down in the chair and pulled out an enormous cigar. He was no longer allowed to smoke the Diplimatico, both for health reasons and because smoking was not allowed inside any public building in Manhattan. But he still enjoyed chewing on stogies and complaining about “the meddling politically-correct antismoking Nazis.”
“So?” Karp asked when his longtime friend and colleague quit admiring the cigar and stuck it in his mouth.
“So… I think someone screwed the pooch,” Guma responded. “I didn’t get to read the Acevedo stuff as carefully as I would have liked, but what I did is bullshit. I could start with the so-called confessions. I think it’s pretty clear that Acevedo was led to the poisoned well, but why’d he drink the water? The detective got in his face-a little huffing and puffing and a few threats-and when he wasn’t getting the answers he wanted, nothing physical or anything that could be deemed overtly coercive or inappropriate took place. And there’s almost no pressure from Cohn when she took his Q amp; A statement, which is spot-on with what he told the detective. With very little prodding, Acevedo followed the detective’s lead and then stuck to it with Danielle. I find that curious.”
Guma stopped talking and placed the cigar back in his mouth, closing his eyes as though gathering his thoughts. Or tired, Karp thought. He noted how his friend’s once thick and wavy dark hair was now thin and white, the formerly muscular baseball player’s body thin and frail-all casualties of the cancer that had nearly killed him.
The night before, Guma had admitted that he felt old, which was unusual for him. The cancer had beat him “like a rented mule,” he’d said, and he’d never regained the energy levels he had before chemotherapy. “But it’s not that so much. It’s this shit,” he said, holding up the case file. “I’m tired of crime scenes and the tears of moms and dads, fathers, husbands, wives, and especially the children. Tired of all the wasted lives. Tired of the excuses and the senseless brutality. It’s just wearing on my heart and soul.”
Concerned, Karp said, “You don’t have to do this anymore, Goom. You fought the good fight. You could retire.”
“Yeah?” Guma asked. “Lay down the sword and fade away, forget about fighting the bad guys? Forget about justice? Could you?”
Karp smiled and shook his head. “No. Guess we’re in this until they kick us out.”
“Or we die with our boots on, whichever comes first,” Guma said, laughing.
Tired or not, Guma’s dark brown eyes were still bright with intelligence when he opened them again in Karp’s office and said, “But there’s a bigger problem than leading questions and threatening a suspect with the death penalty.”
“The ring,” Karp said grimly.
“Yeah, the ring,” Guma said in agreement. “I figured you’d seen it and that was why you wanted me to speed-read the file.”
“Yep,” Karp replied. “There’s nothing in the DD-5s to corroborate that the ring found on Acevedo is the same ring taken from Olivia Yancy. No report that says the ring was ever shown to her husband to confirm or deny. The single most important piece of evidence in the entire case against Acevedo and we have no idea if it’s even true. It’s a house of cards.”
Guma raised a bushy eyebrow. “The press is going to town on this one, and someone is feeding them juicy tidbits, probably the ‘hero’ detective. They’ve got the public convinced that we’ve got the Columbia U Slasher off the streets. If this makes the media look like fools-more than the usual amount-they’re going to be pissed. And it’s not going to be fun if this falls apart.”
Karp scowled and stood up. “I could give a rat’s ass about the press. We’ve got a young guy locked up and charged with murder, and he could be innocent as far as we know because there’s nothing in here”-he slammed a hand on the file folder-“that corroborates his guilt. I need some answers, and fast.” Karp turned to look out the window onto the teeming sidewalks and streets below.
He turned back to Guma. “How many times have I said whenever we have a confession from a defendant or an admission of culpability that we need other evidence connecting the defendant to the crime?” he said. “That’s the very basic rudiment of corroboration. And in a case like this-a high-profile case that serves as a window for the public to see into the justice system-we didn’t even begin to check the provenance of the ring.”
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Guma asked, already starting to stand up from his chair.
Karp turned and nodded. “Go get the ring out of the evidence safe,” he said.
“I’m on it,” Guma answered, heading out of the office as Karp picked up the desk phone and punched in a number.
When a familiar voice picked up on the other end, he said, “Clay, do me favor, get a car and meet me and Goom out front in a half hour; we’re going to take a drive up to Columbia University to see Professor Dale Yancy. Thanks.”
Twenty-five minutes later, Karp and Guma walked out of the Criminal Courts Building and up to the curb, where a black sedan with tinted windows waited. They climbed in, Guma in front and Karp in back. Sitting in the driver’s seat, Clay Fulton, the head of the NYPD detective squad assigned to the DAO, turned around. “Any stops along the way?” he asked.
Karp thought about it for a moment and nodded. “Take us to the crime scene first.” Fulton stepped on the gas and not long after that Karp sat gazing up at the dingy ten-story apartment building where less than a year earlier Olivia Yancy and Beth Jenkins had been butchered. He imagined their terror and their helplessness, knowing they were going to die, anticipating the painful cuts and vicious blows. The killer raping Olivia even as she bled out.
With an effort, he pulled his mind away from the crime scene photographs indelibly fixed in his mind’s eye, unclenched his fists, and looked around. The savagery was so incongruous with the scene surrounding him on a warm afternoon in May.
In many ways, the Morningside Heights neighborhood on the Upper West Side of Manhattan resembled a small town more than the urban jungle usually associated with Gotham. Gentrified over the past four decades, the streets were lined with apartment buildings and row houses, but there were no skyscrapers in sight. And the street-level spaces were filled by small cafes, fresh produce grocers, florists, and boutique coffee shops.
In some ways, Morningside had a similar feel to the Lower East Side’s Alphabet City with its more laid-back atmosphere and ranks of casually dressed pedestrians. Quite a difference from the hectic pace of the business-suited men and women in the Financial District and Mi
dtown’s Madison Avenue. Absent the glitz of the opposite end of the island, Morningside attracted a smaller percentage of tourists who were more likely to be students and faculty of one of a half dozen higher education institutions in the neighborhood.
In fact, Morningside Heights was sometimes referred to as “the Academic Acropolis” due to the number of educational institutions packed into the section of New York that ran north to south from 125th Street to 106th and was framed by Riverside Drive on the west and Morningside Drive on the east. Within those boundaries were Barnard College, Union Theological Seminary, New York Theological Seminary, the Jewish Theological Seminary of America, the Manhattan School of Music, Teachers College, Bank Street College of Education, and, of course, the neighborhood’s biggest landowner and star resident, Columbia University.
Morningside was the sort of neighborhood where professors led informal discussions on the scientific questions of the day at the PicNic Market and Cafe or debated books and philosophy at the Greek restaurant aptly named Symposium. And jazz fans could find top-notch students and professors taking to the stage at the Smoke jazz lounge.
It was hard to imagine such a brutal crime had been committed there, and Karp wanted the guy who did it. The right guy, he thought before saying aloud, “Thanks, Clay. I just wanted to see this place for myself. Let’s head over to the university. Darla Milquetost called and Mr. Yancy is in class, but he’ll be done in thirty minutes and I want to catch him before he leaves.”
Karp was quiet for a moment then addressed Fulton. “Clay, do you remember when we first met?” Karp asked.
“The LeRoi Rodriguez case, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Karp reminisced, “I was brand-new to the DAO and working in the criminal courts under the inimitable Mel Glass. Man, he was special. But in my class of seventeen ADAs out of eight hundred applicants, I always figured that I was number seventeen. Everybody else seemed to have come from some big-name law school, including Fordham and St. John’s. And all of them had more practical experience working in courtrooms than a grad of the Boalt Hall School of Law at UC-Berkeley whose professors were long on theory and short on practicality. Anyway, I knew I had some catching up to do, so when Mel would ask who wanted to volunteer to handle the competency hearings over at Bellevue Hospital, I raised my hand.”
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