Had the shooter approached the vic, shot him point-blank, or had the shots been fired from a distance?
“Any witnesses?” she asked one of her detectives, Vinnie Dugan, a pug-nosed Irishman who’d expected to get Terri’s job and hadn’t gotten it. He’d been going through the crowd, which wasn’t that big, maybe twenty people who had been awakened by police sirens at 2:00 A.M. Had it been earlier, and a different neighborhood, this sort of spectacle would have been SRO.
“Nada,” said Dugan. “And no one heard the shots.”
But someone had to have the heard shots! Terri took another look at the quiet residential street. Had the shooter used a silencer? And if so, why? Was it some sort of paid hit? But that didn’t make sense. And there was another drawing, another fucking drawing.
Terri tapped a CS tech. “Have you checked the vic’s shirt for anything that could have gotten on it when the drawing was pinned onto him?”
The guy looked insulted by the question. “Of course.”
“And you’ve got the pin, right?”
He displayed a plastic bag, the pin inside.
The medical examiner swabbed the dead man’s forehead with a Q-tip and zipped it into a bag. “The lab will do further tests for GSR, but right now I’m saying there’s residue.”
Terri studied the victim’s position and turned to the photographer. “Can you get a shot of the vic from both east and west? Full-body shots. Pictures of the street too-and the crowd.” She turned to survey them, the outer fringes already breaking down, people returning to the comfort of their homes, which surprised her. Most people did not leave until the body had been bagged and taken away, the best part of the show. She figured things weren’t moving fast enough for them, no close-ups, no snappy dialogue. She signaled to Dugan.
“Who’s doing the canvass?”
“Detectives from the Twenty-third,” he said. “It’s their beat, remember?”
“And part of our investigation,” said Terri. “Take a uniform and start on the north side of the block.” She gestured to her other men. “O’Connell, you and Perez can work the south.”
“People up here don’t like being awakened in the middle of the night,” said Perez.
“Like I give a shit?” Terri sighed. “Look, guys, I know it’s late. I’d like to be home in bed as much as you. Tell you what, finish up here, meet me at the station, and I’ll treat you to breakfast.”
“As long as it’s a real one,” said O’Connell. “None of that Egg McMuffin crap.”
“You got it.” Terri watched them walk away. Maybe they wouldn’t be calling her bitch behind her back, which she knew they’d been doing her first few months on the job. She wondered where Denton was. Off screwing one of his interns, her best guess. He’d be pissed that he had missed a photo op. The press had just arrived, TV reporters hooking up mikes, film crews angling for shots as CS finished up and EMT finally bagged the body.
She glanced over at the man who had discovered the body, a young guy who had been to a bachelor party, reeling a bit as if his feet were glued to the ground and his body tugged by opposing magnets. He hadn’t seen anyone, just the body. He’d probably tripped over it.
One decent witness, was that too much to ask? Someone who had seen something, who could sit down with Rodriguez and let him do his transference thing, his magic.
Terri’s adrenaline was starting to ebb, replaced by an empty sinking feeling.
Hell, it would have to be real magic if they did not have a witness. After all, Rodriguez could not make up a face from thin air.
10
Perry Denton’s office had the look of an important man, leather and brass, a wall of books that Terri knew he’d never more than glanced at. He’d had it redecorated when he assumed the job because, he’d told Terri, the chief of department had to set the right tone.
“So where were you last night?”
“Busy,” said Denton. “Is that why you’re here, to ask me where I was? I don’t have time to run to every crime scene, Russo, that’s not my job.”
“Sorry, I was simply asking. I thought…” She let it go, glanced at the Post and News on Denton’s desk. The murder had made both morning editions. A man shot dead on the Upper East Side was the sort of story that made New Yorkers uncomfortable. They didn’t notice if someone was gunned down in Harlem, but this sort of thing didn’t happen in their neighborhoods, and when it did, they wanted answers.
The PD had managed to keep the victim’s name out of the papers, and, more important, the drawing. If the press got hold of that piece of information, it would be a field day. And it was only a matter of time before some eager reporter sniffed it out. They always did. Terri knew it. Denton knew it too.
She turned the Post around to read it and Denton stopped her, his hand on top of hers.
“Is there a reason you’re here, Russo?”
She slipped her hand out from his and laid the sketch on his desk.
“What’s this?”
“A sketch by one of your men, a freelancer, a cop. Nate Rodriguez.”
“Yeah, I know who he is. Sketch artist. So what?”
“So the perp was caught. Detectives say they picked him up by the sketch alone.”
“Meaning what?
That it was a good sketch?”
“More than a good sketch. A great sketch. Perp’s been booked. Witness positive ID’d him.”
“So it was a great sketch.” Denton looked perplexed.
“Well, Rodriguez is an asset, a good cop.”
“What’s your point, Russo?”
“Rodriguez is being underused.”
Denton grinned. “Meaning you have an idea about how he should be used, that it?”
“Yes.” Terri took a deep breath. “I’d like to take him with me, let him talk to a few people around each of these vics, the ones found with the drawings-”
“Rodriguez? On the street? You shitting me?”
“No.”
“Wait a minute.” Denton leered. “What is it? You sweet on the guy?”
“Sweet on the guy? You been reading romance novels, Perry? But for the record, no, I’m not sweet on him. I think he can help with the investigation, that’s all. He’s a cop with a special talent.”
“A cop who spent what, three days on the job?”
Terri tried to collect her thoughts. She’d done her homework, stayed up late reading the files: Rodriguez’s college and police academy records, references from his stay at Quantico, all excellent. “He was top of his class, aced every course, Crime Scenes, Elements of Proof, Interviews and Interrogations, Communications-”
“I know the course work, Russo. So what?”
“There are letters in his file from over a dozen academy instructors, all testifying to the guy’s talent. Before the academy there was Hunter College, double major in psychology and art.” She put a hand up to keep Denton from interrupting. “And of course there’s the Quantico forensic art course, which included profiling, more psychology, more interview techniques, plus commendations from every Quantico instructor.”
“But the guy’s got no street creds, and-”
“I’m not asking him to shoot anyone. I just want him to do what he does, draw. You ever look at the stats on his success rate? One of two of his drawings has resulted in an arrest.”
“I’m impressed,” said Denton, voice flat.
“You should be. Half the PDs in the States call him in to do freelance work for them, Seattle, L.A., next week the Boston PD. We’re lucky to have him.” She paused to let that sink in. “Maybe he can come up with a sketch, a composite of our unsub.”
“But nobody’s seen our unsub; remember that part, Russo?”
“All I’m asking is to let me take Rodriguez to meet a few of the witnesses who-”