Herbert Lieberman
CITY OF THE DEAD
For
José Quintero
The psychiatrist knows all and does nothing.
The surgeon knows nothing and does all.
The dermatologist knows nothing and does nothing.
The pathologist knows everything, but a day too late.
The woes of Mahatma are known to Mahatma alone.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
I would like to express my gratitude to Dr. Yong-Myun Rho, Deputy Chief Medical Examiner, City of New York, who served so graciously as technical adviser on this book.
»1«
The wail of sirens. Police cars screaming northward. Ambulances following in hot pursuit. Up ahead, the gray spidery latticework of the Queensboro Bridge. Across the water, the candy-striped chimneys of the Con Ed Ravenswood plant belching smoke skyward. Just beyond that, the ugly sprawl of the Queens skyline. Barges and tugs push sluggishly upriver. Gulls wheel and shriek overhead.
A blur of motion as the patrol cars plunge into the 90th Street overpass, whoosh through the dark wet shade, then burst into the sunlight on the other side. Startled, drivers veer off to the side, scurrying to get out of the way.
A left at 96th Street and west to Madison. From there, north and on up into Harlem—108th, 116th—then left at 126th into the huddled, dingy street of squalid, front-stoop tenements. This is the 6th Homicide zone—an area famed for the highest murder rate in the city of New York. Traffic clogs the trash-lined street. Ragtag schoolchildren, satchels of books, greasy bags of lunch, squealing and darting round the stoops, ecstatic with the unexpected excitement.
Up ahead, patrol cars nose their way in through waves of milling people—a soft wall reluctantly yielding before the wailing sirens, the rotating dome lights, and the black stub-nosed police vans.
The lead car wheels into an area cordoned off by ropes, the wail of its sirens slowly dying. The police forensic unit is already there, rear-receiving doors flung open. A dozen patrolmen struggle to hold back the surging crowd.
A tall, gray-haired man climbs out of the rear seat of the lead car, confronted suddenly by a wall of black faces—sullen, anxious, resentful.
“All right—step back—move back—move it on back.”
“Come on—let the man through.”
“This way, Chief.”
The crowd pauses, holds back a bit, as the tall, powerfully built man limps past. Then slowly it closes behind him. An ominous silence descends over the place. You can almost touch the resentment.
Inside 315 West 126th Street—a dingy hallway tattooed with street graffiti. Shaz 135—Cool Fezito 116—Mamasuck 139. The stench of fried fish and urine. Frightened eyes peering out the cracks of partially opened doorways; faces peering down over the crumbling banisters two stories above. The man they call the Chief ascends the stairs moving slowly up past and through the hushed crowd from one flight to the next.
“All right—let the man through.”
“This way, Chief. Right up here.”
“Who you shovin’, man?”
“Move it on, buster—move it on.”
“All right—everyone back inside. Go on back to bed. Have some breakfast How about it?”
The Chief is led down a choking, fetid corridor—raw garbage littering the floor, doors all shut, defaced by more graffiti; ushered finally to one apartment door that is open.
Inside, the place is already swarming with police and detectives. The periodic white flash of police cameras exploding; lab technicians on their knees dusting for prints; the intent and purposeful rasp of pencils as police artists scrawl diagrams onto sketch pads.
The Chief inches his way forward into what is obviously a bedroom. A soiled, bare mattress is flung across the floor. Over the mattress a single naked light bulb depends from a frayed electric cord. On a sheet of greasy paper beside the bed lies an uneaten piece of moldering fried fish.
“Mornin’, Chief.”
“All right, what d’ya got here, Flynn?”
“A goddamned mess.” Detective Sergeant Edward Flynn glowers about the squalid room. “That’s what I got here.”
“Spare me the huffing and puffing, will you?”
“Huffin’ and puffin’, my ass. Nine o’clock in the mornin’ and already I’m up to my eyeballs—six homicides, a pack of long-haired freaks walkin’ picket around the station house, and I’ve just had about a dozen Maalox.”
“I’m not interested in your problems, Flynn. I’ve got enough of my own. All right, where is it?”
“In the toilet,” Flynn sulks. “Follow your nose. You can’t miss it.”
Two beefy, strapping patrolmen step aside. The tall, gray-haired man enters an abhorrent little privy—a communal end-of-the-hall toilet in an end-of-the-line apartment—a dank, foul-smelling cubicle with peeling paint and a punched-out window to which lethal shards of glass still cling. Its main feature is a slimy porcelain tub with curved, incongruously elegant legs. The tub is half-filled with water, and in the water sits a handsome young black—late twenties—eyes open, jaw clamped tight, the mouth twisted into a hideous grin that makes him appear to be laughing at the ceiling. The handle of an ice pick projects from the center of his chest. Blood seeping from the wound has turned the tepid water around him to a pale rose.
The tall, gray-haired man mutters something, stoops painfully to his knee, and a moment later, with the flash bulbs popping and exploding all about him, he proceeds to examine the wound in the center of the chest. The pick has gone straight through the sternum, right up to the hilt.
“Beautiful, Flynn.”
“I knew you’d appreciate it.”
Still stooped there painfully beside the tub, the Chief jots notes hurriedly onto a pad. He notes the degree of rigor mortis in order to affix a time of death; examines the throat area for ligature marks; checks the whites of the eyes for traces of petechial hemorrhage.
Putting the note pad away in his inside pocket, his eye catches a small cut on the inside surface of the young man’s left wrist, another on the inside of the right thumb.
“Defense cuts,” the Chief murmurs to himself.
“Poor bastard didn’t have a chance,” remarks the detective hovering above him.
The Chief rises painfully to his feet. “All yours. When you’re finished, call my office. Have them wrap it up and send it down to me. Make sure they bind the hands. I want to examine those fingernails later today.”
Even as he moves out amid the flashing of police cameras, the lab technicians of the forensic unit are moving into the vile little privy, already on their knees before the wet, grinning figure in the tub, dusting the handle of the ice pick in his chest for prints.
Out in the hallway again, the crowd mutters and yields begrudgingly before the tall, gray-haired man.
“All right—go on home—it’s all over now.”
“Step back—let the man through.”
Two cops with a canvas bag move up past the Chief.
“Got time for one more?” asks Morello, Lieutenant of Detectives.
“Where is it?”
“Just a few blocks down—113th Street.”
“Okay,” the Chief sighs. “Let’s get over there.” He turns for a moment, staring back at the small, truculent figure of Detective Flynn scribbling into a pad. “Call me this afternoon, Flynn. I should have the serology reports by then. You go get this bastard now. And Flynn—get off the Maalox. It’s constipating.”