She decided to leave the fireman’s destruction to the reporters hailing him from the other side of the crime-scene tape. Cameras closed in on Zappata’s face as he strolled up to a cluster of microphones and a rapt audience of vultures from the press corps. Now he shared with them every rule and procedure he had personally violated to run the show tonight – and run it wrong.
Mallory walked down the steps to the cement enclosure and stood before the basement window. From this better angle, she could see one end of the rope anchored to a closet doorknob. The floor beneath the chandelier was clear of any object that might have been used for a makeshift gallows.
She could picture the killer placing a noose around the woman’s neck and pulling the other end of the rope to raise her body from the ground. The victim’s legs were not bound. She would have struggled and tried to run across the floor, then kept on running, feet pedaling the air until she died.
The murderer was male – an easy call. This hanging had required upper-body strength. And Mallory knew there had been no passion between the victim and her killer. When a man truly loved a woman, he beat her to death with his fists or stabbed her a hundred times.
She was looking at her partner’s back as Riker bent down to grab something from the water. When the man turned around, his hands were empty, and he was closing the button on his suit jacket. If she had not seen this, she would never have believed it. Riker was a dead-honest cop.
What did you steal?
And why would he risk it?
Riker joined the others, and they moved away from the body. None of them noticed when a young man entered the basement room. Zappata’s nemesis, the rookie detective with bright yellow hair, approached the gurney and leaned over the victim. Mallory saw a wet wad of blond hair come away in his hand as he removed the packing from the corpse’s mouth.
That chore belonged to a crime-scene technician.
You idiot.
What else could go wrong tonight?
The young cop blocked Mallory’s view as he leaned over the dead white face, as though to kiss it.
What are you doing?
In the next moment, he was straddling the body.
What the -
The fool was pumping the victim’s chest, performing emergency first aid on a dead woman. Now he grinned and shouted, ‘She’s alive!’
No! No! No!
Three detectives whirled around. The horrified pathologist moved toward the gurney. Riker was quicker. Hunkering down beside the victim, he held one finger to her nostrils. ‘Oh shitl She’s breathing!’ In a rare show of anger, Riker’s hands balled into fists, and he yelled at the younger man, ‘Do you know what you’ve done?’ Unspoken were the words, You moron.
Too much time had elapsed since the woman’s death. An inexperienced cop had just turned a perfectly good corpse into a useless vegetable.
The chief medical examiner broke the silence of the hospital room with a dry pronouncement that ‘Human vivisection is illegal in all fifty states.’ Dr Edward Slope had the physical authority of a tall gray general. This impression persisted despite the tuxedo, a physician’s Gladstone bag and heavy sarcasm in the presence of a dying woman. The pale patient swaddled in bed-sheets took no offense. The involuntary movement of her eyes was mere illusion of awareness. ‘I say the autopsy can wait until she’s dead.’
‘That’s just a technicality,’ said Riker. ‘She used to be dead.’ And all the detective needed was a superficial exam by this man, whose word was never questioned in court.
‘She’ll die again soon enough.’ The medical examiner held up a clipboard and read the patient’s chart. ‘Her attending physician has a note here, „Do not resuscitate.“ She’s brain-dead. Give her another ten hours without life support. That’ll kill her.’ He turned to the bald man beside Riker. ‘Loman, bring the body to my dissection room in the morning. But first – check for a pulse.’
Lieutenant Loman seemed close to death himself. A virus epidemic in the East Village precinct had short-staffed his squad, and the longer duty hours were showing in his bloodshot eyes and pasty flesh. ‘Not my case, Doc’ Loman clapped one hand on Sergeant Riker’s shoulder. ‘It’s his body now.’
‘No way!’ said Mallory. And now, for Loman’s benefit, she glared at the patient, clearly estimating the value of a comatose hooker as being right up there with a dead cat.
‘It’s your case, kid.’ The lieutenant’s voice was still in that cautionary zone of rumbling thunder. ‘A deal is a deal. Sparrow was Riker’s snitch. He wants the body.’
Mallory gave Riker the squad’s camera, as if she might need two free hands to finish this fight. She turned to face Loman. ‘So a John strings up his hooker. That’s not a case for Special Crimes, and you know it.’ As an afterthought, she remembered to say, ‘Sir,’ then promptly abandoned the protocol for speaking with command officers. ‘Palm it off on the cops in Arson.’
‘The guy’s a freaking psycho!' Lieutenant Loman moved away from the bed and advanced on Mallory, yelling, ‘Jesus Christ! Look at what he did to her!’
What remained of the victim’s hair was a fright wig of wild spikes, and saliva dribbled from her lips. Adding to this portrait of dementia, her eyes rolled back and forth like shooting marbles.
Riker drew the curtains around the bed, closeting himself with the patient and the medical examiner. ‘Just a quick look, okay?’
‘No,’ said Dr Slope. ‘Tie a note to one of her toes so I’ll know who won the body. I’m late for a dinner party.’
Beyond the flimsy curtain, a fast, light rapping on the door escalated to two-fisted banging, then stopped abruptly. Riker could hear muffled words of argument from the guard he had posted in the hall. When the banging resumed, Mallory raised her voice to be heard above the racket. She was telling Lieutenant Loman, thanks anyway, but he could keep the dying whore. To his credit, the man never pulled rank on her when he went ballistic, shouting that he was understaffed, that his men were stacking up corpses in a heat wave when tempers were exploding and homicide rates soared.
August was a busy season for cops and killers.
Dr Slope had formed a shrewd guess about the incessant banging on the door. His wry smile said, Gotcha. ‘The attending physician wouldn’t allow his patient to be stripped for an audience of cops. Am I right?’ He stared at the camera in Riker’s hand, as if he suspected the detective of being a closet pornographer.
‘The doctor’s a kid, an intern,’ said Riker. ‘Even if he did the exam – what good is his testimony in court?’
The door-banging was louder now, accompanied by shouts of ‘Let me in, you bastards!'
Dr Slope dropped his smile. ‘And that would be our earnest young doctor trying to get to his patient. Any idea how many laws you’re breaking tonight?’
‘Well, yeah – I’m a cop.’
Riker heard the door open. Mallory was speaking to the young doctor in the hallway, saying, ‘This is a hospital. Keep the noise down.’ The door slammed, and her bargaining with Lieutenant Loman resumed. ‘I’ve got my own problems with manpower,’ she said. ‘I’d need at least three of your men to make it worth my while.’
‘You’re nuts! NutsF The lieutenant’s voice was cracking. If Mallory had not been Markowitz’s daughter, he would have slammed her into the wall by now.
Behind the thin protection of the curtain, Riker lowered his voice to plead with the chief medical examiner. ‘Just five minutes? A fast exam, a few samples for – ’