“I’m in a cultural wasteland with you mooks. Who was Enrico Caruso?” Mike cheered for himself when Trebek confirmed the question. “In 1906. The great tenor was arrested by the NYPD for ass-grabbing a society dame in the monkey house.”
“You learned that at the Academy?” Mercer asked. “I must have been dozing.”
“Nah. My dad loved Caruso. But Aunt Eunice wouldn’t let him listen to the records ’cause of what he did. She thought he was a perv. Convicted too. He testified at his trial that the monkey did it. How’s that for a new low?”
Mike was gathering up his papers to shift to the conference room adjoining Scully’s office.
“Fits with your orangutan theory,” Mercer said. “Let’s move out, okay?”
Nan and I left first. We had long ago ceased to be surprised by the black humor of homicide work. These were detectives who faced down the darkest corners of the human condition every day and found relief — like small air pockets for someone gasping for breath — in the most unlikely manner.
The group waiting for Scully had grown considerably in number. Lieutenant Peterson led the Manhattan North contingent, chatting with his South counterpart while the men — and one woman homicide cop — stood in clusters around the long table. Somehow, Manny Chirico was still wide-eyed and alert. I recognized guys from Anti-Crime and the Harbor Unit, Highway Patrol and Housing. The only people not invited seemed to be the Counter-Terrorism teams.
Lentini stepped out to make a call, clutching his ever-present clipboard. He was back in a minute. “Take your seats, men. The commissioner’s in the elevator.”
You could almost smell the testosterone in the room as the city’s best murder investigators staked out places and readied their notepads.
Sadly for the victims, not all homicides are created equal. The choice of religious institutions as this killer’s backdrop and tortured young women as his prey ratcheted up the level of interest and outrage of this select team. Gang members, junkies, and the great unwashed dead of the metropolitan area would be shuffled to back burners until this perp was caught.
“Thanks for your patience, men.” Keith Scully entered the room with his first dep and a second man carrying a laptop, and it was as though the spine of each of us around the table automatically stiffened as we mumbled some version of “good evening” to the commissioner. His professionalism was unmistakable, as was the ramrod straightness of his Marine bearing, physically and metaphorically.
I had known Scully for six or seven years, from the time when he had been chief of detectives, on the steady climb up the ladder to the top cop post, which was a mayoral appointment. He was tall and sinewy, with close-cut hair now gone silver, and as many creases etched into his face as there were constant crises thrown onto his lap.
“How many guys you got on this, Ray?” Lieutenant Peterson was the senior man in the room, so Scully started with him.
“A dozen, Keith.” The two privileges the old-timer was allowed were still addressing the commissioner by his first name and smoking his cigarettes inside headquarters. No one else dared do either.
“Double it. By tomorrow’s day shift. Same goes for all of you.”
“Manpower’s an issue,” Peterson said. “My men each got a full plate as it is, and then you sent that new directive about limiting overtime — which, I gotta say, pissed everybody off.”
“Tell them to eat their overtime. Shove it. You’ve got tonight to organize yourselves. Get a good meal and whatever rest you can in the next twelve hours. I don’t expect you to sleep again till you bring this guy down,” Scully said. “Your world turns upside down tomorrow when we let the media know we’ve got an ID on the victim.”
Manny Chirico pushed back from the table. The rest of us were riveted on Keith Scully.
“Her name is Ursula Hewitt.” Scully pointed to his tech aide, who flashed one of the crime-scene photos of her from his Power-Point file onto the wall screen.
If you hadn’t seen the body in the churchyard firsthand, there was nothing like a life-size color blowup to jump-start this crew for a full-on manhunt. I could hear the intake of breath and a few “holy shits” from around the table.
“Female Caucasian,” Scully went on, like he was calling cadence. “Thirty-nine years old. Born in Forest Hills. Flushing Boulevard. Attended church and parochial school there.”
Most of the men in the room were Catholic. That fact was probably intended to juice them a bit more.
“Our Lady Queen of Martyrs,” Mike whispered. He often said that New York and New Orleans were the only two cities in the country in which the devout identified themselves by their parish affiliations, rather than neighborhoods.
The next slide was a photograph of the young Hewitt from her high school yearbook, offering all the freshness and promise of youth. She was slimmer then, and the contrast between her slender neck and the slashed throat of the morning’s scene was horrifying.
“Ursula’s uncle called the mayor’s office at five twenty-three this evening. He lives in San Francisco, but he’s got a high school buddy who works at City Hall. She’d been staying with friends in Manhattan but never made it home last night. It was his birthday, and she was certain to call. Then he heard about the body at St. Pat’s on the radio, but he thought he didn’t have enough reason to call the police. Just that it was one of her favorite churches, which snagged his radar. We went over to compare photographs from the scene with the one from her last visit that her uncle scanned in to his friend at City Hall.”
The next picture went up on the third screen. It was a more recent image of Ursula Hewitt, dressed in flowing clerical vestments. The floor-length alb of white linen was perfectly draped over her, with a scarlet stole on her shoulders that ran down the length of the garment, and a large cross around her neck.
“This is Ursula Hewitt,” Scully said, his lips clamped tightly together as he paused. “Three years ago, when she was ordained as a Catholic priest.”
There was dead silence in the room as we all took in the photo, till a split second later when one of the guys from Manhattan South broke in with a nervous laugh. “Hey, chief. We don’t got lady priests. We got nuns.”
Keith Scully didn’t brook interruptions.
“Ursula Hewitt was a Catholic priest. She was ordained in a neighborhood church in Back Bay, Boston. She even celebrated Mass a few times at Old St. Pat’s.”
Most of the men looked perplexed, as surprised as I was to hear that fact.
“She was excommunicated by the Vatican a year later, because of that ordination. So we’ve got another outcast on our hands, gentlemen,” Scully said. “Another pariah.”
TWENTY-FIVE
“FORM your pods, guys,” Scully said. “Put your working groups together tonight, figure out a way to keep each other up to speed on anything you discover — one from each team who can be the contact person — and report to the first dep every couple of hours, even if to say you’ve got nothing new. Nobody talks to reporters except Guido. Nobody.”
“The vic’s uncle, Keith. He got any ideas?” Peterson asked.
“The usual. She’s had stalkers, hate mail from the faithful, and worse from the Vatican. He was keeping close tabs on her because she was getting overwhelmed by the way she’d been treated.” The commissioner was going in ten directions at once. “You’re not only looking for the perp himself — or maybe it’s more than one person. Find me an abattoir — a slaughterhouse, a cage of some kind, a basement or rooftop, maybe a commercial van he’s turned into his chop shop. Check for stolen vehicles. A place these killings happen without this bastard calling attention to himself.”