‘‘I can see that. Lividity’s on her butt.’’ Vander Roon is old-school. Gloves on, he crouches beside the body, nostrils twitching. ‘‘Poor little thing.’’ He takes his thermometer from his bag, rolls the body onto her side.
‘‘We’ve got her clothes, tossed around like someone was having a good time.’’
Vander Roon grunts. ‘‘Value judgment?’’ He checks the vic’s eyes for hemorrhages.
‘‘Not me, Larry. Just an observation.’’
He squints up at her. ‘‘You look a little green around the gills, Rosen. You-?’’
‘‘Larry, just deal with the vic.’’ Regrets the snappish tone. ‘‘Sorry. Can you estimate time of death?’’
Vander Roon shifts his weight. His bad knees will have him limping when he gets up. ‘‘Some of this is old stuff.’’
‘‘Antemortem?’’
‘‘That and ante antemortem. I gotta get her on the table.’’ He checks the reading on the thermometer. ‘‘Given loss of body heat, even taking into account roasting up here, the stage of rigor, lividity, I’d say twelve to fourteen hours.’’
‘‘Gunshot wound? Asphyxial? What? Beating? That head wound looks bad.’’
‘‘Even minor head wounds bleed a lot. Like this one.’’
‘‘Can you tell if she died here or was dumped?’’
‘‘She died here.’’
‘‘Found something,’’ Noriega says. ‘‘Looks like what’s left of a pill. You want to see it up close?’’
‘‘Let’s have a look,’’ Vander Roon says. He removes his gloves and drops them into a container in his bag. ‘‘Give me a hand, will you, Rosen?’’
Molly takes his elbow and he leans into her. The old guy weighs a ton. Good thing she’s a big girl. ‘‘Mark the place and bring it here,’’ she tells Noriega. ‘‘Then see if anyone even vaguely of her description’s been reported missing.’’
Vander Roon looks at the mashed remains of a pill in Molly’s palm. ‘‘If it’s hers, and it’s important, we’ll find it in the tox screen.’’
Molly’s cell rings. ‘‘Rosen.’’ She sees Crime Scene unloading their gear in the parking lot. ‘‘Crime Scene just got here.’’
‘‘I’ll stick around,’’ Vander Roon says. ‘‘When they’re through, my people will take her away.’’
‘‘Noriega, you, too. When the body is removed, get pictures of the area around and under where she was.’’ Molly’s distracted, phone to her ear. ‘‘What? Where? Okay, I’m on my way.’’ She pockets the cell. ‘‘Patrol found two EDPs on 14th under the viaduct fighting over a woman’s purse.’’
Emotionally Disturbed Persons.
Zachary lives in a cardboard box under the viaduct. He’s been on the street in New York since he left the VA hospital in Baltimore. Tossed the pills they gave him for the voices the minute he got out. Can’t rememberhow he ended up in New York, but what the fuck difference does it make anyway? He’s got a home here, fixed up real nice, with a mattress he found outside a brownstone on 20th. He sits all day in front of the Chelsea Hotel on 23rd. That’s his place. People put money in his bowl, which says Purina. He gets real mean if someone tries to move in on him.
Sometimes when it’s real hot, he climbs the fence to the High Line and sleeps in the grass. The grass is sweet. But then it’s not. He smells it. He goes looking for it, though he doesn’t want to. He never leaves his platoon, even when it’s real bad. He isn’t going to run now. It’s a girl. Not a gook neither. They took her out. She smells like Nam. Rotting dog meat. Nothing he can do. He backs away and falls on his ass. Lays still a long time, waiting for the blast. Nothing happens. He sits up and there it is. A purse. He grabs it up and takes off.
When he gets to his crib, there’s filthy bare feet sticking out of it, laying on his mattress. He goes nuts. It’s that acidhead been hanging out under the viaduct.
‘‘Hey!’’ He kicks the feet hard. ‘‘Get the fuck outa my crib.’’
The feet pull back. Otherwise, nothing. Zachary reaches into his box and grabs one skinny ankle and pulls the piece of shit outa his crib. ‘‘What the fuck you doing?’’
‘‘You wasn’t using it,’’ the acidhead screams, scrambles to his feet. He calls himself Shane. Mooches from the moochers. He’s twelve when his mother remarries. Every time his stepfather gets him alone, the slug sucks his dick and more. First chance Shane gets, he cleans out all the cash in the house and leaves. He hangs in the Port Authority the first winter turning tricks. Hash, acid, even coke, easy to come by. A rap-per faggot drops some acid on him once outside a Village club. The AIDS killed that life, but he’s managing. Finds plenty to eat out of the trash baskets, still turns a trick now and then.
‘‘You come back and I’ll throw you in the river,’’ Zachary screams, laying punches on Shane. He drops the purse.
Shane covers it with his mangy body. ‘‘I got it, I got it. Finders keepers.’’
‘‘Get up. Let’s see what you got there.’’ Patrol Officer Gary Ponzecki pokes Shane with his baton.
‘‘Fuck!’’ Zachary screams. ‘‘It’s mine. He’s stealing it.’’
Shane gets up, smirking, swings his scrawny hips. ‘‘Oh, so Mister Tough Nuts is carrying a purse now. Everybody knows it’s my purse.’’
‘‘Back off,’’ Ponzecki says. He’s testy, having had a fight with Ellie again this morning. Her asshole father’s forever with the negative comments about the Job. And he can see Ellie’s beginning to go along. Ponzecki always wanted to be a cop. Loves the patrol. Really loves it. He’s not going to give it up and work for the old fart in his grocery store. He sees Rosen coming fast down 10th Avenue. ‘‘You heard me. Both of you. Back off. Don’t touch the purse.’’
‘‘I’ll take it from here,’’ Molly Rosen says. She points to the purse. ‘‘Bag it.’’
‘‘Not fair! Not fair. I found it.’’ Zachary is dancing around, fists clenched, like he’s prizefighting. ‘‘She don’t need it no more.’’
‘‘No! No! It’s mine.’’
Ponzecki says, ‘‘This one calls himself Shane. The ballet dancer is Zachary.’’
‘‘I ain’t no faggot,’’ Zachary screams. ‘‘I was in the ring.’’
‘‘This purse is evidence in a murder investigation. Maybe you both want to go to Rikers for a little vacation.’’ Molly flips through pages in her notepad till she finds a clean one.
‘‘She stepped on a mine,’’ Zachary says. ‘‘She don’t need it no more.’’ He’s got the shakes, doesn’t like that they brought him into the precinct house and he’s not sitting in front of the Chelsea in his place. Though the lady cop in the Mets cap promised they’d drive him there if he told them everything he knew. Even though he don’t know nothing. And they let that prick-face liar Shane go and he’s probably on his mattress again.
‘‘What time was it?’’ Rosen puts a cardboard container of coffee on the table in front of Zachary.
‘‘I don’t got a watch.’’ He likes the smell of coffee, but not the taste. At least there’s plenty of milk. ‘‘You put five sugars in like I told you?’’
‘‘Yes. Drink up. The sooner you tell me everything you know, the sooner you’ll get back to your place in front of the Chelsea. What time did you go up on the High Line?’’
‘‘It was dark. That’s all I know. I sleep up there when it’s hot. The grass smells good. But not last night.’’
‘‘What was different?’’
‘‘Smelled like in-country. She was took out. Almost got me.’’ He grimaces, takes a big gulp of coffee.
‘‘Whoever killed her tried to kill you?’’