Thomlinson was already in the loop, so the Lieutenant took the time to explain the significance of Turner syndrome in twin births to Margaret.
When he had completed his X and Y summation, it was Thomlinson’s turn to speak.
“Our search produced four sets of twins that fit the profile. The oldest pair is in their early fifties, the youngest is sixteen.”
“Four sets from all that newsprint? Some rare condition,” said Margaret.
“Turner syndrome itself isn’t so rare,” Driscoll said. “It hits one in two thousand females. It’s when you factor in the possibility of it affecting identical twins that the numbers get infinitesimal. In any case, it’s their DNA that’ll be their downfall, rare or not.”
Thomlinson continued with his report.
“I kept the initial search inside the United States. Leticia is checking on similar articles abroad. She’ll let me know what she comes up with so we can prepare our protocol for Interpol and any other foreign agencies. Back to the land of the free. I placed a call to Ohio…to the Dayton Police, there. I filled them in on the details of our investigation. They accommodated me by paying a visit to a local address I had come up with for John Matthews, the first twin on the list. Turns out he lives in a camper just outside of town. Neighbors report he spends most of his time hoisting bottles of Rolling Rock and yelling at the TV. And while our last tourist was being murdered here in the Big Apple, Matthews was drinking himself into a stupor at one of Dayton’s bars. This according to Dayton PD, who were able to substantiate his alibi. On to his twin sister, Kathleen. The woman succumbed to Alzheimer’s at an early age. Six months before the killing spree began in New York she had wandered off the grounds of her Florida nursing home and was hit and killed by a rented Jeep driven by two college preppies on spring break.”
“Puts the Matthewses off the list,” said Margaret.
“Fate had other plans for the Gibbons twins,” Thomlinson continued. “I located a discreet Web site for Tulia Gibbons who, three years ago, opened ‘The Best Little Whore House in Savannah, Georgia.’ She has no criminal record. Probably because Elijah McCormack, a state senator, was a frequent visitor. So the tabloids report. Somehow, I couldn’t see a madam who makes a living offa tourism leave her emporium to knock off tourists in New York. Besides, our little entrepreneur was busy setting up Tulia’s Too, a second den of iniquity, while the city was under siege.”
“What became of her brother?”
“Ah, government records tell all. The guy’s a nuclear engineer working for the navy. He’s currently stationed at a submarine base in New London, Connecticut.”
“That puts him pretty close to the crime scene. No?” said Margaret.
“According to his commanding officer, he’s working on a nondiscretionary project to update the computer technology onboard the USS John Marshall and the USS Triton. His work record is clean. And his log provides a perfect alibi.”
“What about the teen twins?”
“On them I’ve got something interesting. About where they were born.”
“Oak Flat?” said Driscoll.
“Mining country,” said Thomlinson. “In Pendleton County, West Virginia. At the base of the Allegheny Mountains. Almost uninhabited. But here’s the good part. Closest cluster of residents would be on an Indian reservation, three miles outside of town, and according to the news article a Raven’s Breath was listed as the twins’ foster mom.”
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” said Margaret making a scalping motion with her hand.
“We could be getting lucky,” said Driscoll with a grin.
Chapter 27
The late afternoon skies were overcast above the lush flora of the Bronx Zoo. Earlier, a sudden summer thunderstorm had sent the zoo’s visitors and most of its predators in search of shelter. With the pavement still wet, one of the zoo’s hot dog vendors pushed his aluminum cart to its customary spot on the path that led to the Ethiopian Baboon Reserve. It would be a few minutes before the crowds ventured outside again to resume their gawking.
Adjusting the flames on the gas canisters beneath tubs of simmering frankfurters, the vendor hadn’t noticed he had customers. A high-pitched voice startled him.
“Say, ma man, how much you charge for yo hot dogs?” It was the voice of a gruff-looking wiry-haired youth. Another slovenly teen crowded his cart.
“Two dollars,” the Pakistani merchant stammered.
“Man, that be highway robbery,” said the youth, flashing a sardonic grin. “Freddie, don’t you think ma man here is dissin’ us?”
“I don’t set the prices. I just sell the stuff,” said the vendor.
The tormentor’s smile, conveying its veiled threat, froze. The youth’s switchblade was pressing hard against the vendor’s waist.
“Please, please. I want no trouble,” pleaded the vendor.
“Yo, ma man,” the second youth taunted. “Leroy here is a mean mother and there’d be no stoppin’ him if he gets pissed. Tell ya what we’re gonna do. I’ll tell Leroy to lose the blade while you hand over yo cash. You catchin’ my drift?”
With unsteady hands, the Pakistani rummaged through his pockets and produced a handful of singles.
“That’s all you got?” squawked Leroy, grabbing hold of the loot.
“My shift just started.”
“You shittin’ me?”
“I am a truthful man. My shift just started. Those singles are mine.”
“Not any more,” said Leroy, jamming the fistful of dollars into the pocket of his oversized trousers.
“Yo, Leroy. It be time to split,” said the second culprit, his ears detecting the distinctive sound of an approaching moped.
As the pair of petty thieves strutted away from the shaken merchant, the hot dog vendor flagged down the scooter-mounted security guard.
“I’ve been held up!” he cried, pointing his finger in the direction of the fleeing thieves.
The guard revved up his scooter and took off after the pair. When the two robbers caught sight of their pursuer, they sprinted up a grassy knoll that was bordered by a ten-foot-high steel fence.
“C’mon, Freddie, we gotta get outta the park,” hollered Leroy, climbing to the top of the fence and hurling himself over, dropping twenty-five feet on the other side, where the fence was supported by fifteen feet of standing concrete.
“Wait for me,” Freddie shouted, hurrying up behind him.
Midway up the fence, Freddie glanced over his shoulder. The security guard had parked his scooter at the bottom of the knoll and was marching up the hill, nightstick in hand. Eyeballing the guard, the fleeing thief climbed higher. He froze when he reached the top. On the expanse below, he saw four black baboons baring saber teeth and advancing toward Leroy, who had hit the ground hard and was now scrambling on all fours. As Freddie watched in horror, the largest primate pounced on his doomed friend. The animal’s canines tore into Leroy’s flesh, lacerating both tendon and bone. Leroy let out a bloodcurdling scream as fluid from his punctured lungs filled his trachea. In the seconds that followed, the baboons tore Leroy’s body to shreds.
It took nearly an hour for three animal handlers, armed with stun guns, to corral the baboons and force them back into their cave.
By now, a handful of uniformed policemen, EMTs, and a plainclothes detective had arrived. They joined three coroner’s assistants who were busy scooping up Leroy’s remains and stuffing them into a body bag. The curious baboons watched the activity through a thick metal grid that sealed the mouth of their sanctuary.
Detective Luis Raios, dispatched from the Fifty-second Precinct, had never entered a wild animal’s den before. He felt jittery at the sight of the four baboons, their faces pressed hard against the steel grid, examining his every move. He knew he was an intruder, trespassing on their limited kingdom. He walked toward a cluster of boulders in the center of the expanse, aware of the anxious primate eyes of the baboons. In that instant, Detective Raios felt what he had never felt before in his metropolitan life. Like prey. He saw in those sets of sienna brown eyes the impulse to kill, and he knew he was the target of that impulse.