“This is just for practice, mind you, little darlin’. When I get the war paint just the way I want it, we’ll make it permanent. Four little, five little, six little Indians…”
Chapter 15
“Examination of the cephalic region reveals sharp force trauma resulting in a massive head wound, measuring seven-point-six-six centimeters to right parietal, causing fracture to the skull and bone splinters to penetrate the brain. Thirteen-point-eight-centimeter linear penetration to the skin of the forehead noted. Irregular tearing of scalp…”
Larry Pearsol’s words echoed in Driscoll’s ear as he and Thomlinson, seated in the Chevy cruiser, blended with the flow of traffic on Second Avenue. It marked the third time the medical examiner had used those words in as many weeks. And it officially tied the crime on the bridge to the other homicides, making it part of Driscoll’s investigation. New York had another serial killer on its hands and, thanks to the press, the city’s populace was reminded of it with every newscast and in every headline. The Daily News went with DEADLY TOLL ON A NO TOLL BRIDGE while the Post opted for NUMBER 3 SCALPED!
Driscoll had spent the better part of his morning listening to the ranting of Joseph Santangelo, the chief of detectives. How the man had risen from inspector to chief was a mystery. There had been other more qualified candidates for the job. The belief was that he had some politician or cash-cow benefactor in his pocket. Chief Santangelo, derisively called “The World’s Greatest Detective” by his squad commanders, was his usual cantankerous self, telling Driscoll he’d be directing traffic down on Canal Street if he didn’t turn up a lead in the case soon. But after his posturing, he gave Driscoll the green light to set up a task force. A contingent of thirty detectives and three sergeants, from throughout the borough, would be handpicked by Driscoll. The support team at TARU, or Technical Assistance Response Unit, would be ordered to stand at the ready. And Fleet Services would supply ten additional cars and two surveillance vans. A Tip Line, a phone number established by the department at which the general public was encouraged to report any pertinent information, would be established and manned twenty-four-seven by a police investigator. The line had proven to be a valuable aid in many previous investigations. Thomlinson would be Driscoll’s broom, his right-hand man. He would oversee the Tip Line activity and other administrative duties. Any directives that came from him were to be interpreted as coming from the Lieutenant.
Crime Scene had reported their findings to Driscoll immediately after the barrage of mortar fire from Santangelo. Helga Swenson’s blood had been found in the third stall of a second-floor ladies’ lavatory in the east wing of the museum. The blood of victim number two, Yen Chan, was found in one of those industrial green Port-a-Potties near the entrance to Cleary’s Boardwalk Fun House, just steps away from the site where his body had been found. Now came the hard part. Crime Scene would have to process two public facilities where hundreds, if not thousands, of fingerprints and other forensic evidence would be found. This wasn’t television’s CSI. The NYPD Crime Lab was understaffed and lacked the high-tech gadgetry of the highly equipped labs featured on TV. But they got the job done, just not within the sixty minutes it took their TV counterparts. But, as Driscoll was fond of pointing out, the NYPD did it without those annoying commercials.
All precincts throughout the five boroughs had been ordered to beef up their presence at all tourist attractions throughout the city. This presence was to be provided around the clock. Thomlinson had made some of the forensic team’s findings known to the news media, asking that they include the information about the holding sites in their reporting. The general public was urged to call the task force’s Tip Line with information about any suspicious activity they may have encountered in and around the restrooms, the attractions, or on the bridge. Trace evidence of three other blood donors was also discovered at the museum. Test results showed all three to be menstrual blood. Driscoll figured as much. After all, it was a ladies’ room. Considering that the crime scenes themselves had been violated by being trampled upon by the general public, Driscoll wasn’t banking on much, if any, pertinent evidence. But the preliminary forensic reports did prove Sergeant Aligante’s theory to be correct about where the victims were held. And her assertion that the killer had a conversation with the deceased before rendering the fatal blow was also likely. The autopsies of all three victims revealed no defensive wounds. And all three were indeed tourists. The sad part was that none of them saw it coming. Support for Margaret’s speculation was encouraging news. Score one for the good guys. And a slam dunk for Margaret!
Fifteen minutes later, Driscoll pulled the cruiser into a restricted parking space in front of Thirty-two East Houston Street, NYPD’s Crime Lab, where he tossed the Police Department Vehicle Identification card onto the dash.
Once inside the building, he and Thomlinson were greeted by Ernie Haverstraw, the lab’s top criminalist, who reminded Driscoll of the ubiquitous hefty man you’d inevitably run across in the meat department of every Gristede’s grocery store in the city.
The three men crowded around the Bontrager ten-speed bicycle that had been recovered from the Brooklyn Bridge. It was still coated with blotches of white powder, the residue of the technician’s search for fingerprints.
“That exerciser-on-wheels retails for about twenty-one hundred dollars plus,” said Haverstraw. “But now it’s fit for the junkyard. Not only was the front wheel damaged but also the frame was bent in the collision. Whoever left it behind knew it was a total.”
“What’d it hit?”
“Something made of brick. My guess would be one of the columns on the bridge.”
“Come up with any prints?” asked Thomlinson.
“A few. But none that matched any in our databases.”
“Figures,” said Driscoll.
“Found something, though.” The technician held up a clear plastic envelope about the size of a pack of cigarettes. Driscoll squinted to see what was trapped inside. “We found it wedged into the brake assembly on the bike’s handlebars. We know it doesn’t belong to your victim.”
Driscoll brought the bag to within inches of his nose. He was able to identify the find: the jagged edge of a bloodstained fingernail. He handed the pouch to Thomlinson.
“Now if we could only get hold of the guy that belongs to this nail…” Thomlinson said.
“That won’t be easy,” said Haverstraw. “We tested the blood. Another no-hit. We’re still waiting for the chromosomal scanning results on the blood’s white cells. That’ll give us the likely race and gender.”
“Tell me more about the bike,” said Driscoll.
“It’s imported from Italy by Stranier and Sons. You’ll find it available in only three stores in the Northeast. One’s in Darien, Connecticut. Another in Manhattan. And one more in Southampton. But you see that emblem? That bike ran the Tour de France. And your rider is a professional who bought it right here in Manhattan.”
“I’ll be damned,” said Thomlinson. “All that from a bike?”
“Well, the serial number helped.” Haverstraw grinned like the Cheshire cat.
“So we’ve got a name,” said Driscoll.
“That we do. The bike’s owner is one Kyle Ramsey. He lives at Two-Thirty-one Pineapple Street. Downtown Brooklyn. That makes him a Brooklyn Heights resident, Lieutenant. Right in your own backyard.”
Chapter 16
The club was called the Wet Spot, and it was ladies’ night. k. d. lang’s sultry voice flooded the dance floor as a crowd of drag queen revelers responded rapturously to the balladeer. Sweat glistened. Tongues explored. Limbs intertwined. Flesh clung.
At the bar, a ponytailed lass dipped her pinkie in her mimosa and tickled the cherry. Her pristine white blouse, her parochial-school jumper, and her bleached cotton knee-highs made her look like a Catholic schoolgirl.