“He called earlier and told me to assign it to you,” George said. “He’d already heard from someone high up in the police hierarchy and thought you’d be the best one to handle the job.”
“Now that’s ironic,” Jack said. It didn’t make sense. The deputy chief as well as the chief himself were always complaining about Jack’s lack of diplomacy and appreciation of the political and social aspects of being a medical examiner.
“If you don’t want the infectious case, I’ve got an overdose you can do,” George said.
“I’ll take the infectious case,” Jack said. He did not like overdoses. They were repetitious and the office was inundated with them. There was no intellectual challenge.
“Fine,” George said. He made a notation on his master list.
Eager to get a jump on the day, Jack stepped over to Vinnie and bent the edge of his paper down. Vinnie regarded him morosely with his coal-black eyes. Vinnie was not pleased. He knew what was coming. It happened almost every day.
“Don’t tell me you want to start already?” Vinnie whined.
“The early bird gets the worm,” Jack said. The trite expression was Jack’s stock response to Vinnie’s invariable lack of early-morning enthusiasm. The comment never ceased to further provoke the mortuary tech even though he knew it was coming.
“I wish I knew why you couldn’t come in when everyone else does,” Vinnie grumbled.
Despite appearances Jack and Vinnie got along famously. Because of Jack’s penchant for coming in early, they invariably worked together, and over the years they’d developed a well-oiled protocol. Jack preferred Vinnie over all the other techs, and Vinnie preferred Jack. In Vinnie’s words, Jack did not “dick around.”
“Have you seen Dr. Montgomery yet?” Jack asked as they headed for the elevator.
“She’s too intelligent to come in here this early,” Vinnie said.
“She’s normal, which you’re not.”
As they passed through communications Jack caught sight of a light on in Sergeant Murphy’s cubbyhole office. The sergeant was a member of the NYPD Bureau of Missing Persons. He’d been assigned to the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner for years. He rarely arrived much before nine.
Curious whether the ebullient Irishman was already there, Jack detoured and glanced inside. Not only was Murphy there, he wasn’t alone. Sitting across from him was Detective Lieutenant Lou Soldano of homicide, a frequent visitor to the morgue. Jack knew him reasonably well, particularly since he was a good friend of Laurie’s. Next to him was another plainclothes gentleman whom Jack did not recognize.
“Jack!” Lou called out when he caught sight of him. “Come in here a minute. I want you to meet someone.”
Jack stepped into the tiny room. Lou got to his feet. As usual, the detective appeared as if he’d been up all night. He hadn’t shaved — the sides of his face looked as if they had been smeared with soot — and there were dark circles under his eyes. On top of that, his clothes were disheveled, the top button of his once white shirt was open, and his tie was loosened.
“This is Special Agent Gordon Tyrrell,” Lou said, gesturing toward the man sitting next to him. The man got to his feet and stuck out his hand.
“Does that mean FBI?” Jack questioned as he shook the man’s hand.
“It does indeed,” Gordon said.
Jack had never shaken the hand of a member of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It was not quite the experience he envisioned. Gordon’s hand was slight, almost effeminate, and his grip loose and tentative. The agent was a small man with delicate features, certainly not the masculine stereotype Jack had grown up with. The agent’s clothes were conservative but neat. All three buttons of his jacket were buttoned. In most respects he was the visual antithesis of Lou.
“What’s going on here?” Jack questioned. “I can’t remember the last time I saw the sergeant here this early.”
Murphy laughed and started to protest, but Lou interrupted.
“There was a homicide last night that the FBI is particularly concerned about,” Lou explained. “We’re hoping the autopsy may shed some light.”
“What kind of case?” Jack asked. “Gunshot or stabbing?”
“A little of everything,” Lou said. “The body’s a mess. Enough to turn even your stomach.”
“Has there been an ID?” Jack asked. Sometimes with heavily damaged corpses identification was the most difficult part.
With raised eyebrows Lou glanced at Gordon. Lou didn’t know how much was confidential about the case.
“It’s okay,” Gordon said.
“Yeah, there’s been an ID,” Lou said. “The name is Brad Cassidy. He’s a twenty-two-year-old Caucasian skinhead.”
“You mean one of those racist screwballs with Nazi tattoos, a black leather jacket, and black boots?” Jack asked. He’d seen such riffraff on occasion hanging around the city parks. He’d seen even more of them back home in the Midwest when he visited his mother.
“You got it,” Lou said.
“Skinheads don’t all have Nazi regalia,” Gordon said.
“Now that’s certainly true,” Lou agreed. “In fact, some of them don’t even have shaved heads anymore. The style has gone through some changes.”
“The music hasn’t,” Gordon corrected. “That’s probably been the most consistent part of the whole movement and certainly part of the style.”
“That’s something I don’t know anything about,” Lou said. “I’ve never been much into music.”
“Well, it’s important in regard to American skinheads,” Gordon said. “The music has provided the movement with its ideology of hatred and violence.”
“No kidding?” Lou said. “Just because of the music?”
“I’m not exaggerating,” Gordon said. “Here in the U.S., in contrast to England, the skinhead movement started as just style, sorta like punks, posturing to be shockingly offensive in appearance and behavior. But the music of groups like Screwdriver and Brutal Attack and a bunch of others created a change. The Lyrics promoted a screwed-up philosophy of survival and rebellion. That’s where the hatred and violence have come from.”
“So you’re kinda a skinhead expert?” Jack asked. He was impressed.
“Only by necessity,” Gordon said. “My real area of interest is ultra-right-wing extremist militias. But I’ve had to expand my focus. Unfortunately, the White Aryan Resistance started a fad of recruiting skinheads as shock troops of sorts, tapping into that well of hatred and violence the music has engendered. Now a lot of the neo-fascist militia groups have followed suit, getting the kids to do a lot of their dirty work as well as getting the kids interested in neo-Nazi propaganda.”
“Don’t these kids usually beat up minorities?” Jack asked. “What happened in this guy’s case? Did someone fight back?”
“Skinheads have a tendency to fight with each other as much as they attack others,” Gordon said. “And this is a case of the former.”
“Why so much interest in Brad Cassidy?” Jack asked. “I’d have thought that one less of these guys would just make your law enforcement lives that much easier.”
Vinnie stuck his head in the room and informed Jack that if Jack was going to continue jawboning, he was going back to his New York Post. Jack waved him away.
“Brad Cassidy had been recruited by us as a potential informant,” Gordon said. “He’d plea-bargained a handful of felonies in return for cooperation. He was trying to find and penetrate an organization called the People’s Aryan Army or PAA.”
“I’ve never heard of them,” Jack said.
“I hadn’t, either,” Lou admitted.
“It’s a shadowy group,” Gordon said. “All we know is what we’ve been able to intercept off the Internet, which, by the way, has become the major method of communication for these neo-fascist nuts. All we know about PAA is that it’s located somewhere in the New York metropolitan area, and it’s recruited some of the local skinheads. But the more disturbing part has been some vague references to an upcoming major event. We’re worried they might be planning something violent.”