Manhattan- Friday, October 26, 2008
Waldo Madigan stared out the window of his diner just as the jogger and his dog, a big white German Shepherd, turned onto Walker Street. He looked up at the Seth Thomas clock on the wall and shook his head.
“There he is,” he said, half-aloud. “Right on time. Six twenty-five. Not six twenty-four, not six twenty-six. Six twenty-five on the dot. I think he waits on Church Street until it’s exactly six twenty-five before he comes around the corner. The man never wears a watch.”
“Mornin', Cap,” Waldo said to Cody as he unlocked the door and held it wide. The dog charged in first. “And same to you, Charley.” The big shepherd wagged his tail and sat, eagerly looking past him at the large stainless steel refrigerator.
“Thanks, getting cold out there,” the captain said. “How’s tricks, Waldo? Still talking to yourself?”
“I ain’t had no trick since I was seventy-five,” the big black man answered. “And most nobody else’ll talk to me.”
Waldo opened the stainless door to the fridge and took out three hot dogs which he laid in a row on the cutting table. He cut them in two and picked up one of the pieces.
“How about it?” Waldo asked. Charley looked at him with gold-flecked eyes, his tail dusting the floor, and rolled his lips back over his teeth in what might be considered a smile.
“Good boy,” said Waldo, tossing the piece which Charley caught in his mouth.
Cody ate his breakfast in silence, throwing Waldo a nod of approval, while Waldo tossed frankfurter slices to Charley.
Two burly-looking men entered the diner. They were dressed for hard work and one had a stevedore’s hook hanging over his shoulder. He looked at Charley through puffy, hangover eyes. “Dogs ain’t allowed in restaurants,” he said harshly.
“What’s the matter,” the captain answered pleasantly. “You don’t like dogs?”
“No. One bit me once when I was a kid. I still got the scar on my leg.”
“Dogs are like people. Some bite and some don’t.”
“He still don’t belong in here.”
“He’s a seeing eye dog,” Cody said with a trace of smile.
“Oh yeah? You don’t look blind to me,” the stevedore snapped back.
“It’s his day off. We always have breakfast together on his day off.” Cody paid the check and they left.
The stevedore watched them through the window and mumbled, “Dumb mutt.”
Waldo stared at the stevedore for a moment and closed the conversation. “He’s smarter than most people I know,” Waldo said. “He was one of the first rescue dogs at Ground Zero on 9/11.”?
By seven-five, his morning ritual over, the captain was back at his apartment, had showered, and was toweling off when his cell phone buzzed.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Cal. Looks like we got one.”
“Where?”
“East side. Seventy-third between 3 ^ rd and Lex. Rizzo should be out front as we speak.”
“You there?”
“Already started the drill.”
“On my way.”
He looked out the window just as the black Ford pulled in front.
Cody dressed quickly in dark gray slacks and a brown turtle neck, slipped on his shoulder holster, a black sports jacket; and pulled on a pair of black Bally boots, then reached for his hunting knife, checked its blade, and tucked it into the holster. His briefcase was sitting beside the door-an old-fashioned, weathered-leather satchel like doctors once carried when they made house calls. He grabbed it on the way out.
“Stay, Charley, I’ll be back later,” he said. The dog stared after him for a few moments then wandered into the corner of the living room, stretched out on a large fleece mat, and dozed off.
The captain moved quickly down the stairs to the door and raced to the car. Rizzo swung the door open and he jumped in.
“Morning, Frank,” he said, slamming the door behind him.
“And a good morning to you, Micah,” Rizzo answered.
He put the big car in gear and they took off.?
Rizzo was a big man, his craggy face a map of thirty years on the NYPD. He was over six-feet tall, muscular, with white hair and a handlebar mustache to match. He had a barbed wire sense of humor which masked a sentimental side that was unusual for a cop of his experience who had lost his wife to cancer a few years earlier. Years of routine dictated his appearance. Dark suit, starched button-down shirt, silk tie, shoes agleam. His alert blue eyes were always on the rove. He didn’t miss a thing. After ten years in homicide he was getting bored with the routine and was considering early retirement when Cody asked him to lunch one day. Over hamburgers and a beer at P. J. Clark’s, Cody proposed.
“I’d like you to be my number one in a new outfit we’re putting together, Sergeant,” Cody said.
“What do I do?” Sergeant Rizzo asked
“Teach me what you know and keep me out of trouble,” Cody answered with a casual smile.
Rizzo knew about Cody, admired his free-wheeling M.O. and his reputation as a tough, intuitive, wily detective with a unique approach to a crime scene and a legendary record for solving tough homicides. Cody was also known as an introspective cop who avoided headlines, preferring to let others take the glory. He was
in his thirties at the time he made captain, unheard of in the ranks of the PD.
“What’s this outfit called?” Rizzo asked.
“The Tactical Assistance Squad.”
Rizzo had no idea at the time what the TAZ, an acronym for which it would become known in the PD, was all about. He didn’t care either. He liked Micah Cody instantly.
“What the hell,” he said, “you’re on.”
Cody reached in his pocket, took out a gold badge and slid it across the table.
“Thanks, Lieutenant,” he said.
It was a marriage made in heaven. They had put together a hand-picked crew of mostly young men and women who fit their own peculiar, sometimes eccentric, way of approaching homicides. They were not disenchanted by long days, hard work, and sporadic disappointments. The mentoring of Cody and Rizzo fueled it. Respect for each other’s sometimes wildly divergent ideas and intuitions energized it. Challenge kept it focused.
The final member of the TAZ was a loner. A free lancer. The forensic pathologist named Max Wolfsheim whom Cody and Rizzo had lured from retirement with a promise that he could do things his own way, taking on cases that would add new glory to an already legendary resume. Wolfsheim had not been disappointed. He was also keenly aware that life in the TAZ had kept him from a slow descent into bootless old age. He was a garrulous, often impatient and worrisome genius.
“I just felt the earth tremble, Wolf must be on his way,” Rizzo had once told a young member of the crew. It was an aphorism well-earned.?
Rizzo was the best driver in the squad. He sped across town to Third Avenue and grabbed a left, alternately pumping brake and gas pedal, weaving through the early morning traffic like an old-timer qualifying at the Brickyard. He filled in Cody on the run, never taking his eyes off the street.
“Cal fields a 911 to NYPD at six-fifty-eight. A housekeeper on her cell phone. She’s pretty hysterical. Says somebody killed the man she works for and gives the address. Cal calls central and tells them he’s on it, then he calls the Loft and Hue answers and passes the call to me. Cal gets to the address and luckily finds a place to park. It’s a brownstone, second floor. He’s there now, calming the woman down. Left the front unlocked. Says nobody is wise yet and the scene is clean.”
“That’s a break. Can we keep it that way?”
“I called Stinelli and told him we had what appears to be a homicide, that Bergman is at the scene, and we’re on the way. He’s cool with that.”
“That’s Rick McKeown’s turf.”
“Yeah.”
“Stinelli will deal with Rick if it’s something we should handle. Rick loves it when we do his work for him.”
“Yup,” Rizzo said, turning onto East 73 ^ rd Street. “On the left, two doors off Lex.”
It was a tree-lined street of brownstones, empty except for a man in a hooded jacket walking his dog.
“Nice and quiet, so far.”
“Seven-thirty,” was all Rizzo said.
He stopped and Cody grabbed his satchel and got out while Rizzo stayed on the move, circling the block and waiting for instructions. Cody entered the narrow, three-story brownstone squeezed between two taller buildings.
It had a cramped hallway, like most brownstones, but pale green Berber carpeting and pastel yellow walls brightened the gloomy atmosphere often found in these older buildings. Stairs on the left. Apartments on both sides of the hall. A private elevator at end of the hall. So quiet you could hear a mouse snore except for the muffled sobs coming from above.
Cody followed the sound to the second floor and faced a small, pleasant sitting room at the end of the hallway. Cal Bergman was waiting for him, comforting a woman seated on a couch nestled between two ficus trees under a bank of soft grow lights. The hallway was dark except for a faux Tiffany lamp on an end table beside the sofa.
The woman looked terrified, close to shock, and was clutching a bottle of spring water in one hand while Bergman held her other hand. She looked up wide-eyed and gasped as Cody reached the top of the stairs.
Bergman quickly reassured her.
“Mrs. Kearney, this is Captain of Detectives Cody,” he said. Cal Bergman was six feet tall, making him two inches taller than Cody, a lean blonde in his early thirties wearing a dark blue suit.
“Mrs. Kearney,” Cody said in a soft pleasant voice as he walked over to them. “Inspector Bergman has filled me in a bit. I understood you’ve had a terrible experience here this morning.”
Her eyes welled with tears and she began to shake. Cody squatted down in front of her, staring straight into her eyes. She was about fifty, a bit on the heavy side, dressed in slacks, a sweater and Nike sneakers. Her brown eyes were tear-streaked, her hair close cropped and turning gray. Her strong face had seen better days.
“It’s gonna be alright,” Cody said. “Take a deep breath and swallow, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good. I know Cal, here, has talked to you but I’d like you to answer a few questions for me.”
She nodded.
“What’s your first name?”
“Wilma,” she stammered.
“Okay if I call you Wilma?”
She tried a smile. “Oh, yes,” she said, her voice trembling.
“Are you married, Wilma?
“I’m a widow. My husband worked for the Transit. He had a heart attack five years ago.”
“And what’s your employer’s name?”
She sucked in her breath. Veins stood out on her forehead. Her throat bobbed with sorrow.
“Take a drink of water, it’ll help.”
She took a sip and then the dam broke: “Raymond Handley. He’s such a nice young man, a stock broker, a very successful stock broker with Marx, Stembler and, uh…”
“Trexler?” Bergman offered.
“Thank you. Mister Handley is a vice president and he’s only, like, thirty-nine. He’s engaged to Linda Stembler, Mister Stembler’s daughter.” Her voice cracked, and she had to take another sip of water. “She goes to college in Boston. She comes down on weekends sometimes and sometimes he visits her up there. He’s very kind, pays well, and he’s very neat.” The tears started again. “A very neat young man. He works very hard.”
“I’m sure he does,” Cody said, keeping her as calm as possible. “How long have you worked for him?”
“Three years-ever since he moved in. I answered an ad in the Times. I work three days a week. Monday, Wednesday and Friday and sometimes he’ll call and ask me to come in extra and dust off the apartment.”
“Dust off the apartment?”
“Like last night. He was out of town and he called and asked if I would come in and straighten up a bit and vacuum. I guess he was having guests. So that’s what I did. I come over before my three o’clock and picked up the bathroom, dusted, and vacuumed the floor. I was here about an hour. Got home about five. I have an apartment on Avenue B.”
“And then you came in again this morning?”
Bergman was taking notes in shorthand as she rambled on.
“It’s my regular day and it’s pay day. I usually come in about seven. He works out early, then gets a massage. I fix breakfast for him and he reads The Wall Street Journal while he eats. Sometimes makes phone calls. Leaves for work about eight. He likes to get in early. Gets a leg up, as he says.”
“Uh huh. Now, Wilma, I’d like you to describe the apartment for me. How is the place laid out?”
“Well, when you go in there’s a big living room on the right. Goes all the way to the front of the building. Then the bedroom is beside the living room also facing 73 ^ rd Street. Then there’s his bathroom. A large bathroom. And beside it is a little half bath for guests. Then there’s the kitchen.”
“Does the back door lead off the kitchen?
“Yes. There are fire stairs to the ground floor.”
“Okay. What else?”
“And…and…” she began.
“Take it easy, Wilma, you’re doing just fine.”
“On the left when you go in, there’s a closet. And…and…then the entranceway to the library.”
“How many feet would you say it is into the library?”
“Six maybe. The closet is about that deep. It’s where I keep the vacuum cleaner.”
“Then walking straight ahead what’s next?”
“Another door to the library before you get to the kitchen.
“So there are two doors into the library?”
She nodded. Bergman was making a rough sketch of the interior as she described it.
“You have your own keys?” Cody asked.
She nodded. “Front door and the apartment.”
“So what happened this morning?”
She was shaking now and Cody took her hands in his.
“Just tell me exactly what happened.”
Her voice raised an octave. “I went in. And turned on the lights and…and I looked in the library and, Sweet Jesus! It was awful.” She shook her head back and forth. “Awful, awful, awful. I can’t get it out of my head. I was so afraid. I was scared to death.”
“Just tell me what you saw.”
Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I…can’t t-t-talk about it. It’s s-s-sickening…I said, ‘Mister Handley?’ But I knew he was dead. I just knew he was dead. I’ve never smelled anything like that before. And I was so afraid that maybe whoever did it…” her voice began to rise, “was there in the apartment! And I just ran out.”
“Okay, okay,” he said. She started crying again. “It’s okay, Wilma.” He reached over and took her in his arms and her voice choked off.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I just ran out. Ran out and locked the door behind me and dialed 911 on my cell phone and…and I just stared at that door and next thing I knew this nice young man ran up the stairs.”
Cody looked at Bergman.
“You didn’t go in, right?” he asked Bergman.
Cal shook his head. “Followed procedure.”
“Good. How about his parents, Wilma?”
“His father was killed in an accident when he was six years old. His mother died in California years ago. I think he had a sister.”
“You wouldn’t have her number?”
She shook her head. “It’s probably in his book. He has this book with everything in it. Addresses, appointments, you know?”
“That’s very good, Wilma. Now we’re going to take you home, okay?”
“I can go home, then?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“Cal, take Mrs. Kearney downstairs. Frank’ll be waiting.”
“Right.”
“I’m so sorry,” Wilma said and began to sob again.
“I know,” Cody reassured her. “It’s not your fault, Wilma. Lieutenant Frank Rizzo is waiting downstairs. He’ll drive you.”
“Thank you. I’m so sorry.”
Bergman took Wilma Kearney by the arm and helped her down the stairs.
Cody punched in Rizzo’s secured cell number.
“Hey,” he answered.
“Where are you?”
“Half a block away.”
“We got a beaut. The housekeeper’s really spooked. Cal’s bringing her down. Run her home. Turn on the charm. Let her talk and run the recorder. She didn’t tell us much. She was about to go operatic on me and I don’t want to wake up the whole neighborhood. All we know is she thinks her boss is inside the apartment dead and I’m inclined to take her word for it.”
“Suicide?”
“We’ll soon know. Cal and I will make the entry. I wanted to get her out of here before we go in.”
“Gotcha.”
“Stay with her, Frank. I don’t know what’s in there, but right now she’s the only witness we got. Might be a good idea to give her a sedative.”
“Right. She married?”
“Widow.”
“Where’s she live?”
“Avenue B.”
“Here they are,” Rizzo said.
“Have fun.”
“Oh, sure. You know me, I love to baby sit hysterical widows.”
Cody snapped the cell phone shut, looked over his shoulder and took a momentary sideways glance at apartment three, which was directly across the hall from Handley’s, and reached for his satchel.
He knelt down and snapped open the bag. Arranged in the bag were latex gloves, surgeon’s scrubs, a Streamlight Stinger flashlight, a digital camera, laptop, note pads, several Post-it pads in different colors, lock needles, several vials of chemicals including one labeled “black moss,” needle nose pliers, wire cutters, a portable blue light blood scanner, a. 25 caliber S amp;W-which he’d never used in the line of duty-a radio headset attached to a small tape recorder, and a myriad of other tools of his trade neatly arranged in specially made pockets.
He took out the flashlight and bathed the lock to apartment four with light, checking it for telltale scratches, leaned closer and sniffed the area.
Cal Bergman came up the stairs two at a time, carrying an aluminum case.
“You get lost?” Cody said without looking at him.
“Had to get my case from the car. I got the keys from Wilma.” He stooped over and whispered in Cody’s ear: “We got company in number three.”
“Yeah. I noticed movement behind the peephole.”
“Her name’s Amelie Cluett. Masseuse.”
“Interesting. So you did get something out of Wilma,” Cody said with a smile.
“I tried to keep her talking so she wouldn’t get too wacky before you got here.”
“Very good. Let’s suit up.”
“Aren’t we waiting for back-up?”
“There’s nobody else in there. You got a cold?”
Cal shook his head, looking at Cody with a question on his face.
“Get close to the door and take a whiff.”
Cal leaned close to the door jamb, sniffed hard and his head jerked back.
“Handley’s been dead awhile,” Cody said. “I doubt anybody’s sitting shiva with him. We’ve got a virgin crime scene here, let’s work it before anybody else shows up and contaminates it.”
“You got a nose like a bloodhound,” Cal said, opening his case and getting his scrubs and flashlight. “No normal human being can smell a thing.” They both put on scrub booties, caps and latex gloves. Bergman drew his. 38 and held it against his leg as Cody put on his headset and recorder and unlocked the door. He slowly pushed it open about a foot. Cody’s nose wrinkled. Cal laughed.
“Wilma left a light on,” said Cal.
“Yeah, she was in one big hurry.”
Cody looked down and smiled. He reached in and flicked off the light. While Bergman scanned the apartment with his flashlight, Cody squatted down, reached around the partially open door and studied the carpeting with his Stinger.
“Well, look what we got,” he said with delight. He reached in with his free hand and lovingly stroked the top of the thick, plush floor covering. “Shag carpeting.”
He edged the door open another six inches, got on his knees and held his light close to the floor letting the beam skim back and forth across the tufted floor.
“You a hunter, Cal?”
“Never could get into it.”
“First thing a good hunter looks for is paw prints. And we got a lot of ‘em. Put your gun up, pal. The only thing living in here is probably flies.”
Cody turned on the tape recorder and started dictating all his remarks into the headset mike.
“This is Captain Micah Cody of the TAZ accompanied by detective Calvin Bergman. It is…8:01 a.m., October 26th, 2008…We are about to make entry into Apartment Four at 981 East 73rd Street which we have been informed is the residence of a Raymond Handley who has been reported DOA by his housekeeper, Wilma Kearney.” He pushed the pause button.
“Cal, let’s see if we can run a timeline on all these prints. Remember what Wilma said about vacuuming?”
“Yeah. She vacuumed the carpet yesterday afternoon.”
“Where is the vacuum cleaner stored?”
“In a closet to the left of the front door.”
“Remember what kind of shoes she was wearing today?”
“Nikes.
“Good, we’ll label these Subject A and we will mark them with Post-its and arrows indicating the direction in which they are going.”
Cody swept the light beam across the floor, leaned around the front door and flashed it at the foot of the closet door.
“We got a pair of Nikes going from the closet door out the front door. Partially obliterated by the arc the closet door and front door made opening and closing but still visible. So we can assume these were made yesterday afternoon after Subject A vacuumed and put the cleaner back in the closet and left. You buy that?”
“Reasonable.”
He swung the beam to his left.
“And here they are again, going in the front door,” he swung the beam into the room, “toward the entranceway to the library, stopping, and then coming back out. That would have been Subject A coming in this morning, seeing Handley, and splitting in one helluva hurry.”
“How about these others?”
“We’ll get to those. Right now we have Wilma coming out yesterday and going in and out this morning.”
Cody reached into his satchel and took out three different colored pads of Post-its. He pointed to another set of footprints in the soft shag carpet. They led into the entranceway to the library. “Subject A is labeled in red.
“There is a second set of prints which we will mark Subject B. These prints partly overlay those made yesterday afternoon by Subject A which indicates that these were made after the housekeeper left yesterday. What d’they look like to you, Cal?”
The young cop looked down at his own feet.
“Surgical booties?”
“Could be.” He moved the light beam to a similar set a few inches away. “These same prints also were made coming back from the library entranceway to the front door. Subject B’s prints seem to be partially obliterated by the prints made this morning by Subject A. They are a man’s size eight and a half, indicating a relatively diminutive stature. Our assumption is that whoever made these prints arrived after Mrs. Kearney vacuumed yesterday afternoon and left before she came in this morning. Anything to add, Cal?”
“There’s a third set of prints.”
“Correct. These appear to be made by a man’s shoes and we’ll label them Subject C. Subject B will be labeled in white. And C’s prints partly obscure the prints of Subject A made yesterday afternoon and the entry prints made by Subject B late yesterday. These prints also were made after Wilma Kearney left yesterday and the entry prints made by Subject B but not the exit prints made by Subject B.
“Conclusion: Wilma Kearney vacuumed this area about three p.m., Thursday, the 25th. Sometime after that, Subject B entered the apartment and went into the library. Then they were followed by Subject C, whom we will assume for the moment was Raymond Handley, who went toward the bedroom. Subject B then left the library and exited the apartment before Mrs. Kearney arrived this morning. Subject C, we are assuming, is still in the apartment.”
Cody marked the various sets of footprints with different colored Post-its and Bergman took pictures of them.
“Okay,” Cody said to Bergman, “let’s get to the main event.”
They entered the apartment and switched on the lights. As they entered the small foyer leading into the library Bergman fell back two or three steps, looking like he had been slapped in the face. “Oh my God!” he gasped.
Cody’s expression never changed. He squatted down Indian-style, resting one arm across his knees.
“Hello, Raymond,” he said quietly, reaching for his cell phone. “I have a feeling we’re going to get to know you real well.”