Fairstein, Linda - Silent Mercy
“How soon till we find out who she is? That’s what I’m thinking about.”
“Somebody’ll miss her, Coop.”
“And who did she cross to come to such a hideous end?”
The counterman walked over to the booth to refill our mugs.
“It’s the setting that gets me,” Mike said. “Does Neboh speak to you, Mercer?”
Mercer had been born in Harlem and worked in Manhattan North Homicide with Mike before transferring to Special Victims. He knew the streets and the people, even though he had been raised in Queens by his father — a mechanic for Delta at LaGuardia Airport — after his mother’s death in childbirth. He was forty-two, five years older than I, and married to another detective, Vickee Eaton, with whom he had a young son.
“I’m not sure. Like Gaskin said, Mount Olivet Baptist, that was built as a synagogue too. It was Temple Israel in 1906. Abandoned with white flight. Baptist since 1926. They took the ark the Torah used to sit in and turned it into a baptismal pool.”
“So?” Mike asked, crunching the bacon while he talked.
“You said that you and Alex were headed to 120th and Lenox because of the fingertips in a garbage pail on the street.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s only one block from Mount Olivet. Gives something to your theory that the dead woman’s religion may be tied up in this. I mean, the best-known Baptist church in Harlem is Abyssinian. Built Baptist, stayed Baptist. Your murderer wants to send a message about Baptists, that’s where he goes. Not to both of these recycled synagogues.”
“Maybe he didn’t know Neboh’s history,” I said. “I certainly didn’t.”
“Too much of a coincidence, then, that he chose both Neboh and Olivet. I think Mike’s onto something.”
Mike’s investigative instincts were probably in his DNA. His father, Brian, had been one of the most decorated cops in the NYPD, proud that his son had excelled in academics and had chosen Fordham University, majoring in history, as a way out of the dangerous street life in which his own career had been forged.
Two days after retiring from the force, while Mike was in his junior year at Fordham, Brian Chapman died of a massive coronary. Mike honored his promise to get his degree but immediately enrolled in the Police Academy to follow his passion, to shadow the steps of the man he most revered. Six months older than I — thirty-eight — Mike’s bachelor existence had only once been threatened by a serious romance, which ended in the accidental death of the young architect to whom he’d been engaged.
“You got a dish of ice cream? Chocolate, two scoops?” Mike called out to the waiter. Then to Mercer, “So how did Abyssinians get involved with New York City Baptists?”
“Goes back two hundred years, right down near the courthouse. Way before we were known as black or African American, seems the Negroes didn’t like being segregated — forced to sit apart — while they were worshipping in God’s house. It was a bunch of rich Ethiopian merchants who broke away from the First Baptist Church, way down on Worth Street, to start this one.”
“Where do you begin to look for a woman’s head?” I asked.
“She’s fixated on that, Mercer.” Mike was starting to soften his frozen dessert by swirling the spoon around and around the dish. “Coop’s not going to be happy until we have all the body parts.”
“Don’t play with your food,” I said.
“They teach you that at Wellesley, Miss Manners?”
I was the most incongruous part of our trio. My parents’ middleclass existence changed radically during my childhood when my father, a cardiologist, and his research partner invented a half-inch piece of plastic tubing that was used in almost every open-heart surgical procedure worldwide for nearly two decades thereafter. We moved to Harrison, an upscale suburb in Westchester County, and my parents were able to provide my brothers and me with the best educational opportunities available — for me, at Wellesley, where I majored in English literature before getting my JD degree at the University of Virginia School of Law.
They fostered my interest in public service and were pleased that I found such fulfillment in my work as an advocate for women and children who’d been victims of intimate violence. The Manhattan District Attorney’s Office was the premier prosecutorial model in the country, and I had thrived there under the leadership of Paul Battaglia and his hand-chosen staff of dedicated lawyers.
If my work seemed depressing to some, they had no understanding of how uplifting it was to help this long-underserved population triumph in the courtroom. In just the past thirty years and through the diligence of those who came before me, archaic laws that treated women as chattel were abolished, investigative techniques had been developed to match forensic advances, and the application of DNA technology to law enforcement methods had revolutionized the criminal justice system.
“You know what I learned at Wellesley, Mike?” I smiled at his ability to bring humor to the most dire situations. “If you’ve been out all night with a guy, and he’s about to ask you to pay for his meal, you ought to find someone else to take you home. Ready to go, Mercer?”
“Even when the sucker who’s had you out with him doesn’t even bother to try to jump your bones?” Mike asked. “That’s a sorry situation, kid. What’s today, anyway?”
“Wednesday. Soon as the sun comes up, it’ll be Wednesday.”
“Put it on my tab, Coop. I’ll catch up to you on payday.”
“By my count, you’re about three years of payday overdue, Mike. You’ll be at the autopsy?” Mercer asked.
“Yeah. Late this afternoon.”
“Could you tell anything about the killer from looking at the neck injuries?” I asked.
“Other than that he meant what he was doing, what is it you want to know?” Mike asked.
“The obvious questions. Do you think it was done by a surgeon, or by a butcher? You know, someone skilled anatomically?”
“Don’t go all Jack the Ripper on me, Coop. Somebody whacked off the poor broad’s head. The only thing I’d say about him for sure is that he was powerful. Not artful and no surgical precision. Really strong. Must have used something like an ax or a hatchet. A machete, maybe.”
I leaned back against the cracked vinyl padding on the seat of the booth. “Where do you even begin on this one?”
“It’s got ‘personal’ stamped all over it,” Mike said. “Nothing random about this victim. Nobody goes to all this trouble hacking up a stranger. Get a make on her, it’ll tell us half the story.”
“You know, Alex,” Mercer said, “morning news shows will blast this story everywhere. All the nuts respond to gruesome. Your office, the local precincts, the squad phones — they’ll be ringing off the hook. Every woman who didn’t come home last night will have someone looking for her. Prepare yourself for the onslaught.”
“I’ll be in court. Thoroughly preoccupied.”
“And we’ll be pawing through every Dumpster and incinerator north of the DMZ,” Mike said, referring to 110th Street, where Harlem unofficially began. “Hoping this madman didn’t toss her head or the murder weapon in the river. And the zoo. I’ll send Grayson to the Bronx Zoo. Keep him out of my way. Egg on my face, Coop?”
“Not the usual kind,” I said, reaching over with my napkin to wipe the ice cream from the side of his chin. “I’ll bite. Why the zoo?”
“Could be an orangutan, no?”
“You lost me.”
“Everything you ever taught me about Edgar Allan Poe. ‘Rue Morgue.’ The monstrously fierce killer who defied Parisian police’cause he could scale the sides of buildings and kill women, getting away undetected.”
“Perfect, Mike. The monkey did it. Flew over the gates of Mount Neboh with his headless torso before making his escape. The DA’ll be impressed.”
“Great ape, Coop. Orangutans are apes, not monkeys.” Mike was chewing a toothpick, his dark eyes flashing with the energy his breakfast provided. “How do I start, you want to know? Just like Poe. Ratiocination. Forget the hysterics that are going to surround this case and think rationally. Make sure no orangutans escaped from the zoo.”
We had worked a murder at the home of the great poet and storyteller years earlier, and Mike had devoured his tales of the bizarre and grotesque.
“You keep your eyes peeled for a head,” he said, pointing the toothpick at me and tugging at a few straggling strands of my hair as he stood up. “Or somebody carrying a bag that might weigh — oh, I’d say about nine pounds six ounces.”
The counterman handed me the check and I left cash on the table as we stood up.
“How’d you come up with that number?”
“My last decapitation, Coop. The human head accounts for less than ten percent of the body mass, usually in the eight-to-twelve-pound range.”
I wouldn’t sleep at all now. Facial features were flooding my imagination. The manner of this woman’s death would haunt me. I didn’t know the first thing about her, but I was wildly creating a visual image, a life and a family, and of course a brutal death.
“And you arrive at nine-six by?. .”
“Eyeballing her, kid. Much shorter than you. Maybe five-five. Brunette, from the rest of the hair on her body. And she wasn’t from the streets.”
“How so?”
“Pedicured toes. No track marks. No tats. About your age, I’d say. Breasts were firm. Skin was unwrinkled and smooth. My money’s on midthirties.”
I had turned away from the broken body of the victim on the church portico, while Mike studied it to learn as much about her as he could in just the few minutes spent with her in the dark and cold.
“I’ll drop you at home, Alex,” Mercer said. “Let’s see what the day brings.”
“Expect the usual,” Mike said, gnawing the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “A handful of domestics, child pervs scouring the playgrounds and cyberspace, identity theft up the wazoo. Let’s meet up at the end of the day, guys, okay? See where we stand, what we find out. ’Cause this friggin’ beast will be back before you know it.”
“Why do you—?” I started to ask.
“There’s a bloodlust here you don’t see very often, Coop. He’s not done. That bastard tossed the head so his next vic won’t connect the dots. Whoever she is, unless we find her first, she’ll never see him coming.”
SIX
MERCER dropped me at the entrance to my high-rise apartment on the Upper East Side, and one of the doormen escorted me to the elevator. I rode alone to the twentieth floor, unlocked the door and bolted it behind me, comforted by the familiarity of my well-appointed home. It wasn’t the way most young prosecutors lived, but at moments like this, the security it offered provided a safety net for which I was enormously grateful.
I didn’t disturb the sheets. I pulled back the duvet and slipped in beneath it, knowing that I needed to calm down but aware that I was far too restless to sleep. Daylight would soon flood the large windows, so for an hour, I closed my eyes and tried to transport myself to a more tranquil surround.
Photographs on my night table allowed me a brief escape from the night’s dreadful scene and Mike’s unpleasant prophecy. My parents smiled at me from the porch of the beach home on the Caribbean island to which they had retired, and my brothers’ kids were oblivious to the camera lens as they body-surfed in the Atlantic during a visit to my summer house on Martha’s Vineyard. My lover, Luc Rouget, waved from his red convertible in the tiny village of Mougins, near the Côte d’Azur in the south of France, and thankfully didn’t seem to be an ocean away when I rested the silver picture frame next to me on the pillow.
I must have dozed despite my apprehension of revisiting visions of the body in my nightmares. My alarm sounded at seven, and I allowed myself another hour after listening to the headlines — still vague and devoid of essential facts — on the local all-news station.
At eight, the time I was usually at my desk in the criminal courthouse in lower Manhattan, I got up and showered. I dressed for the trial, in a gray, chalk-striped suit with a pleated skirt and a mantailored ivory silk blouse. Lyle Keets, the trial judge, was an old-fashioned gentleman who liked all the niceties of the practice of law as it was done forty years ago — professional attire was almost as important to him as professional conduct. He had once forbidden a colleague of mine to reenter his trial part in slacks after a juror remarked that he had been distracted throughout the proceedings by the tight panty line he could see as she stood behind the lectern.
I had missed rush hour, so I grabbed a yellow cab for the fifteen-minute ride down the FDR to the courthouse.
“Morning, Ms. Cooper,” one of the uniformed cops on security said as I passed through the metal detector at the One Hogan Place entrance to the building. “Half a day, huh?”
It was easier to smile and nod at him than expect him to have linked my night’s activity to the morning news.
My office was on the eighth floor of the massive courthouse structure, just across the hallway from the district attorney’s executive wing. I had enormous respect for Battaglia, whose long tenure and innovative policies as Manhattan’s chief prosecutor had made him a legend in law enforcement. The pioneering Sex Crimes Unit, created three decades earlier, was one of the jewels in his crown. Battaglia was not a micromanager. He left daily details of running investigations in the hands of me and my staff of dedicated lawyers, but he insisted on being kept up to speed on any high-profile matters that would affect his standing in the community or his political base.
“You’re running late.” My secretary of many years, Laura Wilkie, knew when not to waste words. I rounded the corner into my office and she followed with a handful of phone messages.
“Sorry. I thought I told you Keets had a dental emergency to deal with.”
“You did. But I didn’t know you’d be out with my boyfriend half the night.”
Laura had an unrequited crush on Mike Chapman. There were days I think she came to work just in order to talk with him on the phone, or be dazzled by his broad grin when he perched on the edge of her desk to flirt.
“He ratted me out already?” I untied my cashmere scarf and hung it with my coat behind the door.
“Nope. But Mercer did,” Laura said, reading from a list on her steno pad. “Told me to keep Mike’s calls away from you so you could get done what you needed to do in front of Keets.”
“Okay.”
“Nice thought, but I’ve already had to scratch the idea of giving you space. Battaglia skipped his meeting at City Hall to get in early. He wants you to brief him on the murder.”
“He picked up from the news that I was out on that? I didn’t think they made me.”
“No again. Some guy named Wilbur Gaskin called him to complain about how you were all browbeating a bunch of kids at his church. Gaskin’s on some charity board with the boss.”
