First Kill (5 page)

“The guy came out of his stupor like a tornado, coughing, puking, and complaining that someone just f’d up his high.”

“Exactly. It was at that moment the perp made his move. There was an instant of total chaos, and he used that opportunity to escape.”

“And the streetwalker died in the bus on the way to the hospital.”

“Yeah. She bled out. Stab wounds to the abdomen. Is that consistent with the MO of your case?”

I laughed inwardly. The word MO is so terribly overused. Everyone references
The Silence of the Lambs
when they think about the criminally insane—they envision a Buffalo Bill-like psychopath cutting diamond-shaped wedges in women’s backs. Murderers rarely have such a unique identifying signature. Most serial killers hit someone over the head with a blunt object and drag them off, somewhere they can’t be seen doing their dirty work. If they’re truly serial-type killers, they usually refine their technique as they go along, so their MO is always changing. “The victim in my case, Emma Sands, had multiple stab wounds to the abdomen. She bled out slowly in bed. According to forensics, her killer was lying behind her while he stabbed her to death. I guess that’s how he gets off.”

“And he was clever enough to beat a murder conviction.”

“Clever? I’m not sure how clever he is.” Most serial killer are not that bright. “Unfortunately, there are lots of clever, fucking attorneys. Sean Quinlan, my perp, has a documented history of multiple personality disorder, and his lawyer wove all of that medical mumbo-jumbo into a very strong defense argument.” I looked into Lido’s dreamy eyes and sighed, expressing exasperation over the Quinlan case and for not being able to tackle him like a tight end on a third-down blitz. Speaking of tight ends, I was dying to get a look at his. “Any prints on the knife? That would help, especially with a second possibly related murder taking place almost immediately after my perp’s release from prison.”

Lido shook his head.

“Crap!”

Chapter Eight

I walked Lido to the precinct door and watched as he trotted down the steps and onto the street.
There was a lot to like about him, and I wasn’t just talking about his matinee-idol good looks or his aforementioned tight end, which I was able to confirm—impressive! He had a
quality feel
about him—he exuded a kind of warmth that made me like him immediately.

Rodriguez stood behind me, waiting to be briefed on my meeting with Lido. Between Lido and Rodriguez, I couldn’t make up my mind as to who was hotter, the fiery Latino or the incendiary patrolman. I was definitely conflicted.
Not good, Stephanie; too many dangling plums. Don’t you dare reach for any of them.

I made eye contact with Rodriguez, and we began walking back to the squad room. “Interesting turn of events. What do you think about this morning’s news?” I asked.

“I don’t know, Chalice—no prints on the knife, and neither Lido nor his partner got a good look at the perp as he fled the worksite. All we know is that it’s the same model as the knife that was used to murder Emma Sands and that this new woman was attacked just days after Quinlan was released from prison.”

I liked the fact that Adriano referred to the second victim as a woman. Most of the guys on the squad would’ve referred to the deceased as
street meat
, a term also used by many New Yorkers to describe the wares sold by street vendors. I think it’s wholly inappropriate to use the same term to describe a person and a shish kabob. I find a polite sensibility refreshing. Not that I’m a prude, but still … “There is no such thing as a coincidence, Adriano. I’m not sure how the two murders tie together, but they’ll tie. Rest assured.”

“Quinlan was locked up while he waited for his case to go to trial. That’s a long time for a serial killer to be pent up. Maybe he was ready to explode.”

Actually, most serial killers don’t strike every ten minutes. I know that’s the way they’re commonly depicted, but … I reminded Adriano that with only two possible homicides to his credit he was incorrectly classifying Quinlan as a serial killer. “There’s no proof to tie Quinlan to any other murders—not here or in Europe.”

“Yeah I know, Chalice, it takes a body count of three. Still …”

“Chill, my friend, I want to nail his ass as badly as you do.”

I saw Sonellio step out of his office. He looked around the squad room, pointed to me, and waved me over. “I wonder what this is about.” Without looking back at Rodriguez, I said, “Be right back.”

I walked over to Sonellio. “Hi, Boss. What’s up?”

“Just circling back on the Quinlan case, Chalice. Come into my office, will ya?”

“Sure.” I followed Sonellio into his office and closed the door. A half-eaten egg sandwich sat unwrapped on his desk. The wax paper had become translucent with butter. “Everything all right?”

“All right?” He shrugged and reached for a bottle of Pepto. “Are you kidding? I’ve got an ulcer the size of a pumpkin—other than that, everything is just hunky-dory.” He sat down. “Relax, Chalice, you were all worked up the other day. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Sonellio was as good as they came. He was looking out for me as he had for my dad. Truth be told, he was there for everyone on the squad. “Yeah I’m over it. It’s just—”

“Listen you hot-headed son of a gun. I know it was a big collar, and I don’t blame you for getting emotional about it. But you can’t come down on the ADA like that. Farrell was just doing his job. Steve’s on our side, and it doesn’t make sense to bite the hand that feeds you,
capiche
?”

“Not to worry, we had lunch the other day and buried the hatchet.” Of course Steve was also hoping to bury his bishop, but we’ll just have to see how that one goes. Between Lido, Rodriguez, and Farrell, a girl could become utterly distracted.

Sonellio raised a finger meant to connote that his forthcoming words were instructive and needed to be remembered. “It also sends the message that you’re not a seasoned pro, and that’s the last thing you want. You’re a good cop, Chalice … learn to take a deep breath before you open your mouth.”

“Breathe deeply,” I said demonstratively. “Take it easy. Don’t waylay the ADA … Got it.” I gave him a reassuring smile. “I promise, Boss. I’ll behave.”

“Atta girl, Chalice.” He took a swig of Pepto. Someone knocked on his door. He looked through the glass wall panel. “Jesus, speak of the devil.” I turned and saw a familiar face. Sonellio motioned for Farrell to enter.

Farrell closed the door behind him. He was smiling as he entered. “Well, if it isn’t my two favorite law enforcement officers,” he said and pointed to the bottle of Pepto in Sonellio’s hand. “Happy hour
already
?”

“Yeah,” Sonellio chortled. “It’s two-for-one on margaritas, Mai Tais, and antacids.”

Be pleasant.
I needed to be cordial but not so friendly as to reveal to Sonellio that we were dating. “Hi, Steve.” I slid into the next chair to make room for him to sit down.

“How are you doing today, Chalice?” Farrell asked.

“I’d like to see Sean Quinlan on his way to Rikers. Other than that, I’m pretty good.”

“I heard a similar knife was found at a crime scene a few nights back,” Farrell said. “Maybe this isn’t over yet.”

“News travels fast,” I said. “Unfortunately the perp didn’t leave prints or his own DNA on the murder weapon.”

“Have we questioned Quinlan?” Farrell asked. “I’m curious to hear his alibi.”

Sonellio screwed the cap back on the bottle of Pepto. “We’ll reach out to him for a polite how-do-you-do.”

“I doubt he’ll cooperate,” Farrell said. “His lawyer issued a statement saying that Quinlan’s arrest and incarceration in the Emma Sands case was a travesty of justice. So without being able to place him at the crime scene …”

I studied Farrell’s expression and body language. He seemed genuinely disappointed at our inability to pursue Quinlan.

There was another knock on the door. Sonellio waved Rodriguez in. The office was now kind of cramped. A silly thought popped into my head, the image of an overstuffed clown car.

“What’s shaking, Adriano?” I asked. He had a huge smile plastered across his face. His manner offered the promise of good news. “Well?” I asked impatiently. He flashed an enlarged color printout of a twenty-dollar bill. Unremarkable, one might think, except that upon closer inspection, President Jackson had a bloody nose.

Chapter Nine

He waited patiently in the stairwell, peering through the glass door panel into the corridor.
He checked his watch.
She’s late.
It was Friday evening, and the other offices in the medical plaza were already closed. The translucent door panels were dull with no light shining into the corridor.
What’s keeping her?
He nervously bit his nails.
Let’s get this over with.
Tension was eating away at him—he had missed something crucial, something he should have taken care of long before.
Come on. Come on.
He sighed with relief as the light in the last office finally went out.
It’s about time.
Another moment passed while he waited for the door to open.
She’s buttoning her coat. She’s putting on her gloves. She’s picking up her purse. Now!
The door opened as if in response to his command. The office assistant stepped through the door, pulled it closed, and hit the elevator button. It came quickly, and she was gone.

The corridor was silent as he tiptoed toward the private clinic office. He had checked the building before and knew that all of the doors and locks were the same, designed to impart a uniform appearance to the interior of the professional building. He reached into his pocket, withdrew a shoelace, and fed the tip in the space between the door and the doorframe. He fed the lace down and behind the door bolt until it emerged in the space under it. He pulled tightly on the two ends of the lace and turned the handle. The latch released and the door opened. Once inside, he used a small flashlight to navigate the office interior to the front desk. Even in the dark, he could see that the office was dated and in need of redecorating.

He had been prepared to boot the computer and wait for it to start, but it had been left running. The screensaver cleared as soon as he touched the keyboard. It took but a moment for him to locate the birth record he needed. He read through the document to confirm he had found the right record and then hit the print key. The printer clattered to life behind him. He checked the document to make sure it had printed clearly and then deleted the file. “Done,” he said with gratification. “She’s been erased.” The rattling of the doorknob startled him. He looked up and saw the silhouette of a woman illuminated against the door panel. He grinned so widely it made his jaw ache.
The computer, she came back to turn it off.
His hands moved instinctively into his jacket pockets, one grasping a small bottle and the other grasping a brand-new folding knife. In the span of a second, he thought about the hooker he had stabbed. He had been driving through the Westside, leading her to believe that he was following her directions to the hotel when he first spied the construction site.
This is where I want her,
he’d thought,
on the ground, in the filth.
He attempted to chloroform her in the car but she was too quick and bolted out the door. She was running down the block, screaming, when he caught up with her and pressed the chloroform-soaked handkerchief to her mouth. He dragged her into the construction lot. She was on the ground behind the dumpster, groggy and helpless. He was ready to take her when he heard the police car rolling by. He’d panicked when it stopped—he stabbed her, something he had not planned to do until afterward.

His mind cleared, and he focused on the woman returning to the office.
“Good,”
he whispered with glee. “I’ll do this one right.” He moved like a cat, out from behind the desk and into the shadows. He was ready for her with a plan set in his mind.
This one,
he mused,
will not be found.

Chapter Ten

It takes about sixty hours to run a DNA analysis under ideal conditions, and a teensy smudge on a twenty-dollar bill is anything but ideal.
The DNA sample was so minute that it had to be painstakingly extracted from the paper before the analysis could begin. So give or take, I had about three days to kill … or not. The twenty-dollar bill had been collected at the Westside crime scene. It was one of five twenties that the streetwalker had folded and stuffed in her bra. I know that sounds cliché, but these things become cliché for good reasons. More importantly, the blood-smeared twenty was wrapped within the others. None of the other bills had been bloodied and her wounds were to the abdomen, nowhere near the location of her stash. Ergo, the blood was on the twenty-dollar bill before it was given to her. Was it her assailant’s blood? Maybe. Could be. As I said, we had about a three-day wait ahead of us. By the by, we had circulated photos of the aforementioned streetwalker and was able to identify her as Nadine Fey, an eighteen-year-old, high-school dropout from the East Tremont section of the Bronx. Ms. Fey had resided with her three brothers and … that’s it. There was no mother or father in the picture—a tragic story and all too commonplace.

I took the stairs to the main level of the police precinct, pushed the doors open, and exited into the chill night air. I hadn’t gotten very far when I spied Quinlan and Hartley waiting for me. Their eyes were on me as I approached.
Alrighty then, what’s this all about?
I checked the position of the surveillance camera mounted on the precinct exterior wall. I stopped dead in my tracks and signaled for them to approach, drawing them within range of the camera. “This is interesting. I don’t suppose you’re here to make a donation to the PBA.”

Hartley looked like Ichabod Crane, tall and gangly. He had a smallish head atop a spindly neck. His hair was plastered across his head and his ears were enormous. Quinlan was somewhat smaller in stature and less offensive to the eye. Hartley was once again dressed in his sable-trimmed overcoat, Quinlan in a short leather jacket, which didn’t look very warm.