Gladyss of the Hunt (28 page)

“What do you got?”

“The murder weapon!” I held it up.

In order to inspect the knife, Bernie released O'Flaherty, who rolled onto his side on the bathroom floor. He was coughing up toilet water, gasping for air. His swollen, purple hands were still cuffed tightly behind his back. The detective carefully took the t-shirt in which I held the knife. Putting on his reading glasses, he held the weapon up to the lamplight in the bedroom and carefully studied the thick layers of blood that had coagulated and dried on the blade and along the handle. Far from cleaning the knife the way he had cleaned every other aspect of the crime scene, O'Flaherty was evidently proud of the caked strata, a sensual talisman of his savagery.

Bernie returned to the bathroom and shoved the blade toward O'Flaherty's dripping face. “I don't even need luminol to check this. It's all right there, fuckface. All your little blood sacrifices.”

“Brutality . . . unlawful . . . search . . . civil suit,” O'Flaherty gasped, still hyperventilating.

“Ass rape . . . slapped around by monsters . . . lethal . . . injection,” Bernie mimicked his gasps.

“I was the victim! . . . They . . . ripped me off . . .” he continued as Bernie handed me back the weapon and called Crime Scene.

I couldn't look at O'Flaherty again, so I waited in the hallway. To think I'd ever wanted to be in homicide. Bernie must've sensed my doubts, because he opened the door and said, “If you were a male cop, instead of punching you out he would've just executed you as soon as he got you in the elevator.”

“Have you ever been attacked?”

“Two weeks ago, remember?” he said, gently rubbing his crown. “Anyone can get blitzed from behind.”

“If you hadn't come when you did . . .” I couldn't talk any more. We heard sirens outside and Bernie quickly recapitulated what had happened, leaving out his little water torture. We had to get our stories straight to protect each other. In another moment, the first cops, including Sergeant McKenner, raced up the stairs.

“You okay, Gladyss?” he said inspecting my cuts and bruises.

“A little banged up, but—”

“When are you due back in NSU?”

“In a few days.”

“Thank God for that.”

A moment later the elevator opened and the supporting cast of technicians and EMS workers came flooding out. The uniforms took O'Flaherty downstairs, while the paramedics checked me out and treated me for cuts and trauma. When I showed them the burn marks on my stomach, one large medic with thick black hair pointed to the scratches trailing down my belly and below my belt. “Did he do that?”

“Yeah.”

“Would you mind opening your pants?” he asked. No one else was around, so I unbuckled my pants and pulled them down, along with my underwear, to the top of my pubes to show where the scratch marks ended.

“Did he penetrate you?” he asked, looking up at me.

“Christ, no!”

Any kind of penetration legally constituted a rape. If his fingers had been longer, or my torso any shorter, technically I would've been violated. He delicately swabbed a yellowish-brown liquid on the eight-inch scrapes and that was it.

“He mainly just hit me on the back and ribs,” I said sternly.

“They'll take care of you at the hospital.”

The rank and file started pouring in, then sergeants, lieutenants, and the ADA.

“Why's he wet?” the lieutenant in charge asked Bernie. “He's claiming you stuck his head in the toilet.”

Bernie calmly relayed how he'd heard the gunshot in the elevator, then how he pulled O'Flaherty off of me. “The prick raced back into
his room with me in pursuit. We struggled at the door. He hit me a few times, then managed to make it into the bathroom. We struggled some more, and when I finally was able to grab him I knocked him into the toilet, that's all. I mean, it's a small fucking room.”

“Where exactly was your partner during all this?” the lieutenant asked.

“Still near the elevator. She'd been beaten and burnt, almost shot. This guy was moving pretty quick.”

“Then what?”

“Then I was alone, fighting for my life. I mean, you know I'm not in the best of health. I've had this goddamn lung thing since the World Trade Center.”

“So why don't I see a mark on you, while he's all bruised up?”

“I was alone and the man had just shot my partner. I mean, I was fighting for my life here.”

“He's claiming you cuffed him and tortured him.”

“With all due respect, after he fired at Chronou in the elevator, if I'd wanted to, you know I coulda just shot him, and been entirely within my rights.”

“What are you saying, we should be glad he's not dead?” asked the captain, who had quietly entered and been listening in.

“Captain, you know me. I mean, you've accused me of getting rough over the years, so for me I'd call this exercising self-restraint.” One of the other cops chuckled.

“Okay, so you're fighting with him in the bathroom, then what?”

“Only when I finally got him on the floor was I able to cuff him. And only after I got the cuffs on him could I radio for help.”

“So you weren't drowning him in the shitter with his hands cuffed behind his back?”

“Hell no! I knocked him in there while we were fighting, but once I got him cuffed it was over.”

The story was loosely as we had rehearsed it.

“Exactly what time did you hear the shot in the elevator?” asked the captain.

“Give me a break. You know how fast this shit goes down.”

The captain turned to me. “You had gone down to the corner deli for a coffee?”

“Yes, sir. I was in the store a while 'cause there was a line.”

“Still, the clerk should be able to give us an idea of what time you left there,” the lieutenant said.

“They probably have a surveillance camera, maybe it's time-stamped,” the captain added.

“I suppose so,” I replied.

As the lieutenant was about to ask me more questions the black-haired paramedic came to the rescue, pushing in a wheelchair and saying I really had to go to the hospital now.

He wanted to strap me in, but I insisted I could walk down to the ambulance. As soon as I rose to my feet, I found myself shaking. I walked along the hall and watched as the crime photographer began snapping photos of the filthy elevator floor: it was a dark interplay of piss, blood, coffee, and vomit—all mine.

Before I could give it any more thought, the paramedic returned with the wheelchair and we were going down in the freight elevator, packed with black garbage bags. Soon I was being lifted into the damn ambulance like some strange piece of living furniture. Just before they closed the back doors, Eddie O'Ryan appeared out of nowhere and jumped inside.

“I just heard you were shot!” he said, grabbing my hand.

“It wasn't that bad.”

“They got him?” he asked.

“Yeah, and I found the murder weapon.”

Lowering his voice, he said, “He didn't . . . You weren't . . . raped?”

“No.”

“You're sure?” He looked at me funny.

“I'd fucking
know
if I'd been raped, wouldn't I!”

The paramedic who was sitting with us looked nervously away.

At St. Vincent's Hospital on Twelfth and Seventh, I was given priority treatment. I told Eddie I really needed to be alone, so he gave me a pat on the back and told me to call if I needed absolutely anything.

The paramedic must've mentioned my scratches because an older female lieutenant I didn't know, from Sex Crimes, sat down and delicately interviewed me. She carefully filled out a detailed report while an aide snapped Polaroids for evidence: unflattering photos of my face, my ribs, my lower back and forehead, the first and
second degree burns on my chest and stomach. And the humiliating scratches across my belly, of course. I got a band-aid for the cut on my forehead and even a dab of ointment for the singe at the back of my scalp. The doctor gave me prescriptions for a burn ointment for my stomach, some antibiotics, and a mild painkiller – none of which I intended to take. A member of the PBA showed up and said I was entitled to so many sick days and counseling, then asked if I needed a representative or anything else. I told him no thanks. By the time the doctor offered me a sedative, I already felt steadier and didn't want to go back to being groggy. He asked me if I had someone to look after me.

“My boyfriend's waiting for me at home,” I lied to comfort him. A patrolman drove me to my door and waited until I closed it before he sped off.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

As soon as I'd locked my apartment door, I found myself trembling uncontrollably.
I wasn't alone!
I pulled out my gun and checked my apartment thoroughly. It was empty. Still wearing my overcoat, I sat down and just felt profoundly stupid and guilty. Why the hell did I ever choose to descend into that miserable underworld and put myself in such a clearly awful situation. What the fuck was I thinking!

I punched myself in the thigh and, before I could do anything worse to myself, went into my kitchen and started cleaning the shelves. I started with the canned and bottled items, wiping them off then washing down the shelves and putting them back in place. Then I worked my way through the seasonings rack, cleaning as I went. Finally I dusted and reorganized the pots, pans, plates, and silverware.

I basically had this OCD thing under control except for mild flare-ups now and then. On New Years Day. after things had gone poorly with O'Ryan, I'd spent three hours reorganizing all the soaps, sprays, lotions, and pharmaceuticals in my bathroom, feeling better even as I did it.

This time it was different. As I cleaned, I kept remembering the moment when O'Flaherty had shoved his claws down my pants. It literally felt as if he had inserted some awful part of himself inside me. I shattered a crystal champagne glass my grandmother had brought here from the old country. That was enough. I carefully swept up the shattered pieces and ran a bath.

I sat in it and had a long cry. Then, just as I was beginning to drift off, I saw O'Flaherty's bony fists coming down on my face, his broken claws scratching along my belly. Bolting upright, I sent a splash of water over the sides of the tub and onto the floor. After I'd dried
off, I lay down and dozed for a while.

When I awoke and thought about the afternoon's events, I realized with a start that after the attack in the elevator, when I was exhausted from the beating—and perhaps liberated from self-consciousness—I must've finally had some kind of mystical experience. How else to explain the way I was drawn to O'Flaherty's window where I spotted the tip of what turned out to be his knife? It truly felt as though the spirit of Diana had shoved my head out of there to show me the bloody weapon. I was too tired even to be excited by this, so I took a sleeping pill and slept right through until early the next morning.

When I turned on my computer, there were various local news stories with headlines like NYPD POLICEWOMAN NARROWLY ESCAPES DEATH CAPTURING KILLER! and a vague but sensationalized description of what had happened last night, along with my official NYPD photo.

As I thought about Nessun O'Flaherty and the postcard of Diana in his room, I wondered if, consciously or unconsciously, he was giving us a clue to what he'd done. I went back to a web site about Greek myths, intending to read more about Diana, but ended up finding something even more interesting. Because his name was so similar to our suspect's, I was drawn to the story of Nessus. He was a centaur—half-man, half-horse, who abducted Deianera, the wife of Hercules. But before he could get away with her, Hercules shot him with an arrow. While the lecherous Nessus was dying, he told his would-be victim that his blood would ensure that her husband remained faithful to her. Later, when she feared Hercules was losing affection for her, she spread this blood on her beloved's shirt—it ended up killing him.

I'd been ordered to rest, but I felt too restless, so I went downstairs to the yoga studio across the street. It was just before noon, and several students were rolling out their mats. The Renunciate waved me in.

He looked at the bruises on my face. “What happened?”

“An accident,” I said dismissively.

“I have to teach a class, but—”

“I was wondering if you could give me a little advice,” I said awkwardly.

“Sure.”

“I'm feeling a little . . .” I spun my hand and let out a deep breath.

“Uprooted?” The room was filling up.

“Yeah. I was wondering if there was something I could do for that . . .”

He thought a moment then calmly said, “Wear red. It will comfort you.”

“Red?”

“Yes, it's the color of the root chakra. Visualize it around you.”

I just stared at him, thinking I could've just left last night's blood on my face.