Gladyss of the Hunt (3 page)

When a murder occurred, the precinct detectives came first. If it was an isolated killing, as it usually was, it belonged to them. After they ran it through the database, if a preexisting pattern turned up—an open case—they would call for homicide investigators from Manhattan South. They caught everything south of 59th Street.

As he pulled on his scarf and buttoned up his coat, Lenny said, “About ten minutes ago, the guy at the desk was going to send
someone up with a chair. I'll remind him on my way out.”

I thanked him and he was gone.

When one of the techs finally exited the room, I peeked inside as the other guy was carefully putting away his tools and chemicals and asked if they'd found anything.

“Yeah, a sperm archive of every man born in the last century. I don't think they ever changed the sheets.” He nodded toward the body. “No sign our killer had sex with this one, though.”

“How old was the victim?” I asked.

“Early twenties,” he read from his report. “Blonde hair. Several identifying tattoos that could have been done in prison.”

The maid, an older black woman in a torn wool sweater, appeared at the end of the hallway. She was pushing a broom cart out of one room, heading toward another.

“Excuse me!” I called, walking over to her. “Are you the one who found the body?”

“Hell yeah, and I'll never forget it. Never saw no one with no head before.” She spoke with a faded island dialect. “And some policeman took my fingerprints, but I was telling them, I didn't do nothing wrong.”

“They'll just be elimination prints, to make sure we can rule you out. Did anyone interview you?”

“Yeah, some guy with a bushy mustache.” That was Hernandez. “Oh, and the cop who was just here. He took my name and the name of a tenant who's lived down the hall a long time.”

“Did you ever see the victim before, when she was alive?” I inquired. I wasn't supposed to question anyone, but I was alone and I had time to kill.

“Yeah, I told the other officer. She came here from time to time.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I remembered her 'cause she tipped me once, when the room was a real mess.”

“How'd you know it was her?”

“The cop let me look at her face,” she said. “I remembered her tattoo.”

“What tattoo?”

“She had a tiny tear drop near her eye.” I had noticed it.

“So when was the last time you saw her?”

“A month or so ago, I guess. I don't really remember. The old desk clerk, Sam, he used to have deals with some of the girls.”

“What kind of deals?”

“He'd give the girls a room, just for an hour or so. After a guest checked out, but before I'd clean them. He died a while back, before the big sweep. Maybe the new guy does it now.”

“Would you recognize any of the johns who were with her in the past?”

“Maybe, if I saw them, but I didn't know her regulars.”

“Does this place have any exits other than the one through the lobby?”

“The fire escape out front,” she replied.

Some detective, a young guy in a Gucci knock-off, came in with a uniform cop named Ray. I sensed they were only there for a little sightseeing.

I thanked the cleaning lady, and followed them into the room. The sightseers fell silent when they saw the vic, so I asked them to watch the scene a minute while I dashed out.

I thought there was at least a chance the killer had left some trace behind, on his way to and from the room. Flicking on my Maglite, I pointed it at the floor as I headed down the hallway. Stopping myself, I paused, closed my eyes, and took some quick shallow breaths—a technique I had recently learned that was designed to heighten my awareness. After a moment my heartbeat quickened. I knew I was ready.

I continued to the staircase and looked down all the way to the lobby—nada. I went back up. On the half landing, just above the murder scene, I spotted a double A battery in the corner. Let it be relevant to the case, I thought as I bent over. Almost through sheer force of will, it became a tube of lipstick. When I rolled it up, and saw the color was bright orange, I realized I had stopped willing too soon. It didn't quite match the color worn by the victim. Still, I held it by its edge as I returned to the room.

“We gotta dash,” one of the sightseeing cops said when I returned.

An old wooden folding chair was now leaning against the hallway wall. I opened it, unlidded my cold tea, and waited for the Johnny-come-lately from Homicide South.

Ten minutes later a surprisingly young guy showed up, a cigarette
between his yellow teeth and a gold shield dangling from a leather wallet that was wedged in his jacket pocket.

“How's it going?” he greeted me.

“You're a detective?” I asked astonished. With his fuzzy post-adolescent mustache, he couldn't have been much older than me.

“What do we have?”

“I only looked inside,” I said, in case he was testing me. “Her head is cut off, and her limbs were taped together.”

“Holy shit!” he said, then snapped a photo of the victim from the doorway. “Do we have a name?”

“Not to my knowledge. Seems like she was a hooker.”

“So how many murders does this make it?”

“You're the detective, you tell me,” I replied. “Are you allowed to smoke in here?”

When he grinned, I realized I hadn't been following proper procedures. I flipped open my memo book and told him that if he wanted to enter the room, he had to sign it first, since I was technically in charge of the scene. I should've gotten the earlier sightseers to do likewise.

“Let me finish my cig first,” he said and walked back down the stairs.

It took me a minute or two before I realized he wasn't coming back. Whoever that kid was, he wasn't a detective. Probably a reporter, damn it. They were constantly monitoring police radios.

Twenty minutes later, I heard coughing in the distance. The cough slowly grew louder and was accompanied by an odd thud. Finally a rugged, older man emerged from the stairway, panting for air. He walked with a distinct limp. This guy had detective written all over him.

As soon as he saw me, he nervously planted an unlit cigarette between his lips.

“My fucking foot is killing me.”

“Who exactly are you?” I asked.

He took his wallet from his pocket and flipped open his gold shield. “Detective Sergeant Bernie Farrell. Is the rest of the squad here?”

“Just me, sir.”

“Who are you again?”

“Officer Chronou.”

“First name, dear heart?”

“Gladyss, with two esses.”

“Tell me no reporters came by, Gladyss.”

“Actually this young guy just came by . . . He said he was a detective, but he kept asking me questions.”

“Make me glad, Gladyss with two esses, and tell me he didn't snap a picture.”

“He took a picture.”

“Shit! Exactly what does ‘protect the crime scene' mean to you?”

“I'm really sorry, sir,” I said.

“No, I shoulda told . . . See, some asshole reporter got ahold of the mugs of the last vic, as well as the crime scene of the first vic, and has been running stories on the case.”

Detective Farrell went over and stared down at the body. He hung his hand forward and pursed his lips like a gargoyle. “Shit,” he said. He walked around the room until he came to the window, then stared up at the surrounding buildings silently for several long minutes.

“Why don't you warn him off?” I said, if only to awaken him.

“We tried, but there wasn't a byline on the stories, they were just credited to a special correspondent,” Farrell said. “And surprise, surprise, the newspaper's editor refused to reveal their sources.”

“The real fear,” he continued, “is that killers sometimes like to return to the scene of the crime. And this killer does this whole weird human sculpture thing.”

“I remember this guy's face pretty clearly.”

“Well, he probably
isn't
the murderer. The killer is obviously smart, or we would've caught him by now. And this murder officially makes him a serial killer.”

“This is the third?”

“The third that we know of, but I wouldn't be surprised if there are others we don't know about. Look at this weird shit.” He pointed to the corpse.

“They're all tall with blonde hair.”

“Maybe his ex was tall?”

“I think the reason he looks for tall gals is because of this whole structure he makes.” He pointed to the bound limbs. “He wants
them nice and erect.”

“She's holding a card in her hand.”

“Yeah, the last one had an expired Metrocard, and some tacky bracelet on her other wrist, too—but it really varies here.” He pointed to the poor woman's skull. “In the first murder, he moved the head up over there, and he carved the number 9 on the vic's forehead. The second one, he cut the number 2 on her forehead and put the head over there.” He pointed to the right.

“It's like some perverse work of art, isn't it?”

“Shit! I definitely should've had this joint staked out.”

“How could you know he'd bring her here?”

“It's one of the only three places he
could've
brought her.”

“Isn't this area loaded with fleabag hotels?”

“Not anymore. Everything's either been zoned or priced up. Ten, fifteen years ago you could rent rooms by the trick, screw, strangle, and be out in twenty. But all the streetwalkers and car johns have moved online or up to Hunts Point.”

“I've seen streetwalkers around here,” I said.

“Yeah, you still get a few desperadoes along Lex—but all our vics are from escort services. And the hotels around here are strictly all-night affairs. Some of the rooms are three, four times the price of the girl. But aside from being one of the cheapest, this crap-ass dive is one of the last three hotels in the area that doesn't even have a video setup in the lobby.”

He let out a big sigh and muttered, apparently to himself. “Fuck, Bert would've had them all staked out—at least for a week after the last girl. Course, he had the power to authorize that and I don't.”

“Someone must have seen something.”

“The clerk here said he had no recollection of the john, just the girl. We were luckier at the last scene. The clerk there clearly remembered the vic
and
her john.”

The detective pulled out a creased sketch that looked eerily similar to the one I remembered of the Unabomber. He could've been anywhere from forty to sixty, and wore dark sunglasses and a loose hoodie.

“How'd he pay for the room?'

“A stolen credit card that didn't lead anywhere.”

“So what now?”

“Well, now he's going to have to leave his hunting ground—'cause we're going to be waiting for him in all the old familiar places.”

Looking at his wristwatch, Farrell said, “The medical examiner is still at a murder scene up in East Harlem. After he's been here and checked out this body, you can call the morgue to come collect her. Then it's the ME's job. You can seal up the room.”

“No one's going to relieve me?”

“You're on a regular daytime shift, right?

“Yes, sir.”

“We'll be done by the end of your shift.”

Hopefully I could still make my evening yoga class.

The detective snapped on a pair of latex gloves, took out his notebook, and started scribbling notes as he walked carefully around the room. Finally he took out a magnifying glass and inspected the floor.

“This guy must've used a fucking drop cloth,” the detective said. “Forensics told me, but I had to see it for myself. Except for right here, there ain't a drop of blood.”

“Wouldn't a lot of blood have pumped out when he decapitated her?”

“Not when they're already dead,” Bernie replied. “This guy drugs them, strangles them, and then beheads them. That's a lot of time and energy.”

“What does he slip them, roofies?”

“Nah, you only use roofies if you want to keep them alive, and he doesn't want to screw them. He gives them some cheap over-the-counter shit, then once they're nodding off, he strangles them with his hands.”

After a moment he asked, “So how long you been out of the academy?”

“Six months.”

“So you're still a proby.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied. Then I asked him back, “Do you always work on your own, sir?”

“My squad was here earlier; they're supposed to come back soon. I had the same partner for nearly twenty years. Bert died recently.”