Likely to Die (14 page)

 I was getting bleary-eyed from looking through file labels and listings. I had wanted to get a sense of Gemma Dogen and, beyond that, none of these documents would have any meaning unless they surfaced later as a piece of the investigation.

 Mercer was photographing the items on the desktop as I stood up and stretched my back. “I’ll just take a few shots so we can keep the context of how we found things.”

 “Whoever speaks to the next of kin, we’ll have to let them know what’s here. Pictures will be useful.”

 “You can come back any time. Rent’s paid up through April, so Peterson doesn’t want any of this touched until we know who her heirs are. And know whether she was an intended victim or an accidental one.”

 The early darkness of a March day had descended over the city while Mercer and I had intruded on the personal effects of Gemma Dogen. It was after six o’clock and I needed to be at the small supper reception the Lenox Hill Debs Board was holding in the principal’s office at the high school hosting my lecture.

 Mercer’s flash went off several times as he aimed at a few areas of Dogen’s living room. The light reflected the shining surface of a small golden object and I approached to see what had glimmered so brightly in the otherwise drab room.

 “Take it easy, Cooper. It’s not jewelry.”

 Mercer lifted a foot-long black stand from the third shelf of the case and read the bronze plate that was affixed to its edge. In italic script was printed the inscription:To Gemma Dogen, in honor of her induction into the Order of the Golden Scalpel. June 1, 1985. Fellows of the Royal Infirmary. London, England.

 A solid gold surgeon’s scalpel with a steel blade rested on the ebony box. I lifted it to admire its beauty. “Can you imagine what a superb physician she must have been to get this kind of award when she was only in her forties?” I was conjuring up a clubhouse full of older English doctors, bespectacled and bewigged, presenting the talented young woman with this solid gold token of their respect. “It looks pretty lethal but it’s a magnificent thing, isn’t it?”

 “Would have been a hell of a lot nicer for her if she’d kept it in her office. Maybe she’d have had a fighting chance.”

 It wasn’t a weapon, as we both knew. It was the tool of a woman who had saved lives and done it thousands of times.

 I laid it back on the shelf and told Mercer that I was ready to leave. We put on our coats, turned off the lights, and I locked the door behind me while Mercer rang for the elevator.

 It was six-thirty when I said goodnight to Mercer. He dropped me in front of Julia Richman High School and I hurried up the steps to find the chairwoman of the evening’s event.

 Sexual assault had been a taboo subject in the sixties and seventies when I was growing up. Rape was a crime that didn’t happen, so the myths went, to “nice girls”—to our sisters, our mothers, our daughters, our friends. Victims “asked for it,” and once they got it none of them were supposed to talk about it. If they didn’t deal with it openly, maybe it would go away.

 All of the legislative reform that had been accomplished in this field had come in the last two decades. But the laws had been easier to change than the public’s attitudes.

 So most of my colleagues and I spent a considerable amount of time trying to educate about the issues to which our working days were devoted. The people we tried to reach—in religious organizations, high schools, colleges and universities, professional clubs, civic groups—all of them might one day wind up as jurors in these cases. That’s when they bring with them to the jury box every preconceived notion and misconception about this category of crime.

 There were very few invitations I turned down if audiences were willing to let themselves be informed about the facts—the differences and similarities between stranger and acquaintance rape, which sexual predators are incapable of being rehabilitated, legitimate offender treatment programs and which assailants they can help, the phenomenon of false reporting, and the ability of the criminal justice system to do better for survivors of sexual assault by dedicating more resources to the issue. Sarah Brenner and I knocked ourselves out at early morning breakfast meetings and evening sessions like this one. The more we helped ourselves, the more we helped those women, children, and men who would someday be victimized and need to count on the response of twelve of their peers to render a fair verdict.

 Handwritten yellow posters announcing my appearance were stuck on the bulletin board inside the school entrance, with a large black arrow pointing the way to the auditorium. I followed the designated path, stopping at the open door a few feet before the large hall and stepping inside.

 A heavyset woman with a tangle of blond hair pushed into a bun atop her head strode toward me with an outstretched hand. “Hello, you must be Alexandra Cooper. I’m Liddy McSwain. I’m in charge of the speaker’s program for this year. We’re really delighted you could be here, especially with all this murder business going on. We saw your name in the paper this morning and I was certain we’d have to call this off.”

 She guided me into the room where a dozen or so of her committee members were munching on finger sandwiches. I introduced myself to some of them and decided to feed myself before I got too lightheaded to go on stage. The crustless slivers of seven-grain bread were divided onto three trays: watercress, egg salad, and tomato. I cursed at myself for having passed up Chapman’s overstuffed turkey sandwich so many hours ago in favor of these debutante miniatures and put a handful of the little morsels on a paper plate.

 I moved around the room politely answering questions about the District Attorney’s Office and assuring handshakers that I would convey their warmest regards to Paul Battaglia. More and more middle-aged women kept drifting into the reception. There were obvious distinctions between the older half of the crowd and the younger. The over-fifties carried Vuittons on their arms and wore flat Ferragamos on their feet. The natural blond hairstyles, more up than down, were enhanced by Clairol, clearly a two-step process. The newer inductees favored Dooney and Burke—on the shoulder, not the arm—and the Ferragamo with a slightly higher one-inch heel. The blond seemed mostly natural, with a few streaks thrown in for variety. There was not a lot of diversity evident in the crowd and I was mentally censoring my notes to substitute the words “private parts” for my usual references to “penis and vagina.”

 Ten minutes before I was scheduled to go on stage, I freshened up in the ladies’ room and we moved into the large auditorium. More than two hundred women had taken seats around the room and I shuffled my note cards to make certain that I had outlined all of the points I wanted to cover during the hour I had been asked to speak.

 Mrs. McSwain had crafted a pleasant opening for her group and a generous recitation of the credentials from my curriculum vitae. I climbed the four steps to the stage, crossed to the lectern, and began my remarks.

 I talked about the history of Battaglia’s Sex Crimes Prosecution Unit, which was the first of its kind in the United States. I wanted to impact them with the enormity of the problem of sexual assault in our country, so I was armed with some shocking statistics. Not even twenty-five years ago—that is, in our lifetimes—in this very city the laws were so archaic that in a single year although more than a thousand men were arrested and charged with rape, only eighteen of them were convicted of the crime. A few gasps from the girls down in front. I shook off my thoughts of Gemma Dogen and concentrated on my purpose.

 I explained how the laws had changed: eliminating the corroboration requirement that demanded witnesses beyond the victim herself, adding rape shield statutes to prevent defense attorneys from inquiring about a woman’s sexual history, ridding us of the dreadful insistence that victims must resist their attackers even when the latter are armed and threatening deadly physical force. All these accomplishments had come about in just the last two decades.

 The hour went quickly for me as I illustrated legal issues with anecdotal material from actual cases. It became clear as the question and answer period began that these women were well aware, unlike the generations before them, that rape was a crime that affected their lives. No one in that room, I was willing to bet, had not been touched—directly or indirectly—by some aspect of sexual assault. Almost everyone I met these days would disclose the experience of a friend or relative, child or adult, who had survived some kind of abuse that was connected to my painful specialty.

 As I pointed at raised hands for the first few questions, members of Liddy McSwain’s committee walked up and down the auditorium aisles collecting index cards that had been on the sign-in table at the entrance. Audience members filled in their queries on the four-by-six cards, which were forwarded and handed up to me in a pile.

 “That’s a good one,” I said, reading from the card on top. The question is, ‘How important is the use of DNA technology in your work?’ “ The enthusiasm with which I answered belied my disappointment in the lack of its existence in Gemma Dogen’s case. ”It’s the most significant tool we have in this business now. We use it, when seminal fluid is deposited on or in the victim’s body, to make a positive identification or to confirm one that she has made visually. That really takes the weight off the victim at a trial—it’s not just a matter of ‘her word’ in proving the case.

 “It’s just as critical that we use it to exclude suspects. If a defense attorney tells me his client was in Ohio on the day of the rape, I simply ask him to provide us with a vial of blood. If the suspect is not our man—that is, if there’s no DNA match—there’s no arrest. And it also lets us be more creative. Four times now in the last few months we’ve used it to convict rapists who could never have been identified otherwise because the women were blind or blindfolded by the attacker. Ten years ago we were calling it the tool of the future. Well,this is the future and it’s helping to resolve issues in a growing number of cases.”

 I skipped over two cards that asked about how prosecuting these jobs affected my personal safety and my private life. Sorry, girls, not the kind of thing I discuss publicly.

 “This question is about sentences for rapists. It’s a bit complicated to answer because of the different degrees of crimes involved, and since so many offenders have previous convictions they’re often eligible for longer incarceration.” But I set out to give a five-minute exposition on the range of sentences as they related to each kind of assault.

 Liddy McSwain was coming to the rescue. She stood on the side of the stage and announced that we only had time for three more questions.

 I took another one, which asked about the new system of handling domestic violence cases that the NYPD had inaugurated a couple of weeks earlier. Then an easy one, to describe the medical services available in our city hospitals for pediatric and adolescent cases of child abuse.

 The question on the next card made me bite my lip, look up to the rear of the room, and scan for a couple of faces I might recognize.

 The familiar writing on the card read: “The Final Jeopardy answer is: it’s black and twelve inches long. What is—?” Chapman and Wallace were flanking the rear door of the room. Mercer’s head was bent down, shaking with laughter, while Chapman looked dead on at me, pointing his finger across his chest toward Wallace.

 I was almost tired enough to lose it in front of these lovely women. “I’m sorry, ladies, most of the rest of the questions are about the tragic death of Doctor Dogen at Mid-Manhattan and the course of that investigation. It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to comment on any matter that’s pending but I can assure you that the city’s best detectives are working on it right this minute. Thanks for coming out in this bad weather tonight. I really appreciate your interest in these issues.”

 As I stepped down onto the auditorium floor, several audience members hovered around me. A few made gracious remarks about the speech, one wanted to know whether I could put her in contact with the Crime Victims Assistance Program at St. Luke’s so she could volunteer some counseling, and—as always—three wanted to talk about “something” that had happened to them at some time in their pasts.

 I listened briefly to each in turn, told them that we should have these discussions in a more private setting, and gave them my business card to arrange a time to call on Monday to make appointments. It never failed that after a speaking engagement at least one woman disclosed an incident of victimization for which she now had the strength to seek help—whether it was her own experience, her college daughter’s, or her best friend’s. Rape remains a dreadfully under-reported crime.

 My coat was on a chair in the last row. Mercer had picked it up and held it for me as I walked toward them. “No need to apologize, gentlemen. How would I have been able to recognize you two if youhadn’t been rude and juvenile? I might have thought it was someone else. But in Chapman’s case, it’s a more reliable means of identification than DNA. Whatever invitation you’re here to offer tonight, I decline. I’m busy.” I kept walking and pushed open the solid wooden door. “Don’t call me, as they say, I’ll—”

 I could hear Chapman’s stage whisper follow me out. “Don’t worry about it, Mercer. If she’s serious, I’ve got Patrick McKinney’s beeper number. He’d never say no to doing the Q and A on Dogen’s killer. Give him a call.”

 My head whipped around at the mention that the murderer was in custody and I stopped immediately.

 “I apologize, Blondie. You’re right, that really wasn’t the question tonight. Is that what you’re upset about? Oh—and, yes, we have a suspect Looks good. The lieutenant sent us to pick you up ‘cause he’s determined to do everything by the book. Screw Chief McGraw.”

 “Someone from the hospital—staff?” I asked as we walked out to the front steps, now coated with a thin layer of sleet.

 “Nah. One of the tunnel men. Covered with blood up to his knees. Like Chet said, this guy must have been in a slaughterhouse.”

 “We’ve had him in the 17th for a couple of hours.”