Manhattan Nocturne (6 page)
Read Manhattan Nocturne Online
Authors: Colin Harrison
“Okay.” I coughed. “So this is what we're talking about.”
“Yes, this is where we start.”
“This is where we
start?”
start?”
“Yes.” She stood over me and I could smell her. “Another drink?”
“Why not?” I muttered.
“Was it scotch or vodka?”
“Gin.”
Back to the color photos: The damage to the body was complete; it looked as if nearly every major bone in the body had been crushed, including the skull, which resembled a pumpkin left on a front porch through the winter. One shot showed what remained of the face: a half-open eye staring into infinity, oblivious to its own seeping decay. The streaked putrefaction of the body was also evident where the shirt was pulled up. One of the photos showed an expanse of mutilated flesh impossible to identify. The picture was labeled TORSO, ANTERIOR. The next was a close-up of a gnawed wrist. I flipped through the photos quickly; I'd seen a number of after-the-fact examples of human butchery, but most of them were the result of guns and knives. This was worse, and had involved great physical forces. I slipped the pictures back into the envelope.- Someone had died an ignoble death: a lot filled with rubble, a body, the attention of flies.
“To help you through the gates of hell.” Caroline presented a drink on a silver tray. I took the glass, sipped it. She stood over me smoking another rolled cigarette. “Look at the next envelope.”
I did. Inside was a complete copy of a police file of an unsolved death in a lot at 537 East Eleventh Street in the
department's Ninth Precinct, which covers the Lower East Side. I'd seen such files a few times before, though the detectives who'd shown them to me would never have admitted to helping a reporter. I flipped through a page or two; it was the police paperwork that went with the photos: the decomposed body of a young white male had been found the morning of August 15 in the rubble of a tenement being razed, on the fifth day of demolition. It was an old caseâabout seventeen months had passed.
department's Ninth Precinct, which covers the Lower East Side. I'd seen such files a few times before, though the detectives who'd shown them to me would never have admitted to helping a reporter. I flipped through a page or two; it was the police paperwork that went with the photos: the decomposed body of a young white male had been found the morning of August 15 in the rubble of a tenement being razed, on the fifth day of demolition. It was an old caseâabout seventeen months had passed.
I gave my drink another sip. “A bit stingy with the tonic and ice, I see.”
“I want you drunk,” Caroline answered from behind me, “so that I can tell whether you are a lout or not.”
“You could get in a lot of trouble for having these files.”
“I know.”
“Detectives don't even let other cops see stuff like this.”
“Yes,” she said. “I know that, too.”
I read further. A bulldozer had hit the body once or possibly twice before the operator noticed; some of the flesh of the chest and stomach had been removed by the steel treads. From the dorsal lividity it was clear that the man had died faceup, not facedown, as the body had been discovered. But the detectives could not determine if the body had been inside the building prior to demolition and then tumbled to the ground during demolition, or if the man had been killed elsewhere and his body hidden in the rubble. If the body had been in the empty building, I inferred, then the man could have died accidentallyâsay, from a drug overdose. The other possibilityâthat the body had been placed in the rubble after the demolition had startedâwould mean that the death was probably a murder: it was impossible, after all, for a man to dig a hole, kill himself, and then bury himself with chunks of brick and concrete. Then again, I corrected myself, theoretically a man could commit suicide or be killed accidentally, and then
someone else
could bury him under the rubble, for whatever reason that crazy people in New York City do crazy things.
someone else
could bury him under the rubble, for whatever reason that crazy people in New York City do crazy things.
The corpse, continued the report, was dressed in a blue T-shirt,
blue jeans stained with old paint, underwear, and red socks. The contents of the pants pockets comprised less than a dollar in change, a subway token, and a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. The breast pocket of the T-shirt contained a fragment of green stone, which an antiquities dealer consulted by the police had easily identified as jade; it appeared to have been broken off from a carved figurine. It did not match any known to have been sold or stolen in the city recently. There were no papers, wallet, or other personal effects either on or near the body.
blue jeans stained with old paint, underwear, and red socks. The contents of the pants pockets comprised less than a dollar in change, a subway token, and a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. The breast pocket of the T-shirt contained a fragment of green stone, which an antiquities dealer consulted by the police had easily identified as jade; it appeared to have been broken off from a carved figurine. It did not match any known to have been sold or stolen in the city recently. There were no papers, wallet, or other personal effects either on or near the body.
Various technical terms described the condition of the corpse. According to the medical examiner's dictated report, the tissue was sufficiently decomposed and secondarily damaged by the bulldozer that it was impossible to determine the exact cause of death. But some causes could be ruled out: It wasn't due to an overdose. Or to gunfire; an X ray showed no bullets within the corpse, or what was left of it. The examiner further noted that it appeared as if the neck might have suffered a knife wound, but he was “quite tentative” about this, not only because of the bulldozer damage but also because there were signs of extensive rat activity, a common occurrence on corpses found in exposed locations. The absence of the hand, for example, may have been due to rats, added the examiner. “Recent rat activity was also indicated by generalized postmortem striations and triangular dental punctures,” read the report. The degree of tissue damage tb the body by the bulldozer led the medical examiner to dwell extensively on the amount and stage of insect activity in the soft cavities of the corpse. The presence of diptera pupae and domestic beetles indicated that the decay had started between seven and ten days prior to the discovery of the body. Deep maggot infestation of the mouth, ear canals, and anus suggested a similar onset of decay. The report bore the examiner's stamp and signature.
I read on. I was smashed and could read anything now. The report digressed at length about the detectives' questions regarding the security of the demolition site. The wrecking company, Jack-E Demolition Co., of Queens, had erected a
fourteen-foot-high sidewalk shed of plywood and heavy timber at the front and back of the building, as required by city regulations, then strung a double coil of concertina wire over that. Access to the building's double front doors could only occur via a door in the front wall of the sidewalk shed. Access to the back of the lot came through a section of the shed wall that was unchained to let heavy equipment in. There appeared to be no damage to the front or back sheds and concertina wire nor to any of the chains or locks used to secure the openings. Anyone bringing the corpse onto the site would have had to hoist the body over the concertina wire at the rear, which seemed unlikely, given how difficult and obvious such a task was.
fourteen-foot-high sidewalk shed of plywood and heavy timber at the front and back of the building, as required by city regulations, then strung a double coil of concertina wire over that. Access to the building's double front doors could only occur via a door in the front wall of the sidewalk shed. Access to the back of the lot came through a section of the shed wall that was unchained to let heavy equipment in. There appeared to be no damage to the front or back sheds and concertina wire nor to any of the chains or locks used to secure the openings. Anyone bringing the corpse onto the site would have had to hoist the body over the concertina wire at the rear, which seemed unlikely, given how difficult and obvious such a task was.
How, then, did the body get onto the site? It was not possible that it had been thrown from a nearby rooftop, for the body lay in the
middle
of the site, a good thirty-five feet from the perimeter. To reach that distance, the body would have to have been shot out of a cannon. And even if the body had somehow been hurled from the one adjacent rooftop, that would not explain how it had come to be buried in the rubble.
middle
of the site, a good thirty-five feet from the perimeter. To reach that distance, the body would have to have been shot out of a cannon. And even if the body had somehow been hurled from the one adjacent rooftop, that would not explain how it had come to be buried in the rubble.
Thus the evidence suggested that the body
had
been in the building prior to demolition. But this explanation created its own problems. Could the doorsâfirst to the sidewalk shed and then the double front doors to the building itselfâhave been unlocked by someone? The building's Korean owner had no idea how someone had gotten into the structure. Because he had recently bought the site anticipating the building's demolition, he had never bothered to become familiar with it. But yes, he did have keys to the buildingâhe'd had new locks put onâand he'd given them to the demolition company's site manager, who claimed he'd spent each of the previous six nights at home in Fort Lee, New Jersey, keys in pocket, in the hale company of, alternately, his bowling buddies, his poker group, and his volleyball team, claims that checked out. Did he make a copy of the keys? No. Did he give the keys to anyone? No way, pal. We got half a million bucks' worth of wrecking equipment in there.
had
been in the building prior to demolition. But this explanation created its own problems. Could the doorsâfirst to the sidewalk shed and then the double front doors to the building itselfâhave been unlocked by someone? The building's Korean owner had no idea how someone had gotten into the structure. Because he had recently bought the site anticipating the building's demolition, he had never bothered to become familiar with it. But yes, he did have keys to the buildingâhe'd had new locks put onâand he'd given them to the demolition company's site manager, who claimed he'd spent each of the previous six nights at home in Fort Lee, New Jersey, keys in pocket, in the hale company of, alternately, his bowling buddies, his poker group, and his volleyball team, claims that checked out. Did he make a copy of the keys? No. Did he give the keys to anyone? No way, pal. We got half a million bucks' worth of wrecking equipment in there.
Moreover, the building itself had been secured against local
squatters a year prior, all lower windows filled in with cement blocks. There was no record that they had been broken. To get into the building had required clearance from the owner, and the only individuals let in had been from the various utility and service companies involved in turning off the water, gas, and electricity. The last person known to have been inside the building was the foreman for the demolition company, checking the structure one last time on the morning that demolition began. Had he conducted a thorough room-by-room investigation? the detectives asked. No, just glanced into the basement and first floors. But, he'd explained, it was impossible to go higher in the building, because the elevator was disabled and the fire doors to the stairwell were locked.
squatters a year prior, all lower windows filled in with cement blocks. There was no record that they had been broken. To get into the building had required clearance from the owner, and the only individuals let in had been from the various utility and service companies involved in turning off the water, gas, and electricity. The last person known to have been inside the building was the foreman for the demolition company, checking the structure one last time on the morning that demolition began. Had he conducted a thorough room-by-room investigation? the detectives asked. No, just glanced into the basement and first floors. But, he'd explained, it was impossible to go higher in the building, because the elevator was disabled and the fire doors to the stairwell were locked.
The roof,
I thought.
I thought.
The detectives had asked about the roof. Perhaps the decedent had gained access to the roof of 537 via 535, the only adjacent building, and then died there, or perhaps had been murdered there, the killer making his escape through 535. But the superintendent of 535 didn't remember anyone going in or out of his building he didn't know, and besides, the roof door was carefully locked so that kids wouldn't go up there. And only he had the key.
Even if the body had somehow found its way onto the roof of 537 prior to the building's demolition, there was the difficult problem of the rat activity, the detective had noted. The body appeared to have been ravaged by rats
since the time of death,
for at least a week, and rats do not live on the roofs of buildings in summerâtoo much sunlight and heat, not enough water. And pigeons don't eat carrion. It was true that crows were sometimes found in the city, but crows do not gnaw flesh, they peck at it viciously and then pull it away in strips, leaving a distinctly different pattern of mutilation. Moreover, the eyes had not been pecked out. Such information seemed to indicate that the body had
not
been on top of the demolished building, which might then mean that it
had
been buried in the lot, which, given what they had already learned, meant that the detectives were utterly stymied.
since the time of death,
for at least a week, and rats do not live on the roofs of buildings in summerâtoo much sunlight and heat, not enough water. And pigeons don't eat carrion. It was true that crows were sometimes found in the city, but crows do not gnaw flesh, they peck at it viciously and then pull it away in strips, leaving a distinctly different pattern of mutilation. Moreover, the eyes had not been pecked out. Such information seemed to indicate that the body had
not
been on top of the demolished building, which might then mean that it
had
been buried in the lot, which, given what they had already learned, meant that the detectives were utterly stymied.
Another paragraph of the file indicated that the race of the
corpse and what still could be discerned of his height and weight matched a missing-person report filed by the decedent's wife seven days prior, on August 8, two days after he'd last been seen. The report had been filed in the Nineteenth Precinct, which is on Manhattan's Upper East Side. The wife identified the clothes and the wedding ring that had been removed, with some difficulty, from the corpse's left hand. She was shown a photo of the tattoo found on the groin of the deceased. This, too, she identified. She was shown the jade fragment. She could not identify it. Then she was shown the body. There was no doubt as to the identity; it was one Simon Crowley, twenty-eight years old, of 4 East Sixty-sixth Street.
corpse and what still could be discerned of his height and weight matched a missing-person report filed by the decedent's wife seven days prior, on August 8, two days after he'd last been seen. The report had been filed in the Nineteenth Precinct, which is on Manhattan's Upper East Side. The wife identified the clothes and the wedding ring that had been removed, with some difficulty, from the corpse's left hand. She was shown a photo of the tattoo found on the groin of the deceased. This, too, she identified. She was shown the jade fragment. She could not identify it. Then she was shown the body. There was no doubt as to the identity; it was one Simon Crowley, twenty-eight years old, of 4 East Sixty-sixth Street.
I knew this name. “You're Simon Crowley's widow?”
“Yes.”
“The young guy who made movies?”
She nodded.
“Jesus.” I hadn't done a column on it because I was deep into a piece about drug dealers in Harlem at the time. “You were married to Simon Crowley?”
“Yes.”
The famous young filmmaker. “I had no idea.”
Caroline sat down in the chair opposite me.
“How did you get this?” I asked.
“I paid a lot of money to a man who said he was a private investigator. He said he used to be a detective and could get files, that he knew what to do.”
“You're a resourceful woman.”
“Yes.” She blinked at the thought of this. “Did you ever see any of his movies?” she asked.
“No. I never get a chance to go much.”
“But you heard of him?”
“Sure. I know he was sort of an outrageous filmmaker and that he died badly.”
She nodded, with irritation.
“I'm sorry,” I said. “I can't keep track of all the Hollywood stars. I mean, like that guy River Phoenix, and Kurt Cobainâ”
“Simon was
not
a so-called Hollywood star.”
not
a so-called Hollywood star.”
“Right.”
“But you know who Simon was, you
appreciate
who he was?”
appreciate
who he was?”
Seventeen months prior, when Simon Crowley died, I had been working my ass off at the paper and was severely sleep deprived, because Tommy had just been born and we had two babies keeping us up all night long. So, no, I didn't appreciate who Simon Crowley was, not in the way his beautiful widow wanted, and she saw this in my face.
“Wait a minute.” She left the room and came back with a gigantic scrapbook, six inches thick. “These'll fill it in for you.”
Someone had kept every magazine and newspaper article. Yes, here it all was. Simon Crowley, I was reminded, had been a young New York City filmmaker of note. He'd risen from obscurity on the strength of several innovative low-budget films that had become cult hits, then had been discovered by the Hollywood corporate edifice. I flipped through the articles noting certain specimens of languageâgusts of breathless admiration, platforms of commentary, pearls of false insight. How stupid is the American magazine industry, really, how helplessly fawning. But I read on. Simon Crowley's first movie,
Good Service,
only forty-four minutes long, had been shot on unexposed pieces of filmâcalled short endsâdiscarded or sold by other filmmakers. Using volunteer actors and technicians, Crowley had written and directed the story of a young busboy at a swank restaurant who becomes fascinated with an older woman who patronizes the restaurant. The woman, about forty, wealthy, still with a certain hard need to her face, finally notices the unnecessary attentiveness of the busboy and allows him to think he is seducing her, until the last scene whenâI skipped on. Simon Crowley's work was marked, the articles generally agreed, by characters who lived their lives on the margins of the city, who inhabited the urban noir. Crowley himself had grown up in Queens, the only son of an older, working-class couple. Father repaired elevators, mother volunteered in a Catholic school, both lived small lives of habit and devotion. Mother died early. Father
dutiful. Simon had been a strange and unruly boy, bright but bored with all his classes except art, hooking up with the underground party scene as a teenager, working as a busboy in various restaurants while he went to NYU film school, having his second film,
Mr.
Lu
, discovered by an agent from the most powerful Hollywood talent mill at one of the film festivals, arcing his way upward through layer upon layer of fame. The black-and-white photos by Annie Leibovitz in
Vanity Fair
revealed him to be short, with a skinny, caved-in dissolution to his posture, as if he had been smoking cigarettes since the age of eight (which was the case, said the article), and beneath a mop of black hair and black eyebrows a face that appeared to dare one to describe its ugliness. It was not so much that he looked deformed; rather, his features seemed large and mismatched, as if they had been scissored out of three or four rubber Halloween masks from a costume shop. The effect was a face that was grotesque, carnal. “Several hours into the interview,” an article in
GQ
read, “I came to the realization that Simon Crowley doesn't smileâor at least not like most people. His grin, when it rarely occurs, is usually in regard to the sad illusions held by some other person; his mouthâsort of a dark gashâflies open, revealing many unfortunate teeth. Next, a cynical rasp of laughter. Then the mouth snaps shut tightly and Crowley stares at you with unblinking concentration. The effect is purposeful and disconcerting. He is not a nice person, particularly, and he doesn't care if you know it. In his pursuit of great movies, woman upon woman, and cigarettesâin about that orderâniceness is irrelevant and manners mask the desperate chase of existence; one may conclude that Crowley's conceitedness has not yet been adjusted by life's disappointments and suffering, but then, a humble, selfless person would not have made the brilliant movies that Crowley has.”
Good Service,
only forty-four minutes long, had been shot on unexposed pieces of filmâcalled short endsâdiscarded or sold by other filmmakers. Using volunteer actors and technicians, Crowley had written and directed the story of a young busboy at a swank restaurant who becomes fascinated with an older woman who patronizes the restaurant. The woman, about forty, wealthy, still with a certain hard need to her face, finally notices the unnecessary attentiveness of the busboy and allows him to think he is seducing her, until the last scene whenâI skipped on. Simon Crowley's work was marked, the articles generally agreed, by characters who lived their lives on the margins of the city, who inhabited the urban noir. Crowley himself had grown up in Queens, the only son of an older, working-class couple. Father repaired elevators, mother volunteered in a Catholic school, both lived small lives of habit and devotion. Mother died early. Father
dutiful. Simon had been a strange and unruly boy, bright but bored with all his classes except art, hooking up with the underground party scene as a teenager, working as a busboy in various restaurants while he went to NYU film school, having his second film,
Mr.
Lu
, discovered by an agent from the most powerful Hollywood talent mill at one of the film festivals, arcing his way upward through layer upon layer of fame. The black-and-white photos by Annie Leibovitz in
Vanity Fair
revealed him to be short, with a skinny, caved-in dissolution to his posture, as if he had been smoking cigarettes since the age of eight (which was the case, said the article), and beneath a mop of black hair and black eyebrows a face that appeared to dare one to describe its ugliness. It was not so much that he looked deformed; rather, his features seemed large and mismatched, as if they had been scissored out of three or four rubber Halloween masks from a costume shop. The effect was a face that was grotesque, carnal. “Several hours into the interview,” an article in
GQ
read, “I came to the realization that Simon Crowley doesn't smileâor at least not like most people. His grin, when it rarely occurs, is usually in regard to the sad illusions held by some other person; his mouthâsort of a dark gashâflies open, revealing many unfortunate teeth. Next, a cynical rasp of laughter. Then the mouth snaps shut tightly and Crowley stares at you with unblinking concentration. The effect is purposeful and disconcerting. He is not a nice person, particularly, and he doesn't care if you know it. In his pursuit of great movies, woman upon woman, and cigarettesâin about that orderâniceness is irrelevant and manners mask the desperate chase of existence; one may conclude that Crowley's conceitedness has not yet been adjusted by life's disappointments and suffering, but then, a humble, selfless person would not have made the brilliant movies that Crowley has.”
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