Creepers (9 page)

"This will be fine," Corelli mumbled.

"There's not much left to see, anyhow." Geary stared Corelli straight in the eyes and, without warning, whisked the shroud away from Slade's head. It was a nasty trick. When Corelli saw the mutilated body, he closed his eyes and fell back against the wall of refrigerator doors.

"Not a pretty sight, is it?" Geary asked with a note of amusement in his voice. "You don't usually find them so bad at a ritzy joint like this one. The city morgue's another story. We get the bums whose livers have exploded from cirrhosis, the vagrants someone's set on fire as a joke, drownings, O.D.'s--it's all pretty much Dick-and-Jane shit." He looked down at Slade. "This is a class act."

"So you've spent a lot of time downtown," Corelli said, feeling his way along carefully. No one got into the city morgue unless he belonged there, unless he was on the city payroll.

"That's where I usually work," the doctor admitted happily. "I still think they were wrong to bring the center of operations up here, but you know what the bureaucracy is like."

"So that's why Slade is here." Corelli gave vent to his thoughts. Geary stared at him for a moment, then began to chew his lower lip nervously. Frank saw at once he'd said too much; the doctor was getting suspicious. The best move now was to change gears, get back to Slade. "Let's have a good look at him," he said, nodding toward the cadaver.

Geary pulled the shroud back to Slade's pubic bone; that was enough for Corelli. Slade looked like he'd been put through a meat grinder. Worst of all was his face. From the hairline to the chin, from ear to ear, Slade's face was gone. Frank forced himself to examine the grisly mess, noting as he did that the edges of the wounds were clean.

"It was done with a knife or something similar," Geary hypothesized. "Then his face was just ripped off--like a goddamned mask. But, hell, it ain't even Halloween."

"Save the jokes," Corelli said sourly. Geary's gallows humor was just plain twisted. "What do you make of these wounds?" He pointed to the upper arms, where the biceps had been severed.

"Same thing, a knife, maybe." Geary's manner had changed almost imperceptibly. He was wary now, scared. Each time he spoke, his voice betrayed the feeling he might be saying more than he should--and saying it to the wrong person. Geary thought that because Corelli had found the whereabouts of Ted Slade's body, he knew the rest of the story as well. Now it was quite apparent that he knew nothing. If the others found out he'd talked to Corelli, they'd have his balls for it; on the other hand, if he didn't tell them . . . No, it would be just as bad . . . maybe worse.

"A knife, huh? What kind of a sicko would do something like this?" Corelli examined Slade's body as if it were a side of beef hung in a butcher shop. The dead eyes staring out from the ravaged remains of his face no longer bothered him. Corelli was too interested in what had happened to let his own queasiness interfere. Slade's torso had been carved up with care; the biceps were neatly removed, as were the latimus dorsi on both sides. In fact, most of the thick muscles of the back were gone. "Whoever did this had some knowledge of anatomy," he finally said. "Let's see the rest of him."

"Don't you think you've seen enough already?" Geary's eyes were shifting nervously around the room.

"The rest, doctor, or I'll have a court order in here so fast your head will spin."

Geary angrily disengaged the rest of the shroud. Corelli looked and felt a fountain of bile erupt into the back of his throat. Not only were Ted Slade's penis and testicles missing, but the upper fleshy parts of his legs had been torn away; what was left of his legs was covered with circular lacerations.

"Jesus . . ." Corelli gagged, then turned his head. "What the fuck happened to him?"

"We don't know yet," Geary said testily as he covered the body and slid it back into the refrigerator.

"No subway train did that to him." The TA report on Slade said exactly that.

Geary smiled at the thought. "No?" Any other cop might have let the doctor get away with this ignorant act, but Corelli wasn't just any cop. It was exactly one week since Penny Comstock had disappeared at Fifty-third Street; Lisa Hill had been gone for two days. Any other cop might not have seen the significance of these two puzzles even when combined with the ravaged body of Ted Slade. But Frank Corelli did.

"Who's your boss, Dr. Geary? Who are these big boys you've been talking about?" Geary swallowed hard. "Why?"

"Slade was brutalized, and I want to know why. I also want to know how he was killed so maybe I can find the maniac who did it. You know, Geary, it's about time City Hall begins to look at the TA as something other than a bunch of glorified conductors. Now, you want to tell me about Ted Slade, or do I have to let the right people know that you're waltzing any Tom, Dick, or Harry who asks through the morgue?" Playing it so tough was a long shot; Corelli had no authority even to be at New York Mercy. Besides, the men Geary worked for obviously had this operation well-coordinated, and getting rid of a problem named Frank Corelli would probably be easy.

"Okay, Corelli, okay," Geary finally relented. "Just leave my name out of it. None of the missing masses of tissue were found."

"You mean whoever did this took hunks of the body away?"

Geary nodded. "Why?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. As to the wounds in the pubic region and lower body . . ." Geary's eyes widened. "They were made by teeth."

"Teeth?" The word exploded in the room like a cannon shot.

"You wanted the truth. That's it. Slade's dick and balls were chewed off. The circular marks covering his legs-- teeth marks."

"How many sets?"

"At least three." Geary's smile betrayed his admiration for the astuteness of the question.

"Jesus, are there wild dogs--wolves--in the subway?"

"There's everything else," Geary said flippantly. "Detective Corelli, the answers to those questions are your province, not mine. I just examine the hamburger that's left and file a report." He edged closer to the outer door.

"Is it possible Slade was killed elsewhere and dumped in the tunnel later?"

Geary shook his head. "Not a chance. The forensic boys did a thorough search of the area. There was too much blood there for him to have been killed anywhere else." Geary now opened the door and ushered Corelli back out into the main corridor.

"Did you do a saliva test on the wounds?"

Geary hesitated, then slowly nodded. "Sure, it's standard procedure."

"And...?"

"The results aren't back yet," the doctor said, averting his eyes. "Now, I've really got to get back to work." Without another word, he turned and went back into the morgue.

Willie Hoyte stepped onto the sidewalk and paused a moment, shading his eyes as he basked in the harsh afternoon light. He'd only been in jail overnight, but in that time he'd seen enough darkness to last him a lifetime. The men's house of detention--generally known as the Tombs--was not a place he ever wanted to call home, not even for another twenty-four hours.

He shook himself as if discarding the memory of last night, then started down the street, trying to pull himself back into reality. For the past eighteen hours his life had begun and ended with the question: When do I get out of here? Now, striding over toward City Hall on the lower end of Manhattan, Willie found it strange that such a short detention had produced such a strong feeling of isolation and futility. Although the myriad details of his detainment--the call to his mother, the questions, the humiliation of being treated like a new species of vermin, the very injustice of being held without being formally accused--evaporated instantly as the raucous street sounds assailed his ears, that deeper feeling of helplessness lingered on. To be whipped psychologically was new for Willie, and he prayed he'd never again experience it Willie Hoyte was somebody outside. Inside he was nobody, nothing. And his pride--scratched, but not wounded--still smarted.

He made his way toward City Hall, intending to catch the Eighth Avenue uptown express train. Now that he was free and out from under the law's thumb, Willie had things to do. Like find out about Ted Slade's death, for instance. All through the long night Willie had vainly tried to sleep, but each time he drifted off, the grisly memory of his pal's body seeped back into his consciousness to torment him. After waking three times gasping in terror for breath, his every muscle knotted with fear, Willie gave up trying to sleep and just sat thinking. He'd liked Slade a lot, though he never would have said so to his face. And he last night promised himself he would find the bastards who slaughtered his buddy. Whoever they were. No matter how long it took.

"Hey, Willie," a voice rang out from behind him.

Hoyte stopped and turned. Frank Corelli was right behind him. Christ, what the hell did he want?

"I just missed you," Corelli explained as he pulled up next to Hoyte. "How ya doin'?" He extended his hand.

Willie answered the question by ignoring the proffered handshake. "How you 'spect I'm doin' after spendin' the night in the lockup?"

"Sorry." Corelli's untouched hand fell to his side. "The report said you were causing a public nuisance. Were you?"

"I was lookin' to see what happened to my man Slade. And I found out. If I caused some nuisance, that's too goddamned bad." To his surprise and confusion, tears sprang into his eyes. With a quick awkward motion he jerked his head around and yawned as a cover.

"Too bad about Slade. Did you see him?" The sight of the ravaged body was fresh in Corelli's mind, too. He wondered what it would have been like to discover the body, not just view it antiseptically in the hospital.

"Sure I saw him. What was left of him, anyhow. But what the hell do you care, anyway?" It now dawned on Willie that Corelli was way off his usual beat. This meeting downtown was no coincidence. "Say, what do you want from me, Mr. Detective?"

"I want your help."

"Sorry, I'm fresh outta help this morning. Maybe if you come back tomorrow." He began to walk away.

"Hold it right there, Hoyte," Corelli commanded. "I know you take Slade's death personally, but I take it as official police business. Now, shall we do this the friendly way, or would you like to spend a little more time in the cooler for obstructing justice?"

Willie held Corelli's eyes for a full half-minute. Corelli had him. In his official capacity as leader of Dogs of Hell, Willie Hoyte garnered a great deal of respect and admiration from the public--not from the cops. When it came to real power, his reputation meant nothing more than a hill of beans. Dogs of Hell was just a neighborhood group that had fired New Yorkers' imaginations. Willie could play king of the mountain with subway passengers and with his men, but not with Frank Corelli.

"What you want from me?" Willie finally acquiesced.

"Let's talk, that's all."

A minute later they sat on a park bench, momentarily caught in a peaceful eddy off the tumultuous mainstream of the street. Early lunch hour was beginning and the streets were filled with pushing, shoving crowds that flowed from the hundreds of office buildings jammed into this part of the city.

"Tell me everything you know about Slade's death." Corelli got right to the point.

"You got the report, read it."

Corelli ignored Willie's sarcasm. He had to play this one diplomatically. If this case evolved the way it had begun to look, he'd need all the help he could get--Hoyte's included. Still, he had to emphasize just who was the boss, and who would remain so. "Willie, there's an easy way to deal with me and a hard way. I prefer the easy way, but if it'll make you feel more at home, I'll use force; the choice is yours."

Willie didn't want to pass on free information to the TA, but Corelli had made it clear there was no choice. As he recounted Miguel's story of that night at the Ninety-sixth Street station, Willie felt a certain grim sense of irony that the truth, even in broad daylight, still sounded so much like fiction. That had been the problem last night, too. The cops who'd grabbed him uptown thought he was bullshitting them. They'd handed him over to the NYPD less than an hour after finding Slade's body. They, in turn, methodically interrogated him, attempting to make him change his story about why he was in the subway tunnel in the first place. But Willie hadn't changed one word of his story. And the more he repeated that he was looking for something gray that crept along the tunnel wall, the more the cops looked at him like he belonged in the psychiatric ward at Bellevue.

"So, that's it, Corelli," Willie finished, a wisp of a smile nudging the corners of his mouth. "Slade told Miguel he'd seen somethin' in the tunnel, and the way I figure it, he went back to take a closer look-see." To his utter surprise, Corelli nodded benignly.

"Wasn't this Miguel more specific about what Slade saw?"

"No way. But hell, he was thinkin' of his girlfriend the whole time. Miggie's got a real case of hot pants."

"I want to talk to him," Corelli decided immediately. In a way, he was a second witness, like Louise Hill. And this was a new twist. Until last week there had never been any witnesses.

"Talkin' to Miggie ain't going to be easy, man." Willie sighed. Corelli's eyebrows rose immediately. "You see, Miguel Esperanza don't much like cops . . . 'specially white cops," Willie added with a touch of personal rancor.