Death Dance (28 page)

"Does it bother you that the attacks occurred in such
different parts of the city?"

"Not at all. He probably had to leave the 'hood in Washington
Heights 'cause word on the street was that he offed the Tryon jogger.
Moved south to what Mike likes to call the People's Republic of the
Upper West Side. Homeless shelters, folks friendly to panhandlers and
derelicts, and the same kind of victim population walking, running, and
sunbathing in a convenient park. He's my man."

"So how fast can we find him?"

"Let me call the squad. He ponied up with counsel when I
brought him in for questioning last fall and I know I've got the name
of a Legal Aid lawyer in my file. You finish
up
on Sengor's indict—ment and I'll work on finding Ramon."

By two thirty in the afternoon Laura had completed the
paperwork for the filing of the charges against Selim Sengor. We had
ordered in lunch from the Thai restaurant on the corner and the white
cardboard containers had grown cold and developed leaks while I waited
for Mercer to come back from Maxine's office, where he was making the
calls, with the information we needed.

"Ron Abramson," he said when he finally returned. "I just
tried the nice way, but maybe you can talk some sense into him."

"How much do we need his help?"

"All the way. We don't have a permanent address of any kind
for Carido, there's no file with Immigration and Naturalization 'cause
he came in under the radar, and there's no mug shot 'cause he wasn't
arrested. You gonna issue an APB for a six-foot-two Hispanic with no
distinctive features or scars, maybe facial hair this season or maybe
not, last seen wearing blue jeans and a black T-shirt? I don't even
know if Ramon Carido is his real name—that's what he gave us
and that's what we're stuck with. Good luck, Alex."

Ron and I had started in our respective offices the same year.
He supervised a pod of attorneys who handled violent felony cases, and
there was little reasoning with him when he entrenched himself in a
position for one of their clients.

I dialed the Legal Aid number and pressed his extension. We
started with pleasantries and the conversation deteriorated from there.

"It doesn't matter whether or not I have a way to get in touch
with Mr. Carido, and it matters less whether I know where he is," Ron
said. "You get nothing from us."

"Ron, we've got a confirmed hit identifying Carido in the
Riverside Park case. Whether you help us or not, we're going after him.
It would be nice to think that another woman would be spared the trauma
of a sexual assault by bringing him in sooner rather than later. If
he's got a story that makes sense, I'll listen to you. I'm working with
Eric Ingels on another matter and we've made a deal for a surrender in
a perfectly civilized way, which is the same thing I'm offering your
client."

"You even think about going after Carido on the cold hit
you've got and I'll take you to court on it, Alex."

"What are you talking about? Of course we're going to find
him."

"Want to meet in front of Colleen McFarland?" Ron asked. "I
can be there in fifteen minutes."

He knew McFarland was one of my favorite judges. Before her
appointment to the bench, she had been one of the first women partners
in the litigation department of one of the best law firms in the city,
and a protegee of Justin Feldman and Martin London, two giants of the
New York bar.

"I don't get where you're going with this, Ron. I've got a
known perp and I want to get him off the street as fast as possible."

"Your match came from the wrong databank, Alex. My guy's never
been convicted of a crime and his profile should have been removed from
the suspect database months ago. Before you try using that information
to lock him up on this, I'll get a court order to stop you. I'm not
kidding around—I'll have you jailed for contempt."

I phoned Mike on my cell as I paced the corridor outside Judge
McFarland's courtroom, walking among the drug dealers and predators who
were waiting for their afternoon calendar calls in the six felony parts
lining the long corridor.

"You keeping busy?" he said to me.

"Next time I tell you that the thing I like most about my job
is that no two days are the same, or that it's never dull, or that it
isn't like the movies because time and all other new cases don't stand
still for the prosecutor even though the big murder investigation she
asked for has dropped into her lap, promise me you'll smack me."

"My pleasure. Where are you?" Mike asked.

"About to start a hearing that I hadn't exactly factored into
my day. And you?"

"At the Met. The guys on the task force are tearing through
the employee interviews. They're breaking down into
categories—workers with ironclad alibis who never left the
stage or were in the company of two or more other witnesses throughout
the entire show, and a second group that needs a harder once-over;
they're loners and oddballs or guys who didn't sign in or out Friday
night. Third are the ones who make themselves potential
witnesses—saw somebody they didn't know in a hallway or
stairwell, think they spotted Galinova getting on the elevator with
another person."

"How big is your pool of possible suspects?"

"We can rule out almost three hundred workmen. Solid guys, all
professionals at what they do. They're of no interest to us. Gives us
another hundred to monkey with. The lieutenant wants me to do the
callbacks. Go at the weirdos a little harder than the first crew."

"Anything new on the forensics?"

"That glove we were talking about—they've been
retesting the pre-limary because of the two different profiles I told
you about, from skin cells inside and out." The scientific technology
had advanced to the point that with ordinary handling, cells would
slough off and leave a genetic profile on almost any item of clothing
that came in contact with skin. "The one on the outer palm doesn't
match the one on the interior. Thaler gave this assignment to Dr.
Bauman to work on, so he's got us swabbing all the first
responders—cops and detectives."

"That'll add a few days," I said.

"Yeah, we've got to start by eliminating the first cop who
picked up all the items. And every third-grader and boss who came along
after that probably handled them. The DNA could come from the killer,
of course, but it could also have been left there by anyone who held on
to the gloves recently."

I was trying to resign myself to the long timeline dictated by
the laboratory work that needed to be done.

"Ten years ago, the first time you used DNA, how long till you
got a result?" Mike asked.

"Two months, maybe three."

"Yeah? Well, my first homicide had a six-month turnaround
before we had even a preliminary profile, and you still had to fight
the court to introduce it into evidence as a valid scientific result.
Remember those days? Now we're impatient if we can't get a hit in
forty-eight hours. We'll get it done, Coop. Mercer around?"

"Sitting in the courtroom, waiting for the fireworks to start.
We're up here on that case of his from the weekend, in Riverside Park.
I'll explain later."

"Maybe we can meet up for dinner. Tell Mercer to bring the
pooch that bit that asshole—I'd like to buy him a cocktail."

Ron Abramson turned the corner from the elevator bank and held
open the door for me. "You want to settle this the easy way, before we
go in?"

"Sure. You give us Mr. Carido and we'll talk deals."

"Not happening. I was hoping you'd see the error of your ways.
I guess you've got no weekend plans, Alex. The Women's House of
Detention can be a rough place to visit," he said, smiling at me as we
continued on to talk to the court clerk.

"Three hots and a cot, Ron. I've got very simple needs."

He wagged a finger at me. "No minibar. You'll be sorry."

Colleen McFarland frowned when she saw us walk into the
courtroom together. She looked at the remaining case names on her
calendar and all seemed to be accounted for. "New business, Ms. Cooper,
Mr. Abramson?"

Ron pushed through into the well and let the swinging wooden
gate slam back against my lower body. "Yes, your honor. I've got an
application to make. It's a matter of first impression and I'd like a
ruling before Ms. Cooper rushes ahead and winds up with some bad law."

"Okay, let's add it to the calendar, shall we?" McFarland
said, rising from the large armchair on the bench and directing the
court reporter to take down the proceedings. "Have you got a docket
number?"

"No. There's no case yet, your honor, and that's the way I'd
like to keep it. It's in regard to a Legal Aid Society client named
Ramon Carido."

"Who's going to start here? One of you want to give me some
facts?"

Ron pointed to me and allowed me to describe the details of
the attack, the subsequent investigation, and the serologist's cold hit.

"What's your problem with Ms. Cooper's plan?" McFarland was
smart and thoughtful, an attractive woman with wavy red hair and ice
blue eyes that looked like they could cut through steel as easily as
legal bullshit. Ron wouldn't have chosen to bring this issue before her
without confidence in his position because she wouldn't hesitate to use
her acumen to put him in line. And despite my friendship with her, she
would be just as likely to rule against me and make no apologies for
the decision the next time we went to Forlini's for lunch.

"There are two different databases involved, judge. May I
distinguish for you?"

"I think I'm familiar with them, Mr. Abramson, but I'll let
you make your record."

"The New York City Generalized DNA Index System is a forensic
DNA database authorized under Article 49B of the New York State
Executive Law. The legislature strictly limited the circumstances under
which the State is entitled to collect, to preserve, and to disclose an
individual's DNA records. It limits the genetic profiles to be
maintained in the database
only
to people who
have been convicted of specifically designated felony crimes."

"That's the convicted offender database, then?"

"Yes, judge. But that's not where Ms. Cooper alleges the match
to my client was made. He's not a convicted offender. His profile isn't
in that pool."

"Tell me about that."

"The medical examiner's office maintains another DNA system."

McFarland was taking notes. "What's that one called?"

"It's the linkage database, your honor. It's what you might
refer to as a 'usual suspect' or 'suspect elimination' base. It's got
everything from arrestees who've never been convicted of anything to
bystanders at a crime scene who get caught up in a sweep."

"By that you mean that biological samples are submitted to
this second bank during investigations—by some lawful
authorization, either by court order or voluntarily or—"

"Nobody gives DNA voluntarily," Ron said dismissively.
"There's always an element of coercion when the police ask a person to
give them a sample of their blood or saliva. Nobody wants to give their
DNA to the government."