Gladyss of the Hunt (8 page)

“I will.”

“So here's the background. The first murder was reported a little over a year and a half ago, when a maid at the Olympian Arms on Fifty-third Street found the body of Mary Lynn MacArthur.” He slid some gruesome photos over to me. “A few weeks later, a cleaning lady at the Spartan opened another door and discovered the grisly remains of Denise Giantonni.” More horrific photos. Both women had been decapitated, like the one I'd seen at the Templeton, and large, crude numbers had been savagely carved into their limbs. “Both women were drugged,” Bernie continued. “Mary bled to death while Denise was strangled and mutilated afterwards.”

“I wonder why he only made this cut on the first vic,” I said, pointing to a close-up picture that showed a long V-shaped scar running down MacArthur's right inner thigh.

“There are other differences, like Denise has a sock hanging from the toes of her left foot, but at this point we're focusing on the similarities between all three scenes.”

I jotted down the dates of the first two murders so I could check and see if Noel Holden was around.

“Even though the killer was more brutal with the second vic, the crime scene was a lot messier with the first girl,” Bernie said. “He probably strangled the second woman so there was less bleeding.”

As Bernie flicked through the pages of his notebook, I took the opportunity to scan his dusty office. Above a stack of boxes was a wall full of commendations and pictures. At the center, I spotted a small picture frame holding a photo of a beautiful young Latina girl. Under it a caption read:

Juanita Lopez Kelly

Sleep with the Angels

(1968-1998)

It had to be a memorial card for his ex-partner's daughter. Apparently she had died just four years before her father.

Looking up from his notes, Bernie continued: “For some reason the killer cut what looked like a number seven in the carpet between the legs of victim number two, although considering all the knife marks it could've been accidental.

“The first two women were both naked, and their bodies were positioned beside the bed. The top of their bodies pointed north and their feet always point south. He also taped up the limbs in both cases.

“The main differences between the three murders are: one, the location, and two, the numbers he carved into their foreheads,” he said, repeating what he'd told me at the crime scene.

“Are there any defensive wounds?”

“No, nor was there any epidermis under their nails. He drugged and strangled Mary Lynn MacArthur. Actually, first he stabbed her with a screwdriver.”

“How'd he decapitate her?”

“The cuts indicate a knife, but I don't know why he didn't also use it as the murder weapon.”

“Did they find prints, hair, fiber, anything like that?” I asked. I was hoping to match Noel's hair with something.

“Oh yeah, all that stuff. But the problem is, there are no matches between any of the three locations.”

Bernie continued giving me background: Initially they had canvassed the area looking for witnesses and surveillance tapes from surrounding businesses. Nothing turned up. They had tracked down the escort services that handled the girls, and found that the killer had used stolen credit cards, never the same one. All three guys who'd had their cards stolen worked in midtown; other than that, no connections. The squad had spent the last few weeks going through the list of the victims' regulars. Again, no cross clients. They found johns with records, but nobody with anything serious. In short, the trail was cold.

A week ago, a profiler from Police Plaza, Barry Gilbert, had been assigned to the case. I remembered him from the academy, where he'd taught a class in forensic psychology: an intense guy with a shiny widow's peak.

“Barry thinks we're looking for a young white guy who is organized and modestly up on forensics,” Bernie continued. “He probably has a history with hookers. He might have some priors for drugs, prostitution, and maybe credit card fraud, since he's used them for paying the ladies. Considering the hot-sheet dives he takes them to, I'm guessing he's broke. And he probably has sexual problems, seeing how he hasn't screwed any of the vics.”

“Did Dr. Gilbert say anything about the taped-up limbs or the carved numbers?”

“He said considering the way the limbs were lassoed and the numbers looked branded on, we might be looking for a cowboy. I think he was kidding.”

“It's so strange,” I thought aloud, recalling my academy classes, “that one day, out of the blue, some john plans not just a murder, but the whole mutilation and post mortem numbering thing. In cases like this, isn't there usually an earlier version of the murder?”

“Crystal Hodges,” Bernie responded. “Barry thinks I'm way off,
particularly 'cause it was so long ago, but she was the only blonde hooker I could find whose murder could've been an early draft of the current ones.”

“Was she tall?”

“Six feet and blonde. She was drugged and strangled, and her head was nearly hacked off. It all fits the M.O. But it was in the early Eighties.”

“They never found the killer?”

“Everyone figured her pimp did it, because he was later arrested for killing another hooker, but he swore up and down he didn't, even though he confessed to the other murder.”

“Shouldn't you interview him?”

“He died in jail in '87, so who the hell knows.”

Bernie's phone rang. He said he needed a moment, so Annie took me into her office. She said their top priority today was finding out the identity of victim number three. They had taken her fingerprints and were waiting for her arrest record to turn up.

I said I was amazed they hadn't found more evidence at the scene.

“Her purse was missing, so there was no ID or anything. The killer must've took it,” Annie said.

“Or the maid,” Alex muttered.

“Maybe the killer dropped her lipstick. I found some on the staircase,” I told her. “But it wasn't
in
the actual crime scene so Bernie chucked it.”

“And Alex said Bernie was just looking for someone cute to work with . . . Then here you are finding lipstick.”

“What kind of guy is Bernie?”

“Neither sleazy nor easy. He's actually a great cop who's going through a tough patch.”

“He said his partner died?”

“Bert passed away late last year, yes.”

“How did Bert's daughter pass away?”

“What daughter?”

“Juanita?” I asked.

“That was Bert's wife, his third wife,” Alex interjected.

“He liked them young,” Annie added.

“Where'd you hear about her?” Alex asked.

“I just saw the memorial card in Bernie's office.”

“She died of AIDS about five years ago,” Annie confided. “It'd be wise not to mention any of this to Bernie. One of the many things that will suddenly make him explode.”

“He can be very moody, but he wasn't always that way,” Alex said. “Things started going bad after the Towers came down.”

“Both of them went down there. Bernie and Bert were pulling as much overtime as they could to boost their retirement package,” Annie completed. “Then Bernie came back with a cough that wouldn't go away—”

“—And a firm decision
not
to resign,” Alex tossed in.

“—But Bert just got sicker.”

“You have to understand,” Alex said, “Bert was more than the captain here—he really was a father to us all. He ran the show and we all loved him.”

“He only just died,” Annie replied.

The two of them really did finish each other sentences, it was kind of annoying.

“But he had been fighting cancer for years,” she went on. “Thin as a rail. Always going in for more treatment.”

“Actually I think it was the foot injury . . .” It was Alex's turn. “That's when Bernie started getting grouchy.”

“He said it felt like a snake had bit him,” Annie added.

“What happened to his foot?” I asked.

“Toward the end of the recovery period, Bernie fell through a hole at the Pile—that's what they called Ground Zero—and shattered his foot in a million places,” Alex explained.

“It's been operated on like a half a dozen times.”

“No sooner had he checked out of the hospital the last time, his foot still in a fucking cast, then Gayle moved out.”

“So within three months he loses his partner and his wife files for separation. Now he's gasping for air, forced to stop smoking, and he's got a bum foot, no running around.”

“He's barely able to walk. But what's worse is that he's as angry as a Tasmanian Devil on steroids.”

“Someone said he had a nickname,” I hinted.

“Burnout Farrell,” Annie answered. “Don't ever say it in front of him.”

“After Bernie had punched out a couple suspects and almost shot
a young detective who was going to be his partner,” Alex said, “the new captain put him on modified duty, hoping he'd get tired and quit with disability.”

“Then these murders started popping up,” Annie said.

“Bert was a truly great investigator, and this was their old turf,” Alex concluded, “so the captain put Bernie back on the case.”

As if sensing a disturbance in their vaudeville routine, both of them fell silent. Sure enough, the distant bumping quickly grew closer until Bernie limped in. He announced that he had spoken to the captain and got authorization for a one-week surveillance team on the two hot-sheet hotels in the area that still didn't have cameras in their lobbies.

Then he asked, “Do we have Jane Doe's name yet?”

“Still waiting,” Annie replied without looking up.

“Get your coat,” he said to me. “We're hitting the bricks.”

“Where you going?” Annie asked as I wrapped my scarf back on.

“Back to the Blank,” he said. “Shake some monkeys out of the tree.”

Soon we were driving up Eighth Avenue in a dark blue Chevy Lumina. I spotted O'Ryan on patrol with old Lenny Lombardi, the cop who'd been first on the scene the other day. I suppressed the urge to flip Eddie off as we drove past.

The Blank was actually the Templeton Hotel. Bernie called it the Blank because the name had been pried from the rusty metal sign that hung over its entrance on Forty-second Street. Florescent red lettering still flashed the word HOTEL underneath a frame that now only held icicles.

It felt like ten degrees below when Bernie and I left the car and walked up the street. I thought the limp would slow him down, but the pain seemed to be a stimulant. We visited the neighboring shops, where Bernie showed his shield and our Jane Doe sketch to various clerks. None of them remembered her.

As we walked eastward, Bernie's exposed ears turned as red as brake lights. I wanted to tell him that most of our body heat escapes through our head and that he should wear a hat, but he was clearly the kind who didn't care for unsolicited advice. As we passed Holy Cross, his right index finger palsied out a slight up-down-right-left motion, the way a lapsed Catholic might from force of habit.

By the time we reached the old McGraw-Hill Building, I was hoping we'd return to the car, but just then Bernie spotted something. A guy wearing a black vest over his old trench coat was passing out business cards to the V.I.P. Club on the corner of Fortieth and Eighth Avenue.

“These guys sometimes are good sources, 'cause they're stuck out here,” Bernie said. Walking over, he showed the guy the sketch and asked if he remembered seeing her around.

“Sorry,” he replied, handing Bernie a card advertising the nearby strip club.

“Already wanked today, thanks,” Bernie replied. Turning to me he seemed to notice my casual attire for the first time and said, “Listen, we try to dress kind of officey. Dark, loose-fitting slacks and a conservative jacket should do the trick.”

“Fine,” I assured him.

Feeling acutely self-conscious, I caught our reflection in a store window as we walked past. I was wearing an off-white hat and a new suede jacket. Bernie, who was a little shorter and darker than me, was exhaling into his cupped palms to keep them warm. All I needed was a pair of cowboy boots and together we'd look like a tall, androgynous Jon Voight and an older Dustin Hoffman from
Midnight Cowboy
.

We turned right on Eighth Avenue and walked past the Port Authority. Since 9/11 it had been surrounded by a dozen big concrete planters to protect against possible car bombers. Wishful thinking, I thought. Over Bernie's head, I saw a billboard that the Patrolmen's Benevolent Association had recently put up: “NYC Cops Ranked #1 in fighting crime. Ranked #145 in Salary. It's Time to Fix the Injustice.”

“See this?” Bernie said, pointing at the giant turquoise grill of the old bus depot. “When I first started working here, it was the newest, most modern building on the block, now it's the—”