Never Alone (3 page)

“A hooker who's murdered and still has nine hundred dollars on her was definitely not killed for lack of performance. And she wasn't murdered by her pimp or a john wanting his money back.”

The details of the other murder were sketchy. A young girl, probably a runaway at one time, fell into prostitution. She was found strangled in her studio apartment with no signs of a break-in. Megan knew something wasn't right, but nothing added up. The girl was placed in the cold-case files.

Megan smelled her surroundings again, thinking it odd there was an odor more fitting for an Entenmann's factory than a room housing a slowly decomposing body. She looked around to see if there were scented candles nearby. There were none. “Nappa, what's that smell?”

“That's what else I want to show you,” he said.

Megan followed Nappa into the kitchen.

“Open the oven.”

“Why?”

“Open it.”

Inside Megan found a loaf of bread slowly warming. “It's bread, Nappa.” She checked the stove. The oven had been set to 150 degrees. “But … baking bread wouldn't cover the scent of a decomposing body. We both know there is nothing more putrid than that.” No human being could ever forget the first time such a pervasive smell entered their life. Megan's first experience was investigating an odor neighbors called in on the Lower East Side. She entered the apartment to find a man, once Caucasian, now black, bloated and dead on the floor. He'd been there for five days. A fetid pile of human remains surrounded by feces and dried urine made even the toughest cop dry heave if not run for the hall to retch completely.

Megan looked again into the stove. “It's Irish soda bread. Mom would buy it on the weekends to have with breakfast.” Saying those words made her wince with sadness knowing her mother no longer had the memory of cooking those old-fashioned Irish family breakfasts. She glanced around the kitchen. “Awfully clean for someone who just made homemade bread.”

“And murdered a girl before breakfast,”
Nappa
said glancing back at now-deceased Shannon McAllister.

The vic let you in, you sneaky bastard
, Megan thought.
“Let's go talk to the super.”

“I'm not sure how much help he's going to be.”

Megan released a heavy sigh. “Dot the i's, cross the t's, right Nappa?”

Few crime scenes sent a chill down her spine. This was the second in as many months.

four

Megan and
Nappa
made
their way to the basement level to speak with the building's super, Mr. Mendoza. There were a handful of cops standing outside his office. An EMT attended to Mr. Mendoza, giving him oxygen, checking his pulse and blood pressure.

They squeezed through the narrow entrance into his office.

“Mr. Mendoza, I'm Detective McGinn,” she began. “This is my partner, Detective Nappa. I think you met earlier. I know this has been a difficult morning for you, but can you tell me everything you remember from the moment you entered Ms. McAllister's apartment?”

Mr. Mendoza took a long drag of oxygen before pulling the mask below his chin. “Oh, that poor, poor girl. She's the nicest girl in the building. Most tenants ignore me when they see me in the hallway, not Miss Shannon. She's an angel, I tell you, an absolute angel.” He turned his head in Nappa's direction, as if trying to convince him of Shannon's saintliness. “She stop and ask how my wife and children are all the time. My wife, she had these things removed from her feet a few months ago.” His index finger shaking as he pointed down toward his feet. “Bunions? Something like this.
Well, Miss Shannon made my wife her favorite
galletas
… um
… cookies.” He stopped to take a sip of water, most of it missing his mouth. “A lovely girl. Just lovely.”

“I'm sure she was, sir,” Megan said.

“Well, she leave a note in the basement last week. We have a message board. Tenants write down what they need me to do.” Looking at Nappa, he repeated nervously in Spanish, “She maybe put her name down once in the last year. Miss Shannon never made a fuss.”

Nappa, in his broken Spanish, told Mr. Mendoza to continue.

“I was hosing down the sidewalk in front of the building this morning. Miss Shannon came back from her jog.”

“What time was that? Was she alone?” Megan asked.

“Yes, alone. I think maybe six thirty? She ask me would I mind checking the faucet in her kitchen today. I tell her no problem. She said she be gone by eight thirty. Any time after that is okay. I ring the bell twice to make sure no one is there. I don't like to bother my tenants. I unlocked the door, bring in my toolbox, and then I see that poor girl just lying on the floor like … like …”

Mr. Mendoza started to break down again and pulled out a handkerchief from his back pocket. He abruptly pulled it away from his face, shaking his finger. “I tell you whoever did this to that girl is a monster. I tell you,
un monstruo
!”

Megan took a small step back so the EMT could administer more oxygen to Mr. Mendoza. His color soon returned to normal.

“Mr. Mendoza, have you noticed anything suspicious lately? Anyone hanging around the building or going in and out of Ms. McAllister's apartment? Any male visitors for Ms. McAllister?” Megan asked.

“Boyfriends, you mean? No, no, not that I know of. She's a quiet girl, a good girl. I can't remember anyone.” A few seconds passed when he looked up at Megan, tapping his index finger against his left temple, stunned he could recall such an uneventful moment. He stammered, sure this would be of no use to them, “I remember she had a party at the end of the summer. She worked at a camp, a summer camp for sick city kids. She and a few other people got together to celebrate the end of the summer. Nothing big, just ordered a few pizzas, no big thing. No neighbors complained or anything like that.”

“How did you know about it?” Nappa asked.

“I run into her when she was paying the pizza guy. I help her into the apartment with the pizzas. There were six, maybe seven people. Nice kids.”

Megan glanced over at Nappa. A small something is better than a big nothing when it comes to leads.

“We noticed there's a video camera at the entrance to the building,”
Nappa
mentioned.

“Yes, but I have trouble with it. It works, but not too good. The company was supposed to come last week to fix it. We never had no trouble at this building, never! I been here twenty-two years and not once, not one bad thing ever happen here!” Mr. Mendoza pulled his handkerchief out again, attempting to mask his emotion, as much as a man who just found a murdered woman could.

“Okay, Mr. Mendoza. Thank you, thank you.” Megan placed a business card on the desk next to him. “If you wouldn't mind providing us with information we'll be needing, sir. Names, phone numbers of everyone in the building, and if there is anything at all that you remember, please call us immediately.”

_____

Megan and
Nappa
walked up the back stairwell to the lobby level. They were at the front door of the building when a uniformed cop attempted to warn them of the onslaught of press, but it was too late. Megan opened the door to find television reporter Ashley Peters in her face. Ashley Peters was a twenty-something pain in the ass who mastered the art of pancake makeup without all those nasty, dark foundation lines. She was glam without the glitz or the intellect, but she was driven to get the story out first, and she usually did.

Ashley Peters pushed a bulbous microphone in Megan's face, the network logo prominently in view. “Detective McGinn? Are there any leads as to who committed this outrageous murder? Is this in any way related to the tragic,
unsolved
murder of the young woman on the Lower East Side recently?”

Megan was not in the mood for one-on-one combat with a hyper, career-obsessed, ethically challenged moron from the evening news. Ignoring Ashley Peters completely, she confidently spoke into the microphone, directing her answer to the other reporters surrounding her. “There are no suspects to report on at this time. We are treating this case as an individual incident unrelated to any previous crimes, and we will not be giving out the victim's name until the family has been properly notified.”

Ashley barely gave Megan time to finish her statement before asking, “Detective, isn't it possible that these murders are connected? The fact you have been unable to solve what appears to be
two related murder cases, doesn't that suggest perhaps more
man
power and stronger insight is needed to prevent any future killings?”

Without a bat of an eyelash Megan responded, “We have New York City's finest team working this case, and I am confident justice will be found for these victims. Thank you. That will be all for now.” Megan knew how to handle the press. She hated them, but she knew how to handle their moxie.

But Ashley Peters worked hard for her afternoon sound bite
and wasn't about to get it from Megan, nor was she about to get bumped to the “psychic cat saves family from house fire” news segment. “Detective, given your recent celebrity having solved the Worth case—”

Megan suppressed the urge to rip the head off the microphone with her teeth and spit it back on live television. “
Celebrity
is an exceptionally heightened term.” A figure skater could have performed a double axel on the iciness of Megan's response.

“I think there are those who would disagree.”

“That's all I have for now, if you wouldn't mind taking a step back. You're so close I can tell you're not a natural blonde.” Megan offered a feigned smile and an even less sincere thank you as they walked past the cameras.

After signing off with her audience, Ashley Peters drew the microphone away from her perfectly Clinique-drawn lips and leaned toward her cameraman. “Cut it, Mitch. It looks like we're done here.” She glanced back at Megan. “What a bitch.”

five

The elevator opened to
the basement level of the medical examiner's floor. Simultaneously, Megan and Nappa took a deep breath as they exited to follow the
Coroner's Office
sign marked in bold red letters. They didn't need an arrow to direct them to Max Sutherland's office. It was a hallway they had walked down many times before; if they did need a reminder, the noxious smell immediately notified them of their location.

Everything was white: white walls, white floors, white blinds hung in the identification rooms separating life as it identified death. Even the tissue boxes were white, something used often by visitors to the lower level. The minor exceptions were the thin black lines separating the floor tiles and the steel table and chairs occupying each exam room. Megan was bewildered by the notion of calling them
exam rooms
. No one was being examined. It wasn't a turn-your-head-to-the-left-and-cough room or a time-to-put-your-feet-in-the-stirrups appointment. The doctors down in the basement didn't take down vitals. They wrote down the cause of death while sipping Starbucks lattes and weighing body parts in scales just like ShopRite used to weigh fruit. No one got a free Zoloft sample or a B12
shot when exiting the lower-level exam rooms. Nada.

The walk to Max Sutherland's office was long, not because of its location, but because of its purpose: to tell complete strangers they'd lost someone they loved. The reality being they hadn't
lost
them. Their loved ones weren't aimlessly wandering around Grand Central Station. They had been violently taken from them and would never be seen by their relatives again. Period. It never got any easier for Megan. She knew no matter how delicately she handled meeting the families, they would always remember her as the person who told them of their loss. She was a part of a moment that would never be erased from their minds. It made her hate the perpetrator even more.

Christ, we're supposed to be the good guys,
she'd catch herself thinking.

Conversations rarely took place between the two detectives while en route to the office of Dr. Max, Megan's little nickname for her favorite medical examiner. The two long hallways led to swinging doors; yes, white swinging doors. Two doors down on the right they turned into Dr. Max Sutherland's office.

Dr. Max was not one for city-regulated and -approved decor. Entering his office was similar to walking into the Ethan Allen showroom, where you could find entire rooms filled with sets of perfectly matched furniture. An oversized oak desk was centered on a maroon tapestry rug, faced by two custom-made leather chairs. The walls were covered with tokens from his many travels: African tribal masks, hand-carved sculptures from Ghana, framed black-and-white photographs he'd shot himself from all over the world. Dr. Max couldn't stand the fluorescent lighting in the lower level, so he placed a green banker's lamp at the top of his desk pad. His fedora rested on a bust of Socrates in the corner. Max opted for
Illegitimi Non Carborundum
instead of his name inscribed on his desk plate. Translated: Don't let the bastards grind you down. It was one of Megan's favorite sayings, and something she tried to remind herself of daily in her job.

“Knock, knock,” Megan announced as they entered.

Dr. Max Sutherland's glasses sat on his barren forehead as he wrote copious notes on what Megan assumed were medical forms. He skipped the formalities. “These stupid expense reports. I can quote the Latin term for every single body part of the human anatomy, but to fill out New York City expense reports is complete
Greek to me. Stupid regulations. Why did we change mayors
again?” Max asked as he completed his anti-city-bureaucratic-­duties speech, a speech his secretary heard every few days prior to the monthly expense-report deadline.

“Are we having fun yet, Dr. Max?” Megan asked.

“I detest that phrase, Miss McGinn,” Max said, expressionless.

“Not as much as I hate that one. I mean,
Miss?
What is it, 1950?”

Max released a sigh of relief at having been interrupted, so he tossed the expense reports into the bottom drawer of his desk.

“So, Dr. Sutherland, what can you share with us about the McAllister case?” Megan asked with a mock-authoritative sound to her voice.

Nappa stood next to her as a tiny grin found its way to his face. If anything, the verbal sparring took the edge off the impending events.

“The lab identified two blue fibers,” Dr. Max said.

Megan's eyebrows catapulted upward.

“Hold on”—he held up a hand—“before you get those Irish eyes smiling, they're extremely generic. One hundred percent cot
ton. The blue dye is consistent with a color The Gap, as well as
countless other stores, use. There's no way of determining where they originated, at least for the time being, unless you bring me the exact sweater they came off of.”

Megan was visibly disappointed. She allowed those emotional displays in Max's office.

“There's something else.” Dr. Max placed his glasses on his desk, rubbing his tired eyes.

“What?” Megan asked. She could tell by the grim look on his face that things had just gotten worse.

Dr. Max sat back in his chair, staring down at the files piled high on his desk before him. His eyes took on a level of revulsion Megan had never seen in any of the ME's before.

For a moment Dr. Max Sutherland's office had become a black hole of silence. Then he spoke. The news hung in the air like the proverbial elephant in the room.

After several moments, Megan broke the silence. “
Sewn shut
?” Megan shook her head. “What are you talking about?”

“The victim's labia majora and labia minora were sutured together so …” Dr. Max paused; this had to be a first for him. “So no penetration would be possible.”

“Jesus Christ,” Megan whispered.

Nappa rubbed his forehead.

“Now, here is what I can tell you. The thread used is very common. You can get it from any sewing kit from any pharmacy. I need to do more research on the type of suturing and the knot that was used. I've never seen anything like it before.”

Megan ran her fingers through her hair in disbelief they were having this conversation.

Dr. Max continued, “I'll have photos for you as soon as possi
ble.”

“Was this done postmortem?” Megan asked.

Please God, say yes.

Dr. Max nodded. “The stitching is quite precise. It was definitely postmortem.”

“Is that where you found the fibers?” Nappa asked.

“Yes, within the thread, but not one pubic hair. Nothing. No vaginal hair on your victim at all for that matter.”

“He shaved her prior to sewing her shut?” Megan asked.

“No, your victim had what looks to be an allover bikini wax one to two days prior, based on the limited hair growth and small traces of body wax I found.”

Megan was about to ask another question when Dr. Max held up his palm. “Wait, I'm not done.” He pulled out a small plastic bag from his desk drawer, the kind extra buttons come in with a newly purchased shirt or pair of pants. “I found this when I cleared the stitches. It was lodged within the victim's vaginal area.”

“Oh my God,” Megan whispered staring at the item. Neither detective really wanted to take it, but Megan forced her hand to move.

She turned the plastic bag around in the air. It was a gold wedding band, nothing ornate about it, but one thing was for sure: few dead women have a gold wedding band sewn shut in their crotch. That was the only remarkable attribute about the ring, though. She tried to see if there was an inscription.

“I checked. Nothing was inscribed. And if it had an inscription or stamping, it's long since rubbed off by wear,” Dr. Max said while Megan handed the bag over to Nappa.

“So, we know one thing: it's old. I'm not all that familiar with wedding bands, but it's not that large. I'm guessing it was a woman's. Not a huge clue,” Megan added.

“And, hold on to yourself, not
one
print was found.”

“Max, that's impossible. He'd have to have worn a hazmat suit to do all that and not leave any trace.” Awe mixed with revulsion filled the air. The sound of Dr. Max's phone broke the silence. Max took the call.

“Christ, Nappa,” Megan whispered. “This means the killer took the time to undress her, stuff her with a wedding band, do this fucked-up tailoring, reclothe her, and …” Megan shook her head.

“Position the body in the manner he did,” Nappa finished the thought for her.

“Jesus.” Megan grabbed the Magic 8 Ball off Max's desk, cradling it in her hands while they waited for him to finish his call. The oversized billiard ball filled with blue liquid and a white plastic die was used to answer questions about the future, which was about as accurate as a quack psychic on crack. Megan silently asked the ten-dollar toy a question, turning the ball over and over in her hands while listening to Max's end of the conversation.

“Yes? Yes, the detectives are here. Please escort them down. Thank you.” Max laid the receiver down. “The victim's parents, Mr. and Mrs. McAllister, are here. You're in exam room five.”

“Thanks, Max. We'll get back to you.” Megan returned the Magic 8 Ball to Max's desk, but not without first checking out the answer to her question. The triangle read,
Try Again Later.
She shook her head and looked at Max. “Get rid of this thing, will you?”

Megan and Nappa waited for the McAllisters outside the exam room. “I hate this, I really hate this part of the job.”

“Me, too,” Nappa agreed.

“Did you have to do this much when you were with Narcot
ics?”

“Some. The vics were usually heroin addicts, cokeheads, or drug dealers, so the family or friends identifying them were never that shocked. Don't get me wrong, they grieved, but they were never really shocked. It was more like they expected it, at one time or another.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I guess they would.”

Megan was about to continue when the white doors swung open. She could tell immediately they were Shannon's parents. Shannon's mother looked identical to her daughter. Mrs. McAllister walked toward them, grasping her small black purse in one hand and her husband's arm with the other. Somehow she managed to greet Megan with a crooked smile, one filled with hope that maybe this was all just a terrible mistake; that her baby girl was fine, somewhere.

“Mr. and Mrs. McAllister. I'm Detective McGinn. This is my partner, Detective Nappa.”

Immediately Mr. McAllister asked, “Is it her? Is it Shannon? The police officer who contacted us couldn't give us very much information. We got here as soon as we could,” he offered.

“If you wouldn't mind, Mr. and Mrs. McAllister,” Nappa said as he motioned them into the identification room. A small chrome
table with three chairs filled the room. The blinds were drawn
closed. “Please have a seat.”

Mrs. McAllister couldn't let go of the grip she had on her purse as tears filled her eyes. “No. Detectives, please, if it's my baby, I want to know. I want to know now.”

“We'd first like to ask, when was the last time you spoke with your daughter?” asked Nappa.

“Well, she left a message for us last night. We went out to dinner and a movie. She said she was going to review some papers and go to bed. We missed her call by fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. I didn't want to call her back, in case she had already gone to bed,” Mrs. McAllister answered.

“Well …” Megan looked at Nappa. She just wanted to get the identification over with, as did the McAllisters. Megan went over to the window and softly spoke into the intercom as she held the button down. A few moments later the white blinds opened.

Shannon's parents walked up to the window. Shannon lay on a pewter table, her hair brushed away from her face. A white sheet covered her just below her naked shoulders, displaying pale skin that now had a yellowish green color. Dark circles surrounded her closed eyelids.

Mrs. McAllister pressed her hands firmly against the glass, tears streaming down her cheeks. “My sweet baby,” she whispered as her breath formed a cloud on the glass.

“Shannon …” Mr. McAllister clamped his eyes shut, making a full turnabout. Any direction was better than the one toward his daughter's dead body.

Megan noticed the men always turned away first. The mothers wanted to go in and hug their children one last time; they displayed such stout. It wasn't that the fathers were weak; they merely handled the pain differently. The men couldn't accept that they hadn't been there to protect and save their children.

“That's our baby girl in there,” Mrs. McAllister said. Her voice was monotone, empty. “Who would do this to our daughter?”

Nappa pulled a chair out for Shannon's mother. “Please, Mrs. McAllister. Please sit down.” Shannon's father stood at the other end of the table. His hands gripped the back of the other chair, propping his body up as he stared at the floor, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Was there anyone? Anyone you can think of who may have had something against your daughter? An old boyfriend, maybe?” Megan asked.

“No. No. She was someone …” Mrs. McAllister trailed off in thought, realizing she just spoke of her daughter in the past tense.

“Has she lived in that apartment long?” Nappa asked.

“The apartment is Shannon's grandmother's. She snowbirds in Florida but pretty much lives there full-time, except during the holidays.” Mrs. McAllister took a deep breath. “My mother never wanted to give up the apartment. She's lived there forever. It's extremely low rent, a huge apartment. Well, you saw it, I guess.” That was all she could handle; her face collapsed down into her hands. Mr. McAllister quickly put his arms around his wife, not that anything could lessen the pain.