Seven Ways to Die (5 page)

“I’m sure he does,” Cody said, keeping her as calm as possible. “How long have you worked for him?”

“Three years—ever since he moved in. I answered an ad in the Times. I work three days a week. Monday, Wednesday and Friday and sometimes he’ll call and ask me to come in extra and dust off the apartment.”

“Dust off the apartment?”

“Like last night. He was out of town and he called and asked if I would come in and straighten up a bit and vacuum. I guess he was having guests. So that’s what I did. I come over before my three o’clock and picked up the bathroom, dusted, and vacuumed the floor. I was here about an hour. Got home about five. I have an apartment on Avenue B.”

“And then you came in again this morning?”

Bergman was taking notes in shorthand as she rambled on.

“It’s my regular day and it’s pay day. I usually come in about seven. He works out early, then gets a massage. I fix breakfast for him and he reads The Wall Street Journal while he eats. Sometimes makes phone calls. Leaves for work about eight. He likes to get in early. Gets a leg up, as he says.”

“Uh huh. Now, Wilma, I’d like you to describe the apartment for me. How is the place laid out?”

“Well, when you go in there’s a big living room on the right. Goes all the way to the front of the building. Then the bedroom is beside the living room also facing 73
^rd
Street. Then there’s his bathroom. A large bathroom. And beside it is a little half bath for guests. Then there’s the kitchen.”

“Does the back door lead off the kitchen?

“Yes. There are fire stairs to the ground floor.”

“Okay. What else?”

“And…and…” she began.

“Take it easy, Wilma, you’re doing just fine.”

“On the left when you go in, there’s a closet. And…and…then the entranceway to the library.”

“How many feet would you say it is into the library?”

“Six maybe. The closet is about that deep. It’s where I keep the vacuum cleaner.”

“Then walking straight ahead what’s next?”

“Another door to the library before you get to the kitchen.

“So there are two doors into the library?”

She nodded. Bergman was making a rough sketch of the interior as she described it.

“You have your own keys?” Cody asked.

She nodded. “Front door and the apartment.”

“So what happened this morning?”

She was shaking now and Cody took her hands in his.

“Just tell me exactly what happened.”

Her voice raised an octave. “I went in. And turned on the lights and…and I looked in the library and, Sweet Jesus! It was awful.” She shook her head back and forth. “Awful, awful, awful. I can’t get it out of my head. I was so afraid. I was scared to death.”

“Just tell me what you saw.”

Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I…can’t t-t-talk about it. It’s s-s-sickening…I said, ‘Mister Handley?’ But I knew he was dead. I just knew he was dead. I’ve never smelled anything like that before. And I was so afraid that maybe whoever did it…” her voice began to rise, “was
there in the apartment!
And I just ran out.”

“Okay, okay,” he said. She started crying again. “It’s okay, Wilma.” He reached over and took her in his arms and her voice choked off.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I just ran out. Ran out and locked the door behind me and dialed 911 on my cell phone and…and I just stared at that door and next thing I knew this nice young man ran up the stairs.”

Cody looked at Bergman.

“You didn’t go in, right?” he asked Bergman.

Cal shook his head. “Followed procedure.”

“Good. How about his parents, Wilma?”

“His father was killed in an accident when he was six years old. His mother died in California years ago. I think he had a sister.”

“You wouldn’t have her number?”

She shook her head. “It’s probably in his book. He has this book with everything in it. Addresses, appointments, you know?”

“That’s very good, Wilma. Now we’re going to take you home, okay?”

“I can go home, then?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, thank God.”

“Cal, take Mrs. Kearney downstairs. Frank’ll be waiting.”

“Right.”

“I’m so sorry,” Wilma said and began to sob again.

“I know,” Cody reassured her. “It’s not your fault, Wilma. Lieutenant Frank Rizzo is waiting downstairs. He’ll drive you.”

“Thank you. I’m so sorry.”

Bergman took Wilma Kearney by the arm and helped her down the stairs.

Cody punched in Rizzo’s secured cell number.

“Hey,” he answered.

“Where are you?”

“Half a block away.”

“We got a beaut. The housekeeper’s really spooked. Cal’s bringing her down. Run her home. Turn on the charm. Let her talk and run the recorder. She didn’t tell us much. She was about to go operatic on me and I don’t want to wake up the whole neighborhood. All we know is she thinks her boss is inside the apartment dead and I’m inclined to take her word for it.”

“Suicide?”

“We’ll soon know. Cal and I will make the entry. I wanted to get her out of here before we go in.”

 “Gotcha.”

“Stay with her, Frank. I don’t know what’s in there, but right now she’s the only witness we got. Might be a good idea to give her a sedative.”

“Right. She married?”

“Widow.”

“Where’s she live?”

“Avenue B.”

“Here they are,” Rizzo said.

“Have fun.”

“Oh, sure. You know me, I love to baby sit hysterical widows.”         

Cody snapped the cell phone shut, looked over his shoulder and took a momentary sideways glance at apartment three, which was directly across the hall from Handley’s, and reached for his satchel.

He knelt down and snapped open the bag. Arranged in the bag were latex gloves, surgeon’s scrubs, a Streamlight Stinger flashlight, a digital camera, laptop, note pads, several Post-it pads in different colors, lock needles, several vials of chemicals including one labeled “black moss,” needle nose pliers, wire cutters, a portable blue light blood scanner, a .25 caliber S&W—which he’d never used in the line of duty—a radio headset attached to a small tape recorder, and a myriad of other tools of his trade neatly arranged in specially made pockets.

He took out the flashlight and bathed the lock to apartment four with light, checking it for telltale scratches, leaned closer and sniffed the area.

Cal Bergman came up the stairs two at a time, carrying an aluminum case.

“You get lost?” Cody said without looking at him.

“Had to get my case from the car. I got the keys from Wilma.” He stooped over and whispered in Cody’s ear: “We got company in number three.”

“Yeah. I noticed movement behind the peephole.”

“Her name’s Amelie Cluett. Masseuse.”

“Interesting. So you did get something out of Wilma,” Cody said with a smile.

“I tried to keep her talking so she wouldn’t get too wacky before you got here.”

“Very good. Let’s suit up.”

“Aren’t we waiting for back-up?”

“There’s nobody else in there. You got a cold?”

Cal shook his head, looking at Cody with a question on his face.

“Get close to the door and take a whiff.”

Cal leaned close to the door jamb, sniffed hard and his head jerked back.

“Handley’s been dead awhile,” Cody said. “I doubt anybody’s sitting shiva with him. We’ve got a virgin crime scene here, let’s work it before anybody else shows up and contaminates it.”

“You got a nose like a bloodhound,” Cal said, opening his case and getting his scrubs and flashlight. “No normal human being can smell a thing.” They both put on scrub booties, caps and latex gloves. Bergman drew his .38 and held it against his leg as Cody put on his headset and recorder and unlocked the door. He slowly pushed it open about a foot. Cody’s nose wrinkled. Cal laughed.

“Wilma left a light on,” said Cal.

“Yeah, she was in one big hurry.”

Cody looked down and smiled. He reached in and flicked off the light. While Bergman scanned the apartment with his flashlight, Cody squatted down, reached around the partially open door and studied the carpeting with his Stinger.

“Well, look what we got,” he said with delight. He reached in with his free hand and lovingly stroked the top of the thick, plush floor covering. “Shag carpeting.”

He edged the door open another six inches, got on his knees and held his light close to the floor letting the beam skim back and forth across the tufted floor.

“You a hunter, Cal?”

“Never could get into it.”

“First thing a good hunter looks for is paw prints. And we got a lot of ‘em. Put your gun up, pal. The only thing living in here is probably flies.”

Cody turned on the tape recorder and started dictating all his remarks into the headset mike.

“This is Captain Micah Cody of the TAZ accompanied by detective Calvin Bergman. It is…8:01 a.m., October 26th, 2008…We are about to make entry into Apartment Four at 981 East 73rd Street which we have been informed is the residence of a Raymond Handley who has been reported DOA by his housekeeper, Wilma Kearney.” He pushed the pause button.

“Cal, let’s see if we can run a timeline on all these prints. Remember what Wilma said about vacuuming?”

“Yeah. She vacuumed the carpet yesterday afternoon.”

“Where is the vacuum cleaner stored?”

“In a closet to the left of the front door.”

“Remember what kind of shoes she was wearing today?”

“Nikes.

“Good, we’ll label these Subject A and we will mark them with Post-its and arrows indicating the direction in which they are going.”

Cody swept the light beam across the floor, leaned around the front door and flashed it at the foot of the closet door.

“We got a pair of Nikes going from the closet door out the front door. Partially obliterated by the arc the closet door and front door made opening and closing but still visible. So we can assume these were made yesterday afternoon after Subject A vacuumed and put the cleaner back in the closet and left. You buy that?”

“Reasonable.”

He swung the beam to his left.

“And here they are again, going in the front door,” he swung the beam into the room, “toward the entranceway to the library, stopping, and then coming back out. That would have been Subject A coming in this morning, seeing Handley, and splitting in one helluva hurry.”

“How about these others?”

“We’ll get to those. Right now we have Wilma coming out yesterday and going in and out this morning.”

Cody reached into his satchel and took out three different colored pads of Post-its. He pointed to another set of footprints in the soft shag carpet. They led into the entranceway to the library. “Subject A is labeled in red.

“There is a second set of prints which we will mark Subject B. These prints partly overlay those made yesterday afternoon by Subject A which indicates that these were made after the housekeeper left yesterday. What d’they look like to you, Cal?”

The young cop looked down at his own feet.

“Surgical booties?”

“Could be.” He moved the light beam to a similar set a few inches away. “These same prints also were made coming back from the library entranceway to the front door. Subject B’s prints seem to be partially obliterated by the prints made this morning by Subject A. They are a man’s size eight and a half, indicating a relatively diminutive stature. Our assumption is that whoever made these prints arrived after Mrs. Kearney vacuumed yesterday afternoon and left before she came in this morning. Anything to add, Cal?”

“There’s a third set of prints.”

“Correct. These appear to be made by a man’s shoes and we’ll label them Subject C. Subject B will be labeled in white. And C’s prints partly obscure the prints of Subject A made yesterday afternoon and the entry prints made by Subject B late yesterday. These prints also were made after Wilma Kearney left yesterday and the entry prints made by Subject B but not the exit prints made by Subject B.

“Conclusion: Wilma Kearney vacuumed this area about three p.m., Thursday, the 25th. Sometime after that, Subject B entered the apartment and went into the library. Then they were followed by Subject C, whom we will assume for the moment was Raymond Handley, who went toward the bedroom. Subject B then left the library and exited the apartment before Mrs. Kearney arrived this morning. Subject C, we are assuming, is still in the apartment.”

Cody marked the various sets of footprints with different colored Post-its and Bergman took pictures of them.

“Okay,” Cody said to Bergman, “let’s get to the main event.”

They entered the apartment and switched on the lights. As they entered the small foyer leading into the library Bergman fell back two or three steps, looking like he had been slapped in the face. “Oh my God!” he gasped.  

Cody’s expression never changed. He squatted down Indian-style, resting one arm across his knees.

“Hello, Raymond,” he said quietly, reaching for his cell phone. “I have a feeling we’re going to get to know you real well.”

4

As was his custom, Max Wolfsheim sat in his favorite easy chair sipping his morning cup of coffee. The New York Times was spread out on the ottoman in front of him and he leaned forward, his glasses perched on the end of his nose, his pudgy fingers scanning each page as he speed-read every article. Heavy-set and bald, he was huddled in an old bathrobe, his feet stuffed into a pair of fleece-lined slippers, waiting for the place to heat up.

It was a comfortable though sparsely furnished room. The furniture was old and worn. A large Peruvian rug covered the hardwood floors. A waist high bookcase ran the length of one wall, stuffed haphazardly with books and magazines. Except for a 42-inch flat-screen TV in one corner, it was the kind of room one might expect of an old bachelor: small, utile, and unimpressive.

Except for the wall behind him. A wall that changed the character of the room.

Instead of paintings or artwork, the wall was decorated with framed objects, all different sizes, carefully mounted, each with a small label in the right hand corner describing the object and a date. All were morbid trophies Max Wolfsheim had gathered in his forty years as an internationally known forensic pathologist. They helped abolish the nightmares that sometimes accompanied the most heinous of the crimes he had investigated. He rarely looked at them but each was peculiarly personal. Like panaceas for a bad disease, each was a reminder that there are human beings among us who are capable of the most malevolent acts against humanity: