The Kills (5 page)

"You
got company, Ms. Cooper."

I opened
the car door and found Mike Chapman dozing in the front passenger seat.

He didn't
move a hair as I settled into the driver's side. I pressed the button to play
the first CD in the deck, turning the volume up so that the letters
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
blasted out of the
speakers.

Mike
opened his left eye and shifted his weight. "If I had wanted to wake up
with Aretha Franklin, I would have gone to bed with the woman."

"I
guess you didn't exactly want to wake up with me, either. You could have rung
the doorbell. There's always the sofa bed in the den."

"And
all that temptation in the bedroom? Sorry, just came to pick your brain. Only
got here fifteen minutes ago and I was afraid I'd miss you if I didn't head you
off in the garage. Wild night in the naked city."

"What
happened?"

"Caught
two kills, so I gotta go right back uptown to sort things out."

That's
what homicides were to Mike Chapman. Kills. Hunters used that word to describe
the slaughter of their prey, and fighter pilots spoke the same language when
referring to the downing of enemy planes-the unnatural termination of lives.

"What
kind of cases?" I asked.

"One's
a shooting, probably justifiable. Bodega owner on One Hundred Tenth dropped a
guy who pulled a knife on him and tried to steal a six-pack of Bud. Other one's
really ugly. Thought you could help."

"Sure.
How?"

"Break-in
at a brownstone in Harlem, West Side. Place was ransacked, lots of old junk
strewn all over the place," Mike said, shutting off the music.
"Eighty-two-year-old woman. Looks like she was raped and then smothered to
death with her own pillow. Thought you could tell me why."

"Why
what?" I asked.

"Why
somebody does that? Who am I looking for? What's inside his head? What the
hell's the motivation for a sexual assault on an octogenarian who's already had
a stroke and was partially paralyzed?"

"I
can give you hours on this, but I probably still won't be able to answer your
question. No one can. Last time I had one like that, I called my favorite court
shrink. 'The guy either hates his mother, or he loves his mother too much. Your
perp either has an Electra complex, or his mother beat him when he was a child.
The guy either needed to control his victim, or has a thing about-'"

"How
much does it take to control a semi-invalid eighty-two-year-old? I realize
profilers are useless."

"Have
you checked burglary patterns? Try Special Victims. We've had a few cases with
a guy who pretends to be a plumber, sent by the superintendent. Gets in, beats
the women up pretty badly, and usually tears the place apart looking for cash
and jewelry. Then he rapes them, almost like an afterthought."

"Women
as old as this?" Mike asked.

"No.
But he's just opportunistic. He takes whoever is there."

He opened
the car door to get out. "Will you look at the crime scene photos with me,
and go over the autopsy report, in case I'm missing anything?"

"I'm
in court all day today."

"What's
this?" he asked, checking the date on his watch. "Thursday morning? I
won't have much to show you in the way of pathology results until
Saturday."

"Fine.
Meanwhile, I'll get Sarah to assign someone to work on it with you."

Mike
closed the door and I started the engine. He walked around to my side and
leaned on the roof of the Jeep. "Did your mother let you wear white shoes
in September when you were a kid?"

I was
anxious to get down to the office. "What are you talking about?"

"The
Chapman babes," he said, referring to his three older sisters, "after
Labor Day my mother never let them be seen in white."

"Yeah,
I know what you mean." I laughed, remembering my own mother's stories of
the fashion rules of the fifties.

"So
around two o'clock this morning, there's a squad car parked in front of the
projects where your buddy Kevin Bessemer disappeared. The guys see this fashion
vision walking down the street. White high-heeled patent leather shoes and a
white shoulder bag. The whole outfit just didn't seem to fit."

"With
what?"

"Thermometer
almost hit ninety last night. I'd give her a pass on the color of her footwear
in that temperature, but she was sporting some kind of muskrat at the very same
time."

"Coat?"

"Yeah,
a full-length fur-bearing rodent. May even be a mink for all I know. Kevin sure
was grateful to his main squeeze and her rear window."

"You
got his girlfriend? Where is she now?" This brought us one step closer to
getting a break on Bessemer's whereabouts. "Talk about burying the lead.
No wonder you came to deliver this news in person."

He tapped
his hand against the car door. "She's up in the squad. I'll keep you
posted. We're about to go interview her. Tiffany Gatts. And you can add a
charge to Kevin's arrest warrant."

"What
now?"

"Statutory
rape," Mike said, backing away from me up the ramp to the street.
"Little Tiffany's only just turned sweet sixteen."

"People
of the State of New York against Andrew Tripping. The defendant, his attorneys,
and the assistant district attorney are present," the clerk announced in a
flat monotone.

There
were only three other people seated in the pews behind Peter Robelon, on what
Mike Chapman referred to as the groom's side of the courtroom.

Harlan
Moffett put aside the racing sheet he was studying and asked each of us if we
were ready to get started. The judge had a fondness for the ponies, and would
often interrupt proceedings to check the off-track-betting phone line for the
outcome of a wager.

"Who
you got here today, Alexandra?"

"Your
Honor, I don't think any of the parties in court consider themselves
prosecution witnesses. I assume," I said, turning to look at the two women
seated in the second row of benches, "that Ms. Taggart is present. I spoke
with her last evening but she hasn't identified herself to me."

The
middle-aged woman in a flowered dress that hung to the top of her ankles rose
and stepped forward. "I'm Nancy Taggart, sir. I represent the Manhattan
Foundling Hospital."

She
motioned to the woman sitting beside her, who was younger but just as
severe-looking. "This is Dr. Huang. She's the psychologist responsible for
the supervision of the Tripping boy."

"And
you?" Moffett pointed his gavel at the man sitting alone in the first row.
"You a legal eagle, too?"

"Jesse
Irizzary. Counsel for the Agency for Child Welfare. We placed the child."

"I
got more damn lawyers in this case than I got witnesses. What's the deal here?
Can we reach any agreement on how we're going to proceed?"

"Your
Honor, last week I asked you to issue a subpoena directing the production of
Dulles Tripping-"

"What'd
I tell you? I didn't do it?" Moffett asked me.

"No,
sir."

His pinky
ring circled in Tripping's direction. "What kinda name is Dulles? You name
your boy for an airport?"

Both
Peter Robelon and Emily Frith leaned in close and began whispering to their
client, probably cautioning him not to open his mouth. Everything about
Robelon's physical appearance was in sharper focus than his client's as their
heads came together at the counsel table. His dark hair was well-groomed, his
skin was tanned, and there was a reptilian veneer that made me distrustful of
the earnest glances he flashed back at me from time to time.

"The
child was named for Allen Dulles. Former head of the Central Intelligence
Agency. I'm just reading from the statement the boy himself made during the
hospital admission process, the day his father was arrested and Dulles was
examined at Bellevue," I told the court. "It's relevant to the matter
on trial. You'll hear more about it during the case."

Tripping
was a control freak. Every detail Paige Vallis had told me confirmed that. He
had started disciplining the child in military fashion from the time Dulles was
a toddler, intent on being the spy-master for his own little soldier.

"You
were saying?"

"That
the subpoena was issued to direct Ms. Taggart and Mr. Irizarry to bring Dulles
Tripping to your chambers, where I might interview him and make a
determination, with the help of a forensic psychiatrist, about whether or not
he is able to testify in these proceedings."

Nancy
Taggart spoke up. "I'm moving to quash that subpoena."

Jesse
Irizarry was connected to her at the hip. "I join in that
application."

"Why
do you want the boy so badly, Al-sorry, Ms. Cooper?" Moffett asked.
"He a witness to this rape you got?"

"Not
exactly. Obviously, since I haven't talked with him, I don't know exactly what
he saw and heard. But no, he was not in the room when the sexual assault
occurred."

"So
what do you need him for?"

"He
actually is part of the forcible compulsion, Judge. The treatment of the boy by
his father that very evening is one of the reasons Ms. Vallis submitted to Mr.
Tripping's sexual demands."

Peter
Robelon read the puzzled expression on Moffett's face and took advantage of the
judge's skepticism to knock my position. "That one is really a stretch for
the prosecution."

Moffett decided
this was the moment to give me some paternal advice. "I know you like to
be creative, dear, but this is a novel application of the law, isn't it?"

"Ms.
Vallis had never met Dulles Tripping before the point in the evening when she
entered the defendant's apartment. The boy was invited into the living room.
His father directed him to sit on a chair in the corner and be drilled on a
series of questions. There was a discussion about a pistol, a reference to the
pistol actually being in the apartment. And there was talk of what the
punishment would be if Dulles answered incorrectly. One of his eyes was swollen
shut and badly discolored. There were bruises on the child's forearm and-"

Robelon
was on his feet. "We're getting ahead of ourselves here, aren't we?"

"Ms.
Vallis was not going to leave," I continued, "unless or until she
could take the boy with her and find out what had happened to him."

"So
why didn't she just stay up and watch TV all night? Who said she had to go to
bed with my client? If that's all Ms. Cooper has to-"

"I've
got more than that, as you're well aware." Not a lot more, but Paige
Vallis was a good witness, with a harrowing story to tell.

Moffett
scratched his head. "What's this kid gonna say?"

"Quite
honestly, I don't know what he's going to say at this point, Judge. That's why
I want the opportunity to speak with him. We've been at a terrible disadvantage
in this matter."

"Ms.
Taggart," the judge asked, "are you familiar with what caused the
remand of the child to your facility back in March?"

"After
Mr. Tripping's arrest and incarceration, sir, there were no living relatives to
care for Dulles. There was a complete physical and psychological workup
ordered, and the findings made it clear to the family court judge that even
when the father was released, no one would authorize an immediate return to his
custody."