The Squad Room (27 page)

“What do you mean?”

“Well, by her photos, this girl was a really good-looking woman, and you wouldn’t be able to tell by looking at her now. This guy messed up her face
bad.”

“One of our other cases was similar,” Morrison said. “You didn’t get that one. Now I think of it: when you finish up, would you mind looking at the homicide from Twenty-First and Park Avenue South for me? I’d be interested to hear what you think.”

“Yeah, of course—I heard about that one, but never saw what they recovered. If it’d help you, I’d be glad to.”

“Thanks,” Morrison said. Normally his own taskforce would be in charge of any comparisons between crime scenes, but he knew Williams was meticulous in his work, and might see something his own people had missed after so much immersion in the case. “I know you’re still in the middle of processing the scene, but what else can you tell me about it right now?”

“Well, we found her bound with some rope, similar to the other scenes we’d processed on the Boston guys. We’ve also collected some hairs from the victim’s body that don’t look like hers. She’s got some
skin under her nails, too—looks she put up a good fight. I can’t imagine this was a quiet incident; if anyone else was home while she was being attacked, I’m sure they would’ve heard something.”

“Did you see any bite marks, or any other kind of physical injuries?”

“No bite marks, but plenty of injuries.”

“What type of injuries—anything with her lower half?”

“No,” Williams said. “It mostly just looks like she met a boxer—lots of bruising all over, like he used her as a heavy bag. Like I said, this guy’s a real animal.”

“All right. Thanks, Otis—let me know when we can get in there and look for ourselves.”

Morrison met up with his team out in front of the building. They’d completed their initial canvas of the building and block for anyone who might have seen or heard anything in reference to the murder, and were comparing notes as Morrison walked out of the building.

“Okay,” Morrison said, clapping his hands. “Do we have anything yet that might be useful?”

Detective Garriga flipped through his notebook. “Yeah, I got one guy—an older gentleman who lives two doors from the victim’s residence. He says around 0100 he’d taken his dog out for a walk; he said he usually doesn’t walk his dog so late, but he was howling and he thought he needed to go—”

“Come on, Francisco, get to the point.”

“Just giving you what the guy told me, boss! So anyway, as he’s walking out his door, the street’s fairly dark. Not much of a moon out last night, and the streetlight near his house has been broken for a few weeks. He hears some commotion near where the victim’s house is. He isn’t quite sure which doorway, but he says he sees a pretty big guy and a woman on the steps leading into one of the buildings—could be the victim’s doorway, but he’s not sure. He says she seemed a little intoxicated, by the way she was hanging onto the guy.”

“Did he get a closer look at them?”

“He said he didn’t walk off his stoop, and waited for them to go
inside before he took Trevor for his walk. Trevor’s the dog.”

Morrison stared at him. “Yeah, I kind of figured that one out. Anything else?”

“Not really—he said when he was walking past the victim’s house, he saw someone close the window in the front of the apartment. He said he only noticed it because it made a squeaking noise as it was being shut.”

“Did he get a look at who shut the window?”

“He said he didn’t, but he did say he heard a man’s voice saying something like
We’re going to have some fun.”

“Jesus. Do you think he’s giving you everything?”

“Yeah, boss. He was an older guy—very cooperative. He wasn’t holding back.”

“Okay, great. Anybody else get anything?”

Medveded and Koreski shook their heads. As Morrison was about to speak, Rivera came walking up to them from across the street, a smile on his face.

“I might have something,” he said. “Not great, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Go ahead, Frankie.”

“The guy working the day tour was really helpful,” Rivera said. “He got the night doorman on the phone for me, and the guy told me that somewhere between 0030 and 0130—he isn’t sure of the exact time—he saw a dark-colored sedan park just off the corner of Park Avenue South, I guess just down there.” He pointed down the block. “He said a guy got out of the driver’s-side door and proceeded to
drag
a woman, who could barely stand, out of the passenger seat. He could hear them talking, and he said the guy was saying some pretty nasty stuff to the woman. He says he’s used to people passing by his building, especially at that time if night, talking all kinds of shit to each other, but this was different.”

“How so?”

“He said they were only on the street for a few minutes, but the whole time this guy was talking, the woman wasn’t saying a word—like she was unconscious.”

“If he saw the guy again, does he think he could recognize him?”

“No—he said that side of the street was dark, with the trees in front of the house and one of the streetlights out.”

“How about the car, we get anything on that?”

“No, he didn’t pay it much mind. Once they were inside, he went back in his building.”

“Okay,” Morrison said. “We got two people who saw something, which is good, even if neither one can identify anyone; we have a time frame to work with. I want you guys to do a canvas of Park Avenue South, and see if there’s any video that might have picked up the car for a possible make, model or plate number. I’m going to stick around here, in case Crime Scene finishes up soon.”

The other three detectives nodded somberly, and started off silently down the block.

30

The first news truck pulled up a few minutes later. Morrison shook his head, wondering again how they’d found out so quickly. He did have his suspicions.

He paused for a moment at the door to tell the uniformed cop to move the yellow police tape and increase the size of the crime scene. Before he could get back inside, the first reporter was upon him, sticking a mic in his face.

“Is this the work of a copycat killer, Detective?” the reporter asked.

Morrison was taken aback for a moment, then quickly shook his head. “No comment,” he said, retreating into the vestibule.

Once inside, he got out his phone and dialed Chief Arndt.

“Chief,” he said curtly when Arndt had picked up, fighting back his frustration. “Did anyone in your office use the words ‘copycat killer’ today, by any chance?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Captain—and watch your tone,” Arndt answered. Something in his voice told Morrison he’d just caught a man with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Well you know, Chief, a reporter just asked me about the copycat killer,” he said. “Wherever he heard it from, it’s not good that the information’s out.”

“Now, calm down, Captain,” Arndt said. “It’ll be fine. You’ll just have to step up to the plate a little. Assuming you’re the right man to lead the taskforce, I mean.”

“What are you—” Morrison snarled. Arndt hung up on him.

Morrison hung up, fuming. He knew Arndt was the one leaking the information to the press; he had to be. It was just like him to put his own connections ahead of the integrity of a case. The press was going to have a field day with it, previous arrests be damned.

The detectives from Crime Scene walked out past him.

“We’re finished, Cap,” Williams said to him. “Looks like our copycat is at it a—”

“Hey, Williams, you mind not using that word?” Morrison interrupted him irritably. “The media’s already starting with it.”

Williams shrugged. “Sorry, Cap, I’ll try to keep it down—but it definitely looks like the same guy or guys as before. I called the other team that handled the other murder you’d mentioned, and ran a few things by them; they confirmed the items we recovered all appear to be the same as the ones used a few blocks away.”

“Jesus,” Morrison said. “Well, thanks for looking into that for me. And don’t mind me—it’s just shaping up to be a tough day. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

“No worries, Cap, I know the story.
What have you done for me lately,
right?”

“Yeah, exactly. Thanks, Otis—be seeing you.”

Morrison was interrupted on his way into the apartment by his cell phone ringing. Rivera, Garriga, and Koreski were just returning, so he waved them into the crime scene as he picked up. Jeffrey O’Dell was on the other end, his voice excited.

“Sorry to bother you, Cap, but I may have something here on the Galipoli thing,” he said.

This got Morrison’s attention. “No problem; just give me some good news,” he said.

“Well, I’m not sure if this is good or bad news—it’s probably a little
of both. I made a connection through applicant processing, thanks to Sergeant Rivera’s girl Helen Rosario. Helen was great—she probably saved us twenty steps and a boatload of time digging on our own. She was able to pull Galipoli’s applicant file for us.”

“Okay, and—?”

“The file says he was in Operation Iraqi Freedom, and according to what she had in the file, he did get a Silver Star.”

“Hmm,” Morrison said, a bit disappointed. “Well, I guess I was wrong about this guy, huh? Maybe he’s suffering from PTSD after all.”

“No, no, Cap, that’s the thing,” O’Dell said. “I think you might be right about him after all.”

“Go ahead.”

“So, according to Helen, it doesn’t seem like he completed a tour of duty.”

“What?”

“Yeah. It looks like, when he was being hired, his investigator didn’t follow up with the military about his service record. Helen was able to hook me up with the investigator, who—thankfully—is still on the job, down on Jay Street in Brooklyn. We avoided the whole
I won’t talk to you ’cause I don’t know you
runaround thanks to Helen, who did a three-way call and introduced me. Turns out we had a few guys from the job in common—remember Michael Belmont from the three two? They’re neighbors up in Yonkers.”

“So what’d the guy have to say?”

“Well, he didn’t remember the case until I told him Galipoli had won a Silver Star in the war, then it all came back to him. He was hesitant to talk to me once he knew which case it was, but when I told him why we were looking into it, he opened right up. Basically, he knows he dropped the ball. He had several military contacts he says he should’ve called during the investigation, but once he saw the Silver Star in his folder he figured there was no need to. Thankfully Helen was still on the phone, and he told her that his notes should be in the folder. Sure enough, she digs through the file and in the back are a couple of names
and numbers of the guys he didn’t call. I promised him I wouldn’t make him look bad, but I’m not sure if that’s going to be possible.”

“Okay, but so far we just have an applicant screwup; tell me you called some of those numbers back.”

“One was all I needed. Sergeant Gonzalez—local guy, lives up in Mount Vernon. He’s still involved with the military, as a reservist. I told him who I was, and that I was interested in talking to him about Lou Galipoli, and he laughed and said it had been a long time since he’d heard that name. It didn’t seem like he had a lot of respect for him. We talked a little about our military experiences, and I told him about my time in the 9
^th
Infantry and in Vietnam. He told me about being severely wounded in Anbar Province, and his road to recovery. Seems like that’s one of the reasons he doesn’t like Galipoli—he didn’t want to say too much on the phone, but he was shocked to hear he was a cop, much less a detective. He actually thought Galipoli had been court-marshalled and dishonorably discharged. When I told him about the Silver Star, he said—and I quote—
No way; it must be a different guy we’re talking about.”

“Now we’re talking,” Morrison said. “What else?”

“I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got for right now—Gonzalez was at home with his kids and couldn’t talk. He’s willing to meet me tomorrow, though, to tell me everything he knows about the Galipoli he knew.”

“Tomorrow?”

“If you can spare me for the day.”

“Yeah, I think so—I have everyone else working hard on the murder.”

“That’s what I figured. Glad I was right! I told him I’d meet him in the morning in Mamaroneck, at this little Irish pub. I’m going to bring a photo of Lou with me, just to make sure we’re talking about the same guy—he says he can’t believe it is.”

“Terrific. Nice work, Jeffrey. Actually,” he added, suddenly feeling one of his hunches pressing at the back of his mind, “I think I’d like Sergeant Rivera to go with you too. I know we’re all busy with this case, but I have a feeling this’ll be worth it. Besides, it’s just for an afternoon.”
He’d long since learned to listen to these feelings, however unaccountable; they were the silent voice of professional instinct. “You think this guy will be all right with that?”

“I don’t see why not; Frankie gets along with everyone. Besides, he’s ex-military too, which might help.”

“All right. I’ll tell him. Let me know what you come up with, all right?”

“Yessir. We’ll see what he says.”

Back at the precinct house, Morrison parked in his usual spot out front. He felt extremely tired—his whole body was exhausted.
I can’t believe this nightmare is continuing,
he thought. He’d felt so good just a few days ago; now he could feel himself falling back into the usual malaise of depression, accompanied by an acute pain in his chest. He’d felt the chest pain before. But this time, even he had to admit it was worse.

He walked into the squad room, and Sergeant Simmons looked up with concern. Right away he could see something was wrong.

“Cap, are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” Morrison said, shaking his head. “Nothing a shot of Jameson won’t cure.”

Simmons stood up and headed Morrison off, not giving him the chance to go into his office.

“Come on, Cap,” he said firmly. “We’re taking a ride.”

Too tired to argue, Morrison complied.