Footsteps of the Hawk

'It was a one–witness ID. Not the victim…a woman who lived in the same building. She said she saw him going out of the apartment.'

'After he did what?'

'He didn't do anything. That's what I'm trying to tell you.'

'Spare me the violins, all right? You want to play it cute, that's okay. But tell me what happened to the victim.'

'She was murdered.'

'Ah.'

'Not just murdered,' Belinda said, leaning forward, forgetting about keeping the kimono closed. Or maybe not. 'She was splattered. All over the walls.'

'Shotgunned?'

'A razor. A straight razor.'

'The woman on University Place. About a year and a half, two years ago?'

'Yes. You read about it in the papers?'

'Sure,' I replied— it was close enough to the truth.

'She'd been raped. First. Then the killer…cut her up.'

'And they made a homicide against this guy with nothing more than somebody seeing him coming out of her apartment?' I asked, letting an organ stop of sarcastic disbelief creep into my voice.

'There was more…I guess. His…fingerprints. But he said he knew the woman— he'd been inside the place before. A few weeks before. When he picked her up. In a bar. Right around the corner.

'And…?'

'And there was a…'signature.' At least that's what they called it.'

'If they were talking signature, there had to be more than one.'

'That's just it! They didn't have more than one. Just that woman. They didn't have any more until…'

'What was the signature?' I interrupted, trying to get her focused.

'A piece of ribbon,' she said. 'Red ribbon. Nothing special. The kind you could buy in any dime store.'

'And the killer left this with the woman? On her body? What?'

'He left it…inside of her.'

'And they found some of this ribbon when they tossed this guy's place?'

'Yes! But it's a common type— you can get it anywhere. It doesn't mean anything by itself.'

'Sounds shaky to me. What happened, the jury didn't buy his story?'

'He didn't get to tell his story. He didn't have Fortunato then, he had a Legal Aid. He had priors.'

'But not for sex cases?' I asked her.

'No.'

'What then?'

'Assaults, like. He was…crazy, once. He was 730'ed out years ago. They said he tried to push a woman onto the subway tracks.'

Every working cop knows about 730 exams. The court can force any defendant into a psych evaluation, not to see if he's crazy— that wouldn't be any big deal— but to see if he's competent to stand trial. 'If he was found unfit, they couldn't use that later,' I said.

'I know,' she answered. 'That was only that one time. But there were a couple of other times too. And then he was found guilty. On other things. Before he went into the hospital. But he's been okay for years. Years! There was a perjury rap too…something about a corporation he was in charge of…I don't know too much about it.'

'So what makes you so sure he was bum–beefed on the homicide? He don't sound like any prize package to me.'

'Since he's been away…there's been other murders…two others. But he was never charged with them…how could he be?'

'Two more murders?'

'Two more murders. Two women. Both raped. And, listen, both with the same signature. So how could— ?'

'Copycat crimes,' I interrupted.

'Burke, the signature, it never made the papers.'

'A red ribbon…'

'Inside them,' she said, watching me steadily, hands on her knees.

'So why don't you…'

'I can't,' she said flatly. 'I can't do anything. The other murders, they're in an open file. You ask the detectives who caught it, they'll tell you it's still working. They've got two homicides. Linked, you understand? You know the way the Department does it— three all–the–same crimes, it's a Pattern Case. Three big crimes, then the papers give the guy a name…like the Silver Gun Rapist or the Subway Stalker or some other bullshit thing. And then the fucking brass calls a press conference and appoints a task force, just so the public thinks we're serious all of a sudden.'

She was good at it, mixing truth in with the lies, making you swallow the whole pie if you wanted a taste. 'When did these others happen?' I asked.

'Why?'

'Just tell me.'

'The first one was right after he was arrested. Maybe two, three weeks later. The next one was a few months later. Before he came to trial.'

'So why didn't the Legal Aid— '

'They didn't know, I'm telling you! By the time I found this out, he was already sentenced.'

'So tell Fortunato. He can subpoena— '

'Burke, I did. I did that. And you know what he found when he looked in the file? Nothing! Not a thing. The whole business? About the red ribbons? It was gone. Wiped out. Far as NYPD's concerned, it was different guys, understand?'

'No. I don't fucking understand. Why go to all this? I know how the Man works… They pop some chump for one burglary, they throw every damn Unsolved they got on the books at him, right? He pleads to the whole mess, they go light on the sentence, everybody's happy. But they can't do that here— the crimes happened after he was inside, right? No way he got bail on a rape–murder.'

'That's right. He didn't make bail. And I don't know why they're doing it— I just know that they are. And I know George didn't do it.'

'George?'

'George Piersall. That's his name. I know…a lot about him now.'

'Because…'

'Because I've been visiting him,' she said, tilting her chin up defiantly. 'At the prison. In New Jersey. I told him— '

'Hold up a minute. If the crime took place here, how come he's locked down in Jersey?'

'For assault,' she said, her head cocked, listening to my breathing, checking if it changed. 'Sex assault, all right? It was across the river, just the other side of the Tunnel. At a truck stop. The… victim was a hooker. She said George took her to a motel. That's where it…happened.'

'So she saw him, right?'

'No. I mean, she couldn't make a positive ID. It was a shaky case. The woman was buzzed at the time, on downers, before it…happened. And she had a long sheet herself. Extortion, badger game, you know?'

'Yeah, but how— ?'

'He pleaded guilty, all right?' she said, her tone somewhere between hostile and defensive. 'He had a lousy lawyer. And they offered him a plea bargain. He only got three years. The lawyer told him he shouldn't gamble on the trial. He'd be out real soon that way— it wasn't worth the risk.'

'So…?'