Mercer answered it. 'I don't think she's in the mood,' he said, holding out the receiver to me.
'Chapman?'
'I'm running out of steam, Coop. Never shut my eyes for a minute last night and I'm just about to go lights- out.'
'I'm too busy to tuck you in.'
'I need a favor.'
It was hard to refuse Mike. He had saved my neck on more occasions than I could count. 'Shoot.'
He laughed. 'But first, what do you give for 'Famous Funerals'?' I glanced down at my watch. The 'Final Jeopardy' question.
'Nothing. The subject's too close to home at the moment.'
'Laid to rest in London's Highgate, his orator described him as the 'best hated and most calumniated man of his times.''
From the days when I was immersed in my major in English literature, I knew that one of my favorite authors was interred there. 'George Eliot's buried in Highgate. But she doesn't fit. And Bram Stoker's notorious vampire, Miss Lucy. Otherwise, not a clue. Skip the education and tell me what the favor is.'
'That was Engels describing his buddy Karl Marx to the eight mourners who gathered at the graveside. Only eight. Imagine that. So can you stop at the morgue on the way home?'
'Sure. I didn't want to eat any dinner or polish up my opening statement.'
'I know your style. You had your opening in the can a month ago. You've already written the summation.'
Mike was right. I had learned from the old school, the guys who had mastered the art of criminal trial work under great prosecutors. Start your preparation with the closing argument. That way you could make a coherent presentation from the outset, building your case with a sound structure and layering in any new information that you gathered during the testimony of the witnesses. I had outlined those arguments weeks ago.
'What do you need?'
'You told me you were going to assign last night's homicide to someone.'
'I forgot about it completely.' I had promised Mike that I would tell Sarah Brenner, my deputy, to make one of the unit assistants available on the murder of the elderly woman.
'I know. I just tried to reach Sarah so I wouldn't bother you. She didn't know what I was talking about. I could hear her kids in the background-'
'She's got her hands full at this hour.'
'I think I can make it easy for you. Just a quick detour. Dr. Kirschner thinks I'm wrong about the rape. Autopsy shows no sign of sexual assault.'
'Nothing?' I asked.
'Not a single thing with a foreign profile. No semen, no loose pubic hair-'
'Bruising?' I would expect, in a woman as old as Mike's victim, that the vaginal vault would exhibit lacerations and swelling, because of the atrophy that accompanied the lack of sexual activity.
'Not internal. Not even on her thighs.'
'Sounds like a blessing to me if she wasn't subjected to rape as a final indignity.'
'Kirschner thinks the scene was staged to look like a sexual assault. He just finished up and if you can get there within the hour, he'd go over the results with you and show you the crime scene photos. Brainstorm and see what you think. That way I can get started in a new direction when I go in tomorrow morning.'
'Okay.'
'And Coop? Say good night to Queenie for me?'
'Is that her name?'
'McQueen Ransome. Known to her neighbors as Queenie. Lived in that same little apartment for the last fifty years. Never hurt a fly.'
'Family? Next of kin?'
'Not a soul. Had one son who died before he got to high school. No sign that she was ever married, but there are pictures of the boy on the wall in the living room.'
'Sounds like a stupid question to ask about an eighty-two-year-old lady, but did she have any enemies?'
'Not that I heard about today. Kids were hanging out all over the stoop. They loved her. Did all the errands for her in exchange for candy, and some entertainment.'
'What do you mean?'
'She'd sing and dance for the kids, that's what they say. Put on her old vinyl records and cut a rug. I got a whole children's crusade working on the case with me. Told 'em all they could be my deputies if they catch the killer. Anyway, leave a message on my cell and I'll speak to you at the end of the day tomorrow.'
'Last thing, Mike. You make any progress on Tiffany Gatts?'
'She won't be arraigned before morning. There was a labor demonstration over in the garment district, and the backup cause of all the extra arrests for dis con is cramming the system. Have Mercer walk you to your car. Mama Gatts'll be looking for blood.'
'Thanks for the reminder.'
'We may have a lead on the mink. Found an open squeal in the Seventeenth Precinct. UN delegate from France named du Rosier. Reported a theft six months back. He and his wife thought it was an inside job. His chauffeur had access to the apartment, even when the couple was back in Europe. A bunch of jewelry, two furs, and some pricey antique silver service.'
'Any description?'
'The du Rosiers are traveling at the moment. I'll try and get something more detailed from their insurance company tomorrow. Speak to you then.'
Mercer waited while I closed up and we headed out the door together. My car was parked near the intersection of Centre Street and Hogan Place, at the corner of the courthouse. The laminated NYPD plate displayed in the windshield was one of the privileges of rank in the office, and I was pleased that no one had double-parked me in place, as often happened when cops delivered prisoners to the courthouse.
The dump sticker from the town of Chilmark, where my home on Martha's Vineyard was located, and the Squibnocket beach pass on the rear window, were the only things that personalized my winter-green SUV. It was even more heartwarming to see that the Vineyard stickers had not seemed to draw the attention or wrath of Etta Gatts, who might have noticed the Vineyard posters in my office. The windows were intact.
I stepped off the curb at the rear of the car, keys in hand. Mercer went around in front to open the door for me.
'Looks like I'm your transportation for the evening,' he said, taking the keys out of my hand. 'Your car's in dry dock, Alex. Someone slashed your two front tires.'
8
There is a cruel invasion of privacy that attends a death by violence.
Mercer and I sat in a small cubicle adjacent to the autopsy theater in the office of the chief medical examiner, Chet Kirschner. The brilliant pathologist had finished his work for the day, and was taking us through the Queenie Ransome homicide findings.
The strong odor of formalin was exaggerated by the closeness of the room. I coughed to clear my dry throat, listening to Kirschner's voice, which was so oddly comforting in these starkly clinical circumstances.
I stared at close-ups of the nude corpse, taken in her home by a Crime Scene Unit detective, shuffling them around on the table in front of me.
'There are two different scenarios you want to think about here,' he told us, after describing what McQueen Ransome's body had revealed to him. 'You remember the old Park Plaza cases?'
Both Mercer and I recognized the name. The building had been a flophouse on the West Side of Manhattan, a dilapidated single-room-occupancy hotel that was home to dozens of senior citizens living on welfare. Throughout a two-year period, several of the octogenarians had died without any suspicion of foul play.
'The first five women had no relatives in the city to raise any concerns, no property of any value, and histories
