“Gina just wants him to be thrown out of school,” Mrs. Borracelli continued. “She doesn’t wish to see him anymore.”
Doesn’t wish to see him? So she calls their tryst a rape? I had a new training case for the office rookies who came fresh from law school, anxious to grow the skills to reach the pinnacle of prosecutorial ranking: homicide assistants. They would have to work their way through drug deals and petty thefts, learning how to dissect cases and discern truths from every witness who walked through the courthouse doors.
“Gina’s probably embarrassed at this point,” Mercer said. He knew me well enough to recognize that despite the early hour, my temper was ready to snap. “That’s a pretty harsh sanction for what the two of them embarked on together, don’t you think, ma’am?”
The woman didn’t respond.
“Javier’s on a college track, just like your daughter,” I said. “There was no force here, Mrs. Borracelli. There isn’t a crime I can charge. I don’t see any reason to eject him from school, just to make things right between Gina and her boyfriend. And one more thing, may I?”
“I’ll never be able to explain this to my husband. She’s still his baby.” Mrs. Borracelli was wringing the handkerchief now. “Yes? What else is it?”
“Ask Gina to tell you what she did with the condom.”
“You mean, you fault her because she didn’t save it as evidence?” The anger rose in her again.
In more than a dozen years on the job, I had rarely known a witness to be as cavalier as Gina, or do something as revolting. I understood throwing condoms in the toilet or garbage — ugly reminders of the forced sexual act — at a time when the police lab wasn’t foremost in one’s mind.
“No, I don’t fault her for anything she did. Except lying.” I wanted that point to be clear. “Gina tossed the condom out the window of your apartment, Mrs. Borracelli.”
“I don’t believe you.” Her words were sharp and meant to be stinging.
“The police recovered it from a flowerpot on the terrace of a neighbor, three floors below you. You don’t have to believe me. The detective has photographs. And Mr. Delson, in 6B, was rather disgusted. He’s not likely to forget it.”
“What happens now?” Mrs. Borracelli asked.
My phone rang and Mercer walked over to Laura’s desk to answer it.
“I’d like Gina to make a statement — she can do it in writing, or she can sit down with Detective Vandomir. I think she gets along with him.” She liked anyone better than she liked me. I had played the eight-hundred-pound gorilla often enough to feel as though I had gained the weight necessary to look the part. “I want her to tell the story — the truth — from beginning to end. If it doesn’t spell out a crime, the entire matter will be dropped.”
“And my Gina? What will happen to her?”
Mercer stood in the doorway, one hand cupped over the receiver of the phone. With the other, he pointed his thumb over his shoulder, signaling me to get rid of Mrs. Borracelli.
“She’ll have learned a very hard lesson in the worst way.”
“But for lying, you won’t arrest Gina, will you?”
I stood up to escort the woman out of my office. I had mounted many prosecutions for filing false police reports. The fabrications wasted time and energy for dedicated cops, but mostly made it more difficult for the next rape victim to be credited by people to whom Gina had disclosed the bogus crime.
“No. Fortunately, we caught this before Gina testified under oath. I think she needs counseling, Mrs. Borracelli.” I put my arm behind her back, trying to move her along more quickly. “I think she needs attention to her drinking and drug issues.”
“Ms. Cooper,” she said, stopping in her tracks when I most needed to get clear of her, “will you help me tell my husband these facts? He’s a very difficult man. I doubt Gina will be able to talk to him about this.”
“I’m working on a murder investigation, Mrs. Borracelli. Two murders, in fact. Detective Vandomir will do everything possible to help. Would you mind stepping out while I take a call?”
The witnesses who lined up in the complaint room of our office every morning, seven days a week, needed triage as badly as patients in an emergency room. This woman was about to go to the back of the pack.
I returned to my desk and picked up the phone. Mercer stayed on the line and told me it was Manny Chirico on hold.
“Hello again. Past your bedtime, isn’t it, Manny?”
“Just playing around on my computer before I knock off. Mercer said you haven’t had a minute yet to get back on the case.”
“Real life intervened. You got an ID on her?”
“No such luck. Listen, I’m playing around on CrimeDex.”
“That’ll make Commissioner Scully happy. So much for pounding the pavement.”
The social networking fad that gave birth to Facebook and Twitter led a private company to create a site that eroded many of the bureaucratic boundaries between law enforcement agencies around the country.
“You got us a perp?” Mercer asked.
CrimeDex had effectively linked everything from police reports to surveillance tapes from departments all over the country, challenging privacy protections in cases that had not yet led to arrest or convictions.
“Not yet. But this guy didn’t wake up two days ago in Gotham and start offing church ladies for no reason at all.”
“What’d you find?”
“Wayland, Kentucky. Four months ago, in early December, a pastor — lady pastor — was killed right inside her church. She was found lying behind the altar with her arms outstretched. Naked.”
“This info is all online?” I said.
“The autopsy report is right there — no arrest, no suspect, no leads.”
“What’s the cause of death?”
“Multiple incised wounds. Gaping hole across her neck that the doc believes was an attempt to decapitate her. Oh yeah, her hair was singed too. The bastard tried to set her on fire.”
TWENTY
“WHERE’S Wayland?” Mercer asked.
He was driving us up to the Jewish Theological Seminary, where Naomi had been studying, and I was looking through a road atlas I had taken from Rose Malone’s bookshelf when I stopped by to give her a message for Battaglia about the second murder.
“Eastern corner of Kentucky, not all that far from the Virginia- West Virginia border. Looks like the Appalachians. Did you find anything out while I was talking to Rose?”
“I called the local sheriff’s office. The church was the Sanctified Redeemer.”
“Baptist, by any chance?”
“No. Pentecostal.”
“Any more details about the killing?” I asked. I was tracing imaginary routes with my fingers. First from Chicago suburbs where Daniel Gersh’s family lived, through Pikeville and on up to New York, and then, for no good reason, from the Atlanta hometown of Wilbur Gaskin back to Manhattan.
“Just that the killer staged the body behind the altar. Took all the woman’s clothing with him.”
“Did he take any money? Any religious items of value?”
“Not a thing.”
“How did he get into the church?”
“The pastor always left the doors open. Still a small-town lifestyle. Sheriff says all the other religious leaders in town have been jumpy ever since.”
“What goes on in Wayland?” I asked.
“Coal. Population holding at about three hundred, so the good ol’ boys are pretty sure it’s not one of their
