a laptop, and it was as though the spine of each of us around the table automatically stiffened as we mumbled some version of “good evening” to the commissioner. His professionalism was unmistakable, as was the ramrod straightness of his Marine bearing, physically and metaphorically.
I had known Scully for six or seven years, from the time when he had been chief of detectives, on the steady climb up the ladder to the top cop post, which was a mayoral appointment. He was tall and sinewy, with close-cut hair now gone silver, and as many creases etched into his face as there were constant crises thrown onto his lap.
“How many guys you got on this, Ray?” Lieutenant Peterson was the senior man in the room, so Scully started with him.
“A dozen, Keith.” The two privileges the old-timer was allowed were still addressing the commissioner by his first name and smoking his cigarettes inside headquarters. No one else dared do either.
“Double it. By tomorrow’s day shift. Same goes for all of you.”
“Manpower’s an issue,” Peterson said. “My men each got a full plate as it is, and then you sent that new directive about limiting overtime — which, I gotta say, pissed everybody off.”
“Tell them to eat their overtime. Shove it. You’ve got tonight to organize yourselves. Get a good meal and whatever rest you can in the next twelve hours. I don’t expect you to sleep again till you bring this guy down,” Scully said. “Your world turns upside down tomorrow when we let the media know we’ve got an ID on the victim.”
Manny Chirico pushed back from the table. The rest of us were riveted on Keith Scully.
“Her name is Ursula Hewitt.” Scully pointed to his tech aide, who flashed one of the crime-scene photos of her from his Power-Point file onto the wall screen.
If you hadn’t seen the body in the churchyard firsthand, there was nothing like a life-size color blowup to jump-start this crew for a full-on manhunt. I could hear the intake of breath and a few “holy shits” from around the table.
“Female Caucasian,” Scully went on, like he was calling cadence. “Thirty-nine years old. Born in Forest Hills. Flushing Boulevard. Attended church and parochial school there.”
Most of the men in the room were Catholic. That fact was probably intended to juice them a bit more.
“Our Lady Queen of Martyrs,” Mike whispered. He often said that New York and New Orleans were the only two cities in the country in which the devout identified themselves by their parish affiliations, rather than neighborhoods.
The next slide was a photograph of the young Hewitt from her high school yearbook, offering all the freshness and promise of youth. She was slimmer then, and the contrast between her slender neck and the slashed throat of the morning’s scene was horrifying.
“Ursula’s uncle called the mayor’s office at five twenty-three this evening. He lives in San Francisco, but he’s got a high school buddy who works at City Hall. She’d been staying with friends in Manhattan but never made it home last night. It was his birthday, and she was certain to call. Then he heard about the body at St. Pat’s on the radio, but he thought he didn’t have enough reason to call the police. Just that it was one of her favorite churches, which snagged his radar. We went over to compare photographs from the scene with the one from her last visit that her uncle scanned in to his friend at City Hall.”
The next picture went up on the third screen. It was a more recent image of Ursula Hewitt, dressed in flowing clerical vestments. The floor-length alb of white linen was perfectly draped over her, with a scarlet stole on her shoulders that ran down the length of the garment, and a large cross around her neck.
“This is Ursula Hewitt,” Scully said, his lips clamped tightly together as he paused. “Three years ago, when she was ordained as a Catholic priest.”
There was dead silence in the room as we all took in the photo, till a split second later when one of the guys from Manhattan South broke in with a nervous laugh. “Hey, chief. We don’t got lady priests. We got nuns.”
Keith Scully didn’t brook interruptions.
“Ursula Hewitt was a Catholic priest. She was ordained in a neighborhood church in Back Bay, Boston. She even celebrated Mass a few times at Old St. Pat’s.”
Most of the men looked perplexed, as surprised as I was to hear that fact.
“She was excommunicated by the Vatican a year later, because of that ordination. So we’ve got another outcast on our hands, gentlemen,” Scully said. “Another pariah.”
TWENTY-FIVE
“FORM your pods, guys,” Scully said. “Put your working groups together tonight, figure out a way to keep each other up to speed on anything you discover — one from each team who can be the contact person — and report to the first dep every couple of hours, even if to say you’ve got nothing new. Nobody talks to reporters except Guido. Nobody.”
“The vic’s uncle, Keith. He got any ideas?” Peterson asked.
“The usual. She’s had stalkers, hate mail from the faithful, and worse from the Vatican. He was keeping close tabs on her because she was getting overwhelmed by the way she’d been treated.” The commissioner was going in ten directions at once. “You’re not only looking for the perp himself — or maybe it’s more than one person. Find me an abattoir — a slaughterhouse, a cage of some kind, a basement or rooftop, maybe a commercial van he’s turned into his chop shop. Check for stolen vehicles. A place these killings happen without this bastard calling attention to himself.”
“One more thing, Keith, if you don’t mind,” the lieutenant said. He had earlier told Scully and the group about Mike’s coup on the Fordham campus. “Do like Chapman today. Think outside the box for a change.”
The sergeant from Mounted slapped Mike’s back. “He’s lived an entire life outside the box. That’s all this guy knows. Don’t start giving him credit for it.”
“This wasn’t my original plan for the six o’clock meeting,” Scully said. “But the ID changed the whole point of having you here. Let’s hit the ground running at daybreak.”
Mike, Mercer, Nan, and I huddled with Peterson. He wanted us to have someone familiar with the waterfront, at least two men from South, and anyone Chirico could spare from the Night Watch crew.
“Can you step out for a minute, Alex?” Scully asked.
“Of course,” I said more eagerly than I meant. I figured that he wanted to get some assurance from me that he — not Paul Battaglia — would be calling the shots in this investigation. “Nan too?”
“No. Just you.”
I looked over at my friend for support. She could do no more than raise her eyebrows.
Scully took me into the hallway and around the corner so our voices wouldn’t echo. “I need you to step down from this case, Alex.”
“I can’t believe you just said that. You’re joking, aren’t you?”
“You know me better than that. Step down. I don’t want any further discussion.”
“You don’t want to discuss this? Neither do I, Keith, because there’s really nothing to talk about,” I said, flailing my arms around more than I wanted to be doing. “I don’t work for you, Commissioner. You can’t give me an order like I’m one of your troops and think I’m going to salute you and slink away.”
I could feel the color rise in my cheeks as the anger swelled up inside me. I struggled to keep my temper under control.
“Don’t raise your voice to me, Alex.”
“What are you worried about? That Battaglia might hear you trying to take over his operation? Have you bothered to speak with him yet?”
“I don’t need to do that. This directive comes from the mayor.”
“Is it some kind of grudge match held over from our case at Gracie Mansion?” The mayor had been embarrassed by a crime scene at his official residence, so maybe that had me in the crosshairs. I was furious.
“You’re more insightful than that, Alex.”
