The Kills (10 page)

Hallmarks
of an asphyxial death, the tiny red pinpoint markers were quiet indicators of
strangulation and suffocation, blood vessels bursting in eyes as they were
deprived of oxygen.

Kirschner
straightened his lean body and rested an elbow atop a file cabinet. "That
killer made a specialty of getting in and out of apartments with no visible
signs of forced entry. He even took the time to re-dress three of his victims,
so the sexual assault was not the least bit obvious. Chapman's looking to link
McQueen Ransome's death to those cases."

"Do
you have DNA in any of those?"

"In
all of them, actually. Our own databank linked them to each other after the
exhumation and examination."

"Has
the profile been uploaded to Albany and CODIS?"

The
medical examiner's local databank could match unsolved cases to each other
because of evidence taken from a crime scene or victim's body. The profile
would be sent on to Albany, and a computer would scan the results against
convicted offenders in the New York State databank, who were mandated,
according to category of criminal offense, to submit blood or saliva samples
for the profiling of their DNA. CODIS, the Combined DNA Identification System,
was capable of linking unsolved cases in one jurisdiction to a burglar, rapist,
or killer anywhere in the entire country.

"Four
months ago. We're still waiting for a cold hit."

"But
there's no DNA in this case?"

"Not
on the body. I told Chapman to go back and swab the doorknobs and some of the
surfaces the killer may have touched."

The
technology of this science had become so sophisticated that a serologist could
develop a genetic fingerprint from the mere sloughing off of skin cells onto
most objects that had been handled during the crime, called touch evidence.

"But
you don't think this is your senior citizen serial killer?"

"Too
many distinctions, Alex. The pillow was undoubtedly the weapon. That's
certainly a similarity. We'll work it up for amylase," Kirschner said,
referring to an enzyme found in saliva that might tell us whether the fabric
had been held over Ransome's mouth to kill her.

"You're
bothered by the fact there's no sexual assault, I guess," Mercer said.
"What if he was interrupted? What if he meant to do that, but got
distracted because, unlike the others, there really were so many possessions
here that he ransacked the place. Maybe he thought someone heard noise and was
coming to check on Queenie."

Kirschner
removed a pipe from his rear pants pocket and raised it to his mouth.

He tamped
tobacco in, lit the match, and filled the tiny room with the welcome aroma of a
sweet, smooth blend that temporarily masked the smell of death.

"Possible,
of course," he said. "But all the other crime scenes were in such
perfect order. Chapman left these here for you two to study. Look again. Take
your time."

The
eight-by-ten color crime scene shots of the Ransome apartment had been
developed immediately and hand-delivered to Kirschner.

"You've
really got juice," I said. "I'd be lucky to get these in a
week."

"Don't
be jealous. It's not a full set. I just get a few body shots to get me
started."

There was
McQueen Ransome, lying on her back on the bed. Her housecoat was pulled up to
expose her genitals, with panties and what appeared to be thick support hose
rolled up in a ball beside her. Her head was turned to the side, faded hazel
eyes fixed in a vacant gaze.

"Somebody
sure wants to make the point about the sexual aspect of this," Mercer
said. "Nothing like this in the Park Plaza cases?"

Kirschner
shook his head. "No. Unless your killer read about the exhumations in the
tabloids and decided to change his signature."

Queenie's
legs were spread apart, twisted slightly, with one knee bent beneath the other
in what seemed to be almost an obscene pose.

Next to
the bed was a metal walker, and I remembered Mike telling me the woman had
suffered a stroke several years ago.

I
strained to study her head and hands more closely.

"Are
those scratches on her face?"

"Yes,
Alex. By her own hand. Typical in asphyxia. She was trying to clear the airways
of the obstruction, so she could breathe. Free her mouth from whatever was
covering it. Probably the pillow."

"And
the killer?" I asked.

"Several
of her nails are broken. We might get lucky and come up with something other
than her own blood in the cuttings. He might have some marks on his face or
hands, if she had the strength to swipe at him."

The six
photographs Kirschner had were all of Queenie's body, taken from every position
in the room. I thought of the indignity of this kind of death, in which dozens
of strangers had entered her home to catalog and ferret through her meager
accumulation of possessions. A young medical examiner on duty and his
assistant, cops in uniform to secure the scene, a crew from the Crime Scene
Unit to take photographs and dust for fingerprints, and a team of detectives
who would try to find a motive for this murder-and a killer.

I thought
ahead to the scores more who would pore over these photographs in the months to
come. Colleagues of mine would study them as they worked up the case for trial,
forensic consultants would enlarge them to look again for any kind of trace
material or significant detail, and psychologists would struggle with them as
they searched for an understanding of the murderer's mind. Eventually, when Chapman
and his team caught the man-and I needed, now, to believe that they would-a
defense attorney would be entitled to a complete set of pictures, too, and even
the killer himself could revisit the scene of his pathetic triumph in the
privacy of his jail cell.

"The
person who did this wants you to think 'sadistic sex murderer,' Alex,"
Kirschner said to me. "I suggest you broaden the search. Some other
motive."

Mercer
and I had handled cases in which the appearance of a rape had been staged. Once
we'd recognized that fact we'd had to find another reason-the real reason-for
the crime to have occurred. Here was an elderly woman, partially disabled,
living on welfare in a Harlem tenement. Her death was not a matter of academic
rivalry, professional jealousy, domestic rage, or a fancy jewel heist gone
violent.

"It'll
be interesting to see what the rest of the photos show," said Mercer.
"Everything within sight has been turned topsy-turvy."

On the
side of the bed was a nightstand. The shallow bowl with the victim's dental
plate had been overturned. Both shelves had been emptied and their contents
spilled on the floor. The edge of the dresser was in view, and each of the
three drawers had been dumped out and spread across the floor.

"Is
she wearing any rings or bracelets?" I picked up another photo and looked
again at McQueen Ransome's wrinkled hands.

"She
wasn't admitted with anything," Kirschner said.

Mercer
checked the pictures taken from other angles and agreed there was not even a
wedding band on her finger.

"I'll
have to ask Mike whether she had any items of value in the apartment, but it
sure doesn't look like it, from these shots," I said.

"Dr.
K, have you got a magnifying glass?" Mercer asked.

Kirschner
left the room for thirty seconds and returned with one.

"Looks
like we have some homework to do. She doesn't seem to have much here except
junk, but maybe some of her acquaintances know things about her background that
can help us," Mercer said.

"What
do you see?" I asked.

"Ever
hear of James Van Derzee?"

Both
Kirschner and I nodded. "Harlem Renaissance," the medical examiner
said. "One of the great African-American photographers."

"Look
at that," Mercer said, passing the magnifier over to me. "Check out
the photograph over the headboard of the bed, the words at the bottom."

I picked
up the glossy image that Mercer had been studying. The photo had been taken by
a cop standing at the foot of the bed, so it provided a lengthwise view of the
victim's body. Directly above her head was a black-and-white portrait that hung
on the wall. Only two-thirds of it was captured in the crime scene shot. The
model's head was out of range.

In the
lower right corner was an inscription, which I squinted to read:
For Queenie-from her royal subject, James Van
Derzee. 1938.

"Now
look up," Mercer said.

I didn't
need the magnifying glass to see the chilling irony. The exquisitely voluptuous
nude body of the young McQueen Ransome was hanging above her corpse, which had
been positioned to mimic an identical pose.

Mercer
left me at my apartment at nine-thirty. I dropped my mail and files on the
table in my entryway and fished Nancy Taggart's home number out of my
pocketbook.

I had
waited to call her, certain she would know about the disappearance of Dulles
Tripping and his foster mother.

"Ms.
Taggart? It's Alex Cooper."

"Yes?"
It was more of a question than an acknowledgment.

"I
know that Judge Moffett asked his law secretary to call you about having Dulles
in his chambers late tomorrow afternoon."

"She
did."

"It's
not going to be a problem, is it?" I asked.

Taggart
hesitated. "I don't expect so."

"Do
you know where the boy is tonight?"

"Look,
Ms. Cooper. I don't have to answer any of your questions. You know that."

"That's
certainly true. I just wanted to make sure you knew that the foster mother
called me today, to-"

Taggart
snapped at me, "When? What did she want?"

"It
would be awfully juvenile of me," I said, "to tell you that I didn't
have to answer any of
your
questions, wouldn't it? I assume you have the same concerns for Dulles's
well-being that I do."

There was
silence. Taggart obviously wasn't willing to concede that I was interested in
anything but a prosecutorial victory.

I tried
again. "I don't know the foster mother's name," I said, thinking that
would reassure Taggart. "But she sounded frantic when she spoke with my
assistant, telling us she was taking the boy to 'a safer place.'"

"I
think she panicked for no good reason at all," said the foundling
hospital's lawyer. "There's nothing distinctive-looking about Andrew Tripping.
I think this is much ado about nonsense."

"Is
that what you'd like me to put on the record in the morning?"

"I'd
advise you not to bring this up with the judge until I get to court, Ms.
Cooper. His secretary told me to come at four o'clock, after school. I intend
for us to be there."

"But
now you know Dulles won't even be going to school."

"I
have every reason to believe the foster mother-who is very reliable-will
contact me first thing tomorrow and we can follow the plan that Judge Moffett
wants."

"Look,"
I said, trying to reassure the woman. "All you need to do is say the word
and the police will help you find them. We can trace the phone call, we can
work with the principal. I promise I won't use that opportunity to talk to the
boy. If there's a chance he's in more danger, then the police should be the
ones-"

"Don't
you think there's been enough damage done with the police dragging the child's
father out of their apartment in handcuffs? In keeping the father on Rikers for
more than a week? For splitting up the family? Let's leave the police out of it
this time," Taggart said.