"Shrinks aren't doctors. Dust and fiber nuts are not doctors. What do they know?" Iriarte grumbled.
"Remember the story about the woman and the wire hanger?" April was unruffled.
"Not that again." Now Iriarte was looking really peeved.
"I asked at the labs if there's any way they can enhance the autopsy photographs to show the exact size and nature of whatever that thing on Petersen's chest is—and whether the injury had been filled in and disguised with makeup so that we all might have missed it during the autopsy."
"What?"
"In Petersen's autopsy the ultraviolet lights weren't on. There was a lot we might have missed, including the lint from Petersen's T-shirt."
Irarte scratched the side of his face. This was getting away from him. "Makeup?'' he grunted, ignoring the T-shirt issue.
"You know, like they do in funeral homes to fix customers who've had really bad illnesses, or injuries, to look—"
"All right, I get the picture." Iriarte rubbed his eyes and the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache. "Don't make me guess. Can they perform this photographic miracle?"
Mike was smiling broadly. The makeup idea was his.
"We don't have the answer to that yet, sir. But we have enough other problems with the autopsy to cast serious doubts on the ME's report."
Iriarte inhaled noisily, then exhaled, making the sound of an angry goat. He changed the subject. "What did Liberty and the woman say?"
April gave the short version from her notes. "They said the guy who shot Jefferson ran across the four lanes of Broadway, recognized Liberty, and threatened him with a gun. There was a second man with the shooter. He punched the Lindsay woman in the head, knocking her down. Liberty went for the shooter, causing him to drop the gun. The other man came at Liberty with a knife, slashing him in the chest. Liberty went down, saw the gun, picked it up, and threw it out of reach. That's how his prints got on the gun. The woman started yelling. The two men ran away."
"Chest wounds?"
"Yes," April confirmed.
"Could the injuries have been caused during the earlier homicides?" Iriarte demanded.
"They're fresh, sir. EMS took a look at them, no infection, no healing—new."
"Shit."
Mike took it up from there. "Both Liberty and the Lindsay woman picked out the mug shot of Julio Andreas Garcia as the shooter and the man who attacked them. Has ballistics come up with anything else on that gun?"
"Yeah, they picked up a floater around the Statue of Liberty yesterday. No il yet. Hispanic, thirty-five to forty, exotic dental work, what's left of it. He was shot in the head. There are fragments of gold bridge-work and only a few of his teeth are left. Probably went in the water four days ago. But he may have died before that. Three bullets in the head match with the gun that killed Jefferson. They're checking with the blood in Liberty's car to see if it's a match with the floater."
"I'd guess the time frame of the man's death isn't going to match up with Liberty's other busy killing and running schedule. What do we have now, four homicides?" Mike asked.
"Three homicides," lriarte said, still taking the hard line on Petersen.
"You can probably send Julio down for the two shootings, Jefferson and the John Doe."
"No, Jefferson could have killed the John Doe. He was the mule who stole Liberty's car.' '
"Well, we can credit Jefferson with being the great brain who thought of using Liberty's car for drug exchange. Something went wrong. One of them shot the guy. They abandoned the car. At some point they got scared and dumped the body in the water somewhere off Staten Island. We'll have to check about the currents near where the car was found to come up with a time frame."
"I'm betting no connection with the Petersen/Mer--rill Liberty homicides," Mike said.
"One homicide," Iriarte insisted.
"I'm betting on a double homicide," April said. "And I think Julio had to get rid of Jefferson last night because he didn't trust Jefferson to keep his mouth shut about their drug activities once Jefferson was a suspect in Merrill Liberty's murder. Julio must have worried that Jefferson would rather go down on a drug charge than a murder charge."
The three were silent, thinking it over.
Finally Iriarte figured out a solution. "All right," he sighed, "we'll handle it this way. Two of these homicides don't belong to us. Jefferson belongs to the Thirtieth. Let them go out and pick up this Julio."
April and Mike nodded. Good plan.
Iriarte licked his lips. "Now about this Liberty thing."
"Jason Frank has been trying to reach me all day. You want to see the little present he brought me?"
"I don't like shrinks. Shrinks aren't real doctors," Iriarte muttered.
April smiled. That's what she used to think. She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a round thin plastic container.
"What's that?"
April opened the container and drew out a thin ten-inch needle with a sharp point on one end and white
plastic head on the other. The needle was sheathed in clear plastic tubing. Iriarte grabbed his glasses and read the words on the container. Trocar catheter. 3.3 mm. He put his hand to his mouth, worried.
Finally he said, "Does this little goody match the hole—assuming there is a hole—in Petersen's chest, and the hole in Merrill Liberty's throat?"
"Three millimeters is about half the size of an ice pick. We'll have to get the lab to make the measurements and see. In Merrill Liberty's case, we can dig her up if we have to."
"Where did the shrink get this?"
"Every emergency room, every operating room, every EMS unit has them. Trocars are used to create an airway, or draw fluid, or blood or air to release pressure. Every resident has to practice with them. They come in several sizes: for adults, children, and infants. They're sharp, can penetrate quickly and deeply. Looks like a knitting needle, doesn't it?"
April slipped the unsheathed trocar back in her sleeve, then drew it out, demonstrating to Iriarte how it would neatly slide out to become a lethal weapon, then be easily concealed when the perpetrator left the scene.
"You're going to have to let Liberty go for now, sir."
Groaning, Iriarte checked his watch. It was 8:59 P.M. Liberty had been there for four hours. At 9 P.M. Sunday night the lieutenant was going to have to call the mayor's office, the police commissioner's office, and the DA. Everyone had to hear about the problem with the deputy medical examiner—and the release of Liberty—from him first. It wasn't going to be a good night for him. He scowled at April. She knew her mother's curse would be accomplished, and she would pay for tonight. She glanced at Mike.
No one mentioned Rosa's name.
Iriarte said, "Well, get out of here and go bring her in. I'll have the DA here to talk to her, see how deeply she's involved. He's not going to like this," the lieutenant added in a warning voice, as if the homicides and improper autopsies themselves were all April's fault.
"Thank you, sir," she said.
She and Mike exchanged knowing looks. Once again Iriarte wanted the two of them gone as fast as possible. He wanted to be remembered in the photos, not as the one who arrested Liberty, but as the one who let him go.
48
Rosa Washington lived in Greenwich Village. April was silent as Mike drove Captain McCarthy's unmarked green Ford Taurus south on Broadway. It was a clear starless night, the coldest yet. She stared out the window at the dizzying display of lights. Neon signs selling theater, underwear, watches, sex, sneakers, punched out of the dark, jolting the senses like a drug shot through the veins. Cruising through Times Square, where the golden ball had dropped on the new year only twelve days ago, April felt a slight surge of energy. Outside the car, the air cut to the bone, but there was still action on the streets this Sunday night despite the frigid temperature. January in New York. April adjusted her scarf. Static, more static, then a garbled call jumped out of the scanner. Mike reached over and turned it off. Ducci had left a message: The ultraviolet lights had not turned up any traces of blood on Merrill Liberty's mink coat. But it was definitely Rosa Washington's hair that had been taken off Petersen's body. When it had gotten there was now the question.