"We'll need a news alert covering the killer's window of opportunity, see whether anyone can come up with a description, if that's the case," Mike said. "Maybe someone else passed our man on his way to the dock or on the other side of the shore, where he parked."
"What else will you need from us?" Bart asked.
"Everything you've got, for starters."
Mercer looked at Mike. "RTCC?"
The most innovative new development was the NYPD's Real Time Crime Center, a state-of-the-art computer system designed to accelerate the analysis of data, interact instantaneously with field personnel, and connect the dots between law enforcement agencies all over the country. Discrete bits of information supplied from commands in any jurisdiction were fed into a "brain" that coordinated them to enable patterns to emerge from seemingly unrelated facts.
"You bet. This guy's a poster child for Real Time Crime. I'll call the lieutenant on our way back. The chief of detectives will have us up and running by sundown," Mike said. "We'll enter every bit of detail you and your men have got into this think tank."
Bart led us back through the maze of brush to get to the clearing where Joe Galiano was waiting to return us to the city. It must have been the layer of haze and the storm clouds forming off to the west that had mercifully kept the serpents from sunbathing on the boulders.
We climbed into our seats and buckled up. Galiano had the rotors whirling within minutes, warning us that we would be flying through some rough weather.
Mike was as uncomfortable in this fast-moving glass-enclosed bubble as I had been underground. We lifted off over the river, climbing above the West Point campus on our bumpy ride back to Manhattan.
I thought he would kiss the ground when Galiano lowered us onto the landing pad at the heliport.
A uniformed cop was waiting for us at the security gate. "Detective Chapman? You're to go directly to One PP," he said. Police Plaza, the department headquarters, was farther downtown, three blocks south of the criminal courthouse. "Commissioner Scully wants to see the three of you immediately.
TWENTY-TWO
Ihad known Keith Scully for more than five years. He was the chief of detectives when we first worked together-the department's rising star-before the mayor appointed him to be top cop a couple of years ago.
If he was pleased to see me again, I wouldn't have known it from the expression on his face. He was an ex-marine, tall and sinewy, with close-cut hair that had whitened since his promotion, just as more creases had been etched in his face.
We were ushered into his office on the fourteenth floor shortly after two o'clock. With him were Guido Lentini, the deputy commissioner in charge of public information, and Mike's boss, Lieutenant Raymond Peterson. Scully was a stickler for protocol, and it was a sign of his respect for Peterson that the old-timer was allowed to smoke- maybe the only person in the department who was-in the headquarters building
Word travels fast, Loo," Mike said to Peterson. "Maybe too fast. "You can't sit on something like this, Mike. The public has to know."
None of us thought the case was ready to present to the commissioner yet, and certainly not to the media. Mike would have liked the lieutenant to hold back until we had learned more about each of our victims and had some lab results in hand. But Peterson had apparently taken the story promptly to the PC after he got the morning's news from Pollepel Island. He hadn't even paused to ask me about the previous day's shooting at the range.
"You giving this out to the press, sir?" Mike asked.
"You tell me, Chapman," Scully said, standing behind his great desk, not a paper out of place, although the hefty piles represented some sort of mayhem in each of the five boroughs of the city.
"We're just beginning to try to put it together."
"Good. Keep it up. Use your time well. You've got all night. In the meantime, give Guido something to run with," Scully said, hitting a number on his speed dial. "I've got to let the mayor know you're here. He's hot to go on this."
"No offense, Guido," Mike said, cocking his thumb at the commissioner as he talked to the mayor's secretary. "But who put the bug up his ass?"
Guido looked at Scully to make sure he hadn't heard Mike's comment. "The governor called the mayor as soon as he heard you guys were flying up the river to consult with his troopers. Like we're supposed to keep our killers within city limits."
"Is he talking press conference?"
"It's all politics, Mike. If we don't get out in front on this, then the governor will scoop the story and point his finger at City Hall."
"Battaglia and his wife left for London last night with the kids. Family vacation," I said. "He won't like missing this one."
"I always think of Scully as the strong, silent type. He was chief of d's during that museum caper the three of us handled. He almost took my head off over a harmless leak."
"I hate to correct you, Mike, but it was my head that almost rolled on that one," I said. Both Battaglia and Scully had jumped all over me when one of the facts we were sitting on appeared in a feature story.
"Yeah, 'cause you were dating that television news jerk."
"Whatever happened to him-that Tyler guy?" Guido asked. "I never see him on air anymore."
"There's a whole graveyard full of Cooper's capons."
"Capons?"
"Castrated roosters, Guido. They vanish into thin air when she's done with them. But that's all going to change now. Right, Mercer? I'm forming a committee of Coop's friends. We're going to pick her men for her."
"And why would that be necessary?" Mercer asked, leading us into a conference room where sandwiches and drinks had been set out for us.
" 'Cause her picker's broke. That's been obvious for years," Mike said, getting up to grab something to eat and smiling at me. "Although I have to admit she started her day a hell of a lot better than I did."
Through the open door we could hear Keith Scully arguing with the mayor against the idea of a press conference.
Guido looked stumped. "Why? What did you do so early, Alex?"
"Finished the Saturday Times crossword puzzle before Mike rang my doorbell," I said, hoping I had on my best poker face. "It was an absolute bear to get done."
Scully finally slammed down the phone and joined us. "As much as I'd like to know what Alex was up to this morning, I think we'll all take a pass, okay? I'd like to tell you exactly why there's a bug up my ass, Chapman. Keep eating. Yeah, I heard you. You'll need the stamina for all the OT I'm going to authorize."
The commissioner hadn't missed a thing, although he had lost his point with the mayor.
"Sorry, boss. I didn't mean-"
Scully picked up a sheaf of DD5s-the detective division reports, legal-size pages filled from top to bottom with single-spaced narratives of all the work that had been done on every case. He flipped through them as he recited details of Amber's and Elise's autopsy reports.
"I've been holding the lid all week on Amber Bristol's 'quirks'-to quote from your creative paperwork," he said, tapping Mike's DD5s with the back of his hand. "I got Dickie Draper dragging his heels in Brooklyn 'cause he'd rather sit in the squad room and wait for an informant to drop the killer's name in his lap than do a day's worth of work. And now, we've got a West Point cadet murdered on state property and the governor's story is going to be that the NYPD didn't warn the public that there's a psycho on the loose."
Peterson was the only person who still referred to the commissioner by his first name. "Keith, they can't stick you with-"
"This is Saturday, Ray. This is when kids go clubbing and barhopping. Suppose another girl goes missing tonight? Who else is there to blame but the cops? You can't be a politician if you're just willing to suck it up. It's much easier to stick someone else in the line of fire."
Scully walked toward the enormous map of the city that hung on the wall and stared at it, then swiveled when Peterson starting talking.