13
Mangiapane was absolutely correct. There was no possible way to miss the place.
The tenement was on the south side of Michigan, a seven-lane thoroughfare at that point. It was a route that could take one from downtown Detroit all the way across the state to Lake Michigan and into Gary, Indiana.
The junction of Michigan and Central was, like so much of the city of Detroit, a mere shadow of its former self. The tenement was a case in point. It gave every indication of having been at one time a most respectable, if not fashionable, hotel. Now it was seedy. Its better days obviously were in its past.
Several blue-and-whites as well as unmarked police cars were double-parked, but in orderly fashion. And, for a chill, dark Sunday in January, with the Super Bowl about to begin, a considerable crowd had gathered.
Tully parked, got out of his car, and approached the building. As he walked, he took careful note of the crowd. Mostly neighborhood residents, he guessed. Older people, black and white, along with a significant number of hookers. He thought he recognized some. Evidently he was correct; a few returned his nod.
By no means were these women top-of-the-line whores. In effect, they were a reflection of the neighborhood.
Inside the building, uniformed officers directed him to the second floor. Again, there was no mistaking the pertinent apartment. The door was wide open, with a lot of activity going on inside as the technicians carried out their specialties.
“Zoo, over here.”
Sergeant Dominic Salvia, who had been only too happy to let Mangiapane handle the report, had things well organized.
Tully crossed the room much as a skier on a giant slalom, dodging police personnel doing their jobs.
“Mangiapane told me you were comin’, Zoo.” Salvia, as did nearly everyone in homicide, knew of Tully’s special interest in the Bonner case. So he was not at all surprised that Tully would be part of this investigation.
Tully nodded. “Is the body in the tub?”
“Yeah. Just like last week. Come on; I’ll show you.”
The two officers entered the bathroom. Even with several technicians crammed into the small space, Tully was able to see the victim clearly. He gasped. That surprised Salvia. In short order, homicide officers see about all there is to see. That an officer as experienced as Tully would show emotion at the sight of a victim, no matter how mutilated, was unexpected.
“Okay, Zoo, who is it?” Mangiapane stood in the doorway.
“You don’t know?” Tully asked.
“We don’t have an ID yet.”
“Well, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know!”
“I don’t know.”
“But I thought—”
“So did I.” Tully jammed his hands into his overcoat pockets and shook his head. “If this doesn’t blow my goddam theory all to hell and gone! Oh, I’ve seen her before, someplace . . . maybe even booked her sometime. But I don’t know who she is. I haven’t the slightest idea.”
For nearly an hour, since Mangiapane’s call, Tully had been mentally berating himself. If only he had been able to pick just the right file from his records, he might have found the perpetrator and prevented this murder. But, as it now turned out, his theory had obviously been based on a false premise. He did not know this victim. Thus, she did not die because of some connection with him—as had been his theory with El Bonner. So no matter what he might have done this week, this woman would still be dead.
He had been mistaken. An entire week’s investigation had been wasted.
Yet, realistically, what could he have done differently? How else could he have reacted? To investigate the murder of one of your snitches . . . a murder that bore the unmistakable mark of ritual. A message had been sent; it was only natural to assume the message was addressed to him.
What a grisly coincidence!
But the message was still being sent. That much was all too obvious. Even without close inspection Tully could see the bruises on the dead woman’s neck. He would be surprised if examination did not confirm that the bruises were made by the same belt. She had been gutted and the incision seemed to be the same as that inflicted on El. There was ample blood, but it was pretty well contained in the body cavity and the tub. Nothing on the walls.
She’d been dead a while before the evisceration. Just like last week. And, just like last week, the clumsy branding. He could make out the figure of a cross. But because the mark was made partially on one breast and partially on her side, it was somewhat disjoined. The impression that the mark was intended to be a cross was more evident from a short distance than close up.
Peering more intently, Tully thought he could make out the irregular marks of some sort of lettering on the horizontal bar of the cross. He wondered if this imprint would be any more clear and revelatory than last week’s branding. That would be determined at tomorrow morning’s autopsy by the M.E.
“Geez, Zoo, I was sure you’d know who she was.” Mangiapane was crestfallen.
“Until I saw her, I was sure I’d know who she was.”
Tully turned to Salvia. “Everything seems to be progressing here.”
“Yeah, Zoo. The techs should be done pretty soon.”
It was striking how much this apartment resembled the one in which Louise Bonner was murdered, thought Tully. Bigger—it was bigger. But it didn’t have enough furniture. That was it: not enough furniture. A bed, a couple of chairs, small table, kitchenette, stove— undoubtedly here the perp heated the branding iron. The bathroom—only a few toiletries and a toothbrush and some toothpaste. Just like at El’s.
Nobody lived here. This apartment, like Bonner’s, was a place of work—hooker’s work, but work nonetheless. Each woman lived somewhere else. This place, the one last week, just a place of work.
Odd.
“How’s the canvass goin’?” Tully asked.
“Pretty good,” Salvia answered. “We’ve pretty well covered this building. We should get a good bite out of the neighborhood before tonight.”
“Zoo,” Mangiapane said, “there’s a couple of hookers say they know something about this. But they won’t talk to anyone but you.”
“Oh, great!” One of the last things Tully wanted was to be the “only” one anyone would talk to. Enough people decide there is only one person in the universe they can trust, then all you do is listen to an endless line of people. He sighed. “Okay, where are they?”
“Just down the hall. One of ’em’s got a room here.”
“Okay, let’s go.” Tully hoped the one with the nearby room might be the dead woman’s buddy. It would simplify things and God knows they needed a break.
Mangiapane led Tully to the room. As soon as they entered and the two women saw Tully, their faces brightened. “Zoo!”
Tully recognized them immediately. He had never expected that his years on the vice squad would serve him so well after he transferred to homicide.
“Adelle, Ruby . . .” Mangiapane left the room, closing the door behind him. “How the hell are you, anyway?”
“Good.”
“Fine.”
“It’s been a while.” Tully sat at the table across from Adelle. Ruby was seated on the bed. “Which one of you gals owns this place?”
“I rent it,” Adelle said. She was white. Ruby was black. “But I don’t live here.”
Tully looked around. Another “work” place. Easy to believe no one lived here.
“Then,” he addressed Adelle, “you knew the . . . uh . . . deceased woman down the hall?”
“We were buddies.” Adelle’s lip trembled.
Luck knocks, thought Tully. He took out a notepad and pen and began taking notes. “What was her name?”