Rizzo, Jackson, and D’Antonio left their vehicles and climbed the porch steps. The front door stood open, guarded by a uniformed Six-Two patrol officer. The entrance to the basement apartment to the right of the front porch and down six steep, concrete steps was cordoned off with bright yellow police tape, the area secure, awaiting the arrival of the forensics team. They entered the house.
A second uniformed officer led the three Six-Two detectives to an interior staircase to the basement floor. Once there, they met with the detective from Brooklyn South homicide.
After introductions, Rizzo got straight to the point.
“Tell me,” Rizzo said.
Detective Sergeant Art Rosen glanced to his note pad, then began his narrative.
“Body was found by the patrol supervisor. The basement apartment has two entryways: the street-side front door outside-the one sealed off with the tape-leads directly into the victim’s kitchen. Then there’s the staircase you just came down. This door”-he tilted his head to his left-“leads into the bedroom of the vic’s apartment and it was deadbolt locked from the inside. Landlord only comes down the basement to get to the burner room, storage area, stuff like that. Last night, ’bout eleven, he came down here to check the oil level in the tank. He smells something, same thing you’re smellin’ now. So he knocks on the apartment door. No answer. Then it occurs to the landlord he hasn’t seen or heard his tenant in a while. The guy paid his rent in cash on October twenty-eighth, thirteen days ago. That’s the last time he was seen by the landlord or the landlord’s wife.”
“How many people live in the building?” Rizzo asked.
Rosen checked his notes. “Three, counting the vic. The two owners and the vic.”
Rizzo nodded. “Okay, go on.”
“Well, the landlord smells this, puts two and two together, calls the cops. Radio car rolls up at 2320 hours, checks things out, then calls for a supervisor. Six-Two sergeant rolls up 2350. He gets a master from the landlord, they go in through the kitchen entrance on Bay Twentieth. Body is on the kitchen floor. I been here since 0040.” He frowned. “Fuckin’ stink worked into my nose hairs. I gotta wash it out soon as I leave.”
“Well,” D’Antonio said, “according to your boss, it’s our stink now.”
Rosen nodded. “Yeah, we’re booked solid, Lieutenant, and I’m takin’ some time off. My son’s bar mitzvah’s coming up next week.”
“The M.E. here yet?” Rizzo asked.
“Yeah, he’s been with the body over an hour. Want the preliminaries?”
Rizzo shrugged. “Sure.”
Rosen read from his notes. “Body in the flaccid stage, maxed out fixed lividity. Advance putrefaction, larval stage finalized, pupae present, no adult flies emerging yet. Ballpark time of death less than twelve days ago, probably eight to ten. From the landlord, we know the guy was breathin’ on October twenty-eighth, so it checks out with the physical markers.”
Rizzo nodded. “Okay, thanks.”
“I’m gonna go out to the car, finish up these notes, then I’m going back to Brooklyn South.” Rosen turned to D’Antonio. “You got a card, boss?”
D’Antonio pulled a card from his pocket, handed it to Rosen and said, “Fax me all the notes. And your personal contact info in case we need to talk to you. You got a partner here?”
Rosen shook his head. “No, just me. Like I said, we’re stretched thin.”
“I thought homicides were down,” Priscilla said to Rosen. “Citywide in general, but I heard Brooklyn in particular.”
Rosen nodded. “Way down. So what happens? The brass cuts the overtime, doesn’t replace the attrition, and expands our caseload to include attempts, not just done murders. Go figure. We’re busier now than when the borough was doin’ four hundred a year.”
Rosen shook hands all around, then turned and climbed the stairs to the ground floor and relief from the permeating smell of death wafting into the basement from the rear door of the apartment. Rizzo turned to Priscilla.
“Point of information, Cil,” he said. “From what Rosen just told us, we know the body cycled completely through rigor mortis, going to flaccid with fixed lividity indicating the body’s been in one position since death. Lividity is maxed out, that only takes about twelve hours. It’s the advanced maggot activity that puts the approximate date of the murder around ten, twelve days ago.”
Priscilla nodded. “Will the M.E. be able to narrow that any?”
Rizzo shrugged. “Doubtful. He’ll do the autopsy for cause of death, but exact date will be tough. It ain’t a precise science, like on that television bullshit everybody watches. Maggots showing as early pupae make death around ten days, dependin’ on other environmental factors.”
“Well,” Priscilla said, her voice businesslike. “Shall we go take a look?”
Rizzo pulled two pairs of latex gloves from the pocket of his outer coat. D’Antonio produced his own. “I guess so, kiddo. Here, put these on.”
The three Six-Two cops went into the bedroom, then carefully crossed the room and entered a small foyer. From that vantage point, they could see directly into the kitchen. The body was covered, the medical examiner standing above it, a blue surgical mask covering the lower half of his ebony face. He was writing on a legal-size yellow pad, his brow furrowed.
“Hey, Doc,” Rizzo said cheerfully. “How you doin’ this morning?”
The man looked up from his notes, turning his eyes to the three detectives.
“As well as can be expected,” he said, a West Indies accent tugging at his tones. “And a damn sight better than this poor bastard.” With a dip of his head, he indicated the corpse.
“Was it definitely strangulation, Doc?” D’Antonio asked.
The man nodded, again turning to his pad and continuing his notemaking. “Most probably from behind, and with a garrote capable of deep cutting. The neck is badly lacerated. There was considerable bleeding while the heart was beating. Even afterward, some leakage continued.” He glanced from above the mask to Priscilla, then to Rizzo.
“ ’Tis quite a sight,” he said.
Rizzo stepped forward and pulled back the blue plastic morgue sheet covering the victim, dropping it away from the corpse.
The body lay facedown, its head twisted to the right, the profile swollen, eyes and tongue protruding. Decomposition fluids had drained from the nose and mouth, the skin of the distorted, bloated face was marbled in a greenish-black weblike pattern, a few plump maggots moving slowly across the surface.
Rizzo bent to the body, peering carefully at the open right eye, which stared in sightless horror at the base of the kitchen sink. The cornea appeared darkly clouded and opaque. Rizzo stood, turning to the examiner.
“Date of murder may turn out to be important here, Doc.” He added casually, “You notice that eye?”
Behind the man’s mask, it was evident he was smiling. “Relax, Detective,” he said. “I may just be a simple coconut island doctor, but I do know dead bodies. I assure you I will check the potassium levels in both eyes. Though it may not help much, other than to bolster my preliminary estimate of ten days.”
“No offense, Doc,” Rizzo said. “I’m just askin’, that’s all.”
The man nodded. “Yes, of course,” he said, glancing toward Priscilla. “I understand, and I’m sure your young colleague also understands your presumed need to ask.” He clicked his pen closed, returning it to the breast pocket of his blue Windbreaker. “And now,” he said, “I am finished here. When you are finished, release the body and I will next see it at the morgue. My initial report will be ready in a few days.”
“And the autopsy?” D’Antonio asked.
The man shrugged. “I cannot say. As soon as possible. I will have some lab results by Wednesday or Thursday that may or may not help with the date of death. But the autopsy, I cannot say.”