I spotted Katie Cion thirty feet ahead, holding court with one of the ME’s death investigators and a few of her ESU colleagues.
“Scrape up that gum,” Peterson shouted to a detective who was using the toe of his highly polished leather shoe to poke around a patch of damp sod. “Get on your knees and bag that chewing gum, Gonsalves. You got a good dry cleaner, the grass stains will come out.”
“It’s a friggin’ playground, Loo. You want DNA from the gum? We got a vat full already. We got a whole kindergarten class ready to upload in the databank. The saliva of a future generation of moguls, memorialized in the city lab. You think we need more?” The dapper Benny Gonsalves bent down and probed at something with his pen.
“If I don’t see dirt on your pants by the end of the day, don’t even think about putting in for overtime.”
Mike had passed the lieutenant and walked directly over to Katie Cion, who was explaining what had happened as we caught up to him.
“A pack of five-year-olds, you know what I mean? A couple of the moms were off to the side, yakking about Botox or something serious like that.” Katie paused to greet me but kept right on talking. “One of the kids got frisky and started to climb into the bowl of the fountain while nobody had an eye on her.”
It was still too cold and windy for the four strong heads of the fountain to be opened for the spring season. Then, they would shoot steady streams of water into the air to cascade over the pedestal, merging and foaming into a maelstrom meant to evoke the primordial chaos of the earth.
Rainwater, dirt, and small bits of garbage had pooled in the base of the giant sculpture. “The kid didn’t mind stepping in this muck,” Katie said. “She had her eye on that backpack.”
“Was it just sitting there on the edge?” I asked.
“Nope. It was out of reach, beyond the wooden gate that was erected around the inner circumference, probably for the purpose of keeping people away. She got her skinny little arm right through the slats and pulled it close. Got enough of a glimpse to scream bloody murder.”
We were losing the late-afternoon sunlight to the west, behind the tall buildings. The enormous wings of the sculpted figure above our heads cast a bizarre shadow.
“Who’s the flying dude?” Mike asked as Katie’s gloved hands reached to unwrap the backpack, which was covered with a tarp, under the watchful eyes of the death investigator and the ESU team.
“The Archangel Michael,” I said.
“Ah, leading the heavenly host against the forces of evil. The Bible told me so. Guess he was asleep at the wheel last night. Show me what you got, Katie.”
I was nervous, averting my eyes from the tarp and studying the figures on the sculpture that rose above the fountain, remembering from my youthful visits that its many images celebrated the triumph of good over evil.
“It’s not a coincidence our killer picked this church, either,” I said.
Mike had gloved up, too, and was crouched next to Katie, ready to look at what she had. “What do you mean?”
“That’s the Archangel’s sword,” I said, pointing at the weapon extending from his hand, and following the tip of it with my finger. “He’s vanquished his enemy.”
“Keep it coming, Coop,” Mike said, parting the zippered pouch of the backpack to look in.
“Satan. He’s just decapitated Satan. There’s the devil’s head, dangling beneath the crab’s claw.”
Our killer hadn’t discarded his trophy. He had placed it in this spot to make a statement.
It was a full minute before Mike spoke to me. He stood up, one hand brushing his dark hair back as he often did when he was agitated, the other planted on his hip.
“Here’s the rest of your vic, kid. You wanted the whole experience, didn’t you?”
He stepped back and Katie Cion offered me up the backpack like it held something inside that I might actually want to see. I steadied myself and met the sightless stare of the pale, waxen, bloodied face of Naomi Gersh.
FIFTEEN
“YOU couldn’t have two more different institutions,” Peterson said. “Mount Neboh and Saint John the Divine. But they’re really just a stone’s throw away from each other. We’re two blocks south—”
“A few broad avenues west and in between them lies one of the most dangerous strips in the city,” Mike said, referring to Morning-side Park. “Not the most direct route I’d expect someone to take, escaping with a body part.”
“Hey, it’s all Harlem.”
The ME’s office workers had taken over the process of removing the backpack and the possible evidence that had been found around it. Most of the detectives paused and stood silently as Naomi’s remains were carried out of their circle and packed into the van.
“Don’t let any of the folks who send their kids to Columbia hear you call this neighborhood Harlem,” Mike said, wagging a finger at Peterson. “They plunk down the big bucks for a college education they think is in a genteel part of town called Morningside Heights.”
The Columbia University campus continued to expand and swallow up most of the surrounding area, between its academic buildings and real estate bought up for student housing. It suffered the crime problems of most urban schools — the town-gown dichotomy — but the overwhelming number of criminal cases that came to my attention from the Columbia campus were actually date and acquaintance rapes between kids who knew one another, usually fueled by drugs and alcohol.
“Call it what you want, Chapman, this here’s still Harlem. You’re just lucky her head didn’t wind up at the bottom of the Hudson. Zip. Nada. Nothing to work with then.”
Having seen the gruesome discovery, I wasn’t sure what clues this find would yield. “Don’t you think the choice of crime scenes is a more important focus right now, while the lab works up some forensics? Why these churches? Like Mike said, there’s nothing random about this.”
“What she’s really thinking, Loo, is what’s a nice Jewish girl doing in a place like this? Maybe a not-so-nice girl. Think of that angle.”
“I figured for certain the tabloids would start blaming the victim before you did.”
“Motive?” Peterson asked, using the embers of his cigarette to light the next one. “You’re already writing your closing argument, Alexandra. We’ll never get there till we find this bastard.”
We had lost the sunlight altogether now, as shadows lowered themselves down the sides of the cathedral and over the somber faces of the disapproving martyrs and prophets. Beyond the yellow lines of police tape, the gawkers were dispersing as some of the medical personnel and uniformed cops left the scene.
I shielded my eyes with my hand, spotting a familiar face as a man emerged from a yellow cab on Amsterdam. He headed directly toward the entrance of the cathedral, through the gold-plated doors of the main portal. “Mike, isn’t that Wilbur Gaskin? The guy from Mount Neboh, last night?”
“Good eye, blondie,” Mike said, taking off after him. “Hold that thought, Loo.”
I was a few paces behind as Mike called Gaskin’s name, but the determined banker never looked back as the heavy door started to close slowly behind him.
Mike broke into a jog and managed to wedge himself in the entrance, getting Gaskin’s attention this time as he yelled loud enough to fill the huge nave of the church.
“What brings you here, Mr. Gaskin?”
I was inside the cool, damp building, my five-foot-ten-inch frame dwarfed by the immensity of the interior space.
Gaskin was obviously surprised to see Mike, fidgeting as he tried to make me out in the background. “I heard the news, Detective. I heard the terrible news on the radio and thought I should talk to the bishop.”