Queenie's legs were spread apart, twisted slightly, with one knee bent beneath the other in what seemed to be almost an obscene pose.
Next to the bed was a metal walker, and I remembered Mike telling me the woman had suffered a stroke several years ago.
I strained to study her head and hands more closely.
"Are those scratches on her face?"
"Yes, Alex. By her own hand. Typical in asphyxia. She was trying to clear the airways of the obstruction, so she could breathe. Free her mouth from whatever was covering it. Probably the pillow."
"And the killer?" I asked.
"Several of her nails are broken. We might get lucky and come up with something other than her own blood in the cuttings. He might have some marks on his face or hands, if she had the strength to swipe at him."
The six photographs Kirschner had were all of Queenie's body, taken from every position in the room. I thought of the indignity of this kind of death, in which dozens of strangers had entered her home to catalog and ferret through her meager accumulation of possessions. A young medical examiner on duty and his assistant, cops in uniform to secure the scene, a crew from the Crime Scene Unit to take photographs and dust for fingerprints, and a team of detectives who would try to find a motive for this murder-and a killer.
I thought ahead to the scores more who would pore over these photographs in the months to come. Colleagues of mine would study them as they worked up the case for trial, forensic consultants would enlarge them to look again for any kind of trace material or significant detail, and psychologists would struggle with them as they searched for an understanding of the murderer's mind. Eventually, when Chapman and his team caught the man-and I needed, now, to believe that they would-a defense attorney would be entitled to a complete set of pictures, too, and even the killer himself could revisit the scene of his pathetic triumph in the privacy of his jail cell.
"The person who did this wants you to think 'sadistic sex murderer,' Alex," Kirschner said to me. "I suggest you broaden the search. Some other motive."
Mercer and I had handled cases in which the appearance of a rape had been staged. Once we'd recognized that fact we'd had to find another reason-the real reason-for the crime to have occurred. Here was an elderly woman, partially disabled, living on welfare in a Harlem tenement. Her death was not a matter of academic rivalry, professional jealousy, domestic rage, or a fancy jewel heist gone violent.
"It'll be interesting to see what the rest of the photos show," said Mercer. "Everything within sight has been turned topsy-turvy."
On the side of the bed was a nightstand. The shallow bowl with the victim's dental plate had been overturned. Both shelves had been emptied and their contents spilled on the floor. The edge of the dresser was in view, and each of the three drawers had been dumped out and spread across the floor.
"Is she wearing any rings or bracelets?" I picked up another photo and looked again at McQueen Ransome's wrinkled hands.
"She wasn't admitted with anything," Kirschner said.
Mercer checked the pictures taken from other angles and agreed there was not even a wedding band on her finger.
"I'll have to ask Mike whether she had any items of value in the apartment, but it sure doesn't look like it, from these shots," I said.
"Dr. K, have you got a magnifying glass?" Mercer asked.
Kirschner left the room for thirty seconds and returned with one.
"Looks like we have some homework to do. She doesn't seem to have much here except junk, but maybe some of her acquaintances know things about her background that can help us," Mercer said.
"What do you see?" I asked.
"Ever hear of James Van Derzee?"
Both Kirschner and I nodded. "Harlem Renaissance," the medical examiner said. "One of the great African-American photographers."
"Look at that," Mercer said, passing the magnifier over to me. "Check out the photograph over the headboard of the bed, the words at the bottom."
I picked up the glossy image that Mercer had been studying. The photo had been taken by a cop standing at the foot of the bed, so it provided a lengthwise view of the victim's body. Directly above her head was a black-and-white portrait that hung on the wall. Only two-thirds of it was captured in the crime scene shot. The model's head was out of range.
In the lower right corner was an inscription, which I squinted to read: For Queenie-from her royal subject, James Van Derzee. 1938.
"Now look up," Mercer said.
I didn't need the magnifying glass to see the chilling irony. The exquisitely voluptuous nude body of the young McQueen Ransome was hanging above her corpse, which had been positioned to mimic an identical pose.
9
Mercer left me at my apartment at nine-thirty. I dropped my mail and files on the table in my entryway and fished Nancy Taggart's home number out of my pocketbook.
I had waited to call her, certain she would know about the disappearance of Dulles Tripping and his foster mother.
"Ms. Taggart? It's Alex Cooper."
"Yes?" It was more of a question than an acknowledgment.
"I know that Judge Moffett asked his law secretary to call you about having Dulles in his chambers late tomorrow afternoon."
"She did."
"It's not going to be a problem, is it?" I asked.
Taggart hesitated. "I don't expect so."
"Do you know where the boy is tonight?"
"Look, Ms. Cooper. I don't have to answer any of your questions. You know that."
"That's certainly true. I just wanted to make sure you knew that the foster mother called me today, to-"
Taggart snapped at me, "When? What did she want?"
"It would be awfully juvenile of me," I said, "to tell you that I didn't have to answer any of your questions, wouldn't it? I assume you have the same concerns for Dulles's well-being that I do."
There was silence. Taggart obviously wasn't willing to concede that I was interested in anything but a prosecutorial victory.
I tried again. "I don't know the foster mother's name," I said, thinking that would reassure Taggart. "But she sounded frantic when she spoke with my assistant, telling us she was taking the boy to 'a safer place.'"
"I think she panicked for no good reason at all," said the foundling hospital's lawyer. "There's nothing distinctive-looking about Andrew Tripping. I think this is much ado about nonsense."
"Is that what you'd like me to put on the record in the morning?"
"I'd advise you not to bring this up with the judge until I get to court, Ms. Cooper. His secretary told me to come at four o'clock, after school. I intend for us to be there."
"But now you know Dulles won't even be going to school."
"I have every reason to believe the foster mother-who is very reliable-will contact me first thing tomorrow and we can follow the plan that Judge Moffett wants."
"Look," I said, trying to reassure the woman. "All you need to do is say the word and the police will help you find them. We can trace the phone call, we can work with the principal. I promise I won't use that opportunity to talk to the boy. If there's a chance he's in more danger, then the police should be the ones-"
"Don't you think there's been enough damage done with the police dragging the child's father out of their apartment in handcuffs? In keeping the father on Rikers for more than a week? For splitting up the family? Let's leave the police out of it this time," Taggart said.
"Then I'll see you tomorrow afternoon, unless you need help from my assistant during the day."
I hung up the phone and walked into the kitchen, turning on the light to see just how bare the cupboard was. There was a delicious slab of a smooth pâté, mousse de canard, in the refrigerator, left over from my weekend purchases. I scrounged for some crackers and a few cornichons for garnish, poured a Diet Coke, and headed to the den to try to unwind before my last review of the morning's presentation.