During these weeks Neff and Wilson worked on other assignments. They heard nothing about the O’Donnell case; they were investigating another murder, locked in the endless, sordid routine of Homicide. Most crimes are no less commonplace than the people who commit them, and Wilson and Neff weren’t being assigned to the interesting or dramatic cases these days. It wasn’t that they were being muscled aside, but word was out that the Chief of Detectives wasn’t exactly in love with them. He knew that they didn’t like his handling of the DiFalco/Houlihan murders and he didn’t want to be reminded of it, primarily because he didn’t like it any more than they did. He was a more literal man than they were and much more concerned with his own potential appointment to the job of Police Commissioner than with following up bizarre theories about what genuinely looked to him like an even more bizarre accident. So the two detectives were kept away from big cases, effectively buried in the sheer size of the New York City Police Department.
The first words Becky Neff heard about Mike O’Donnell came from the Medical Examiner. “I thought you two had retired,” he said over the phone. “You got a heavy case?”
“The usual. Not a lot of action.” Beside her Wilson raised his eyebrows. The phone on her desk hadn’t been ringing too often; an extended conversation like this was of interest.
“I’ve got a problem up here I’d like you two to take a look at.”
“The Chief—‘”
“So take a coffee break. Just come up here. I think this might be what you’ve been waiting for.”
“What’s he got?” Wilson asked as soon as she put down the phone.
“He’s got a problem. He thinks it might interest us.”
“The Chief—”
“So he said take a coffee break and come up to see him. I think it’s a good idea.”
They pulled on their coats; outside it was a bright, blustery December afternoon and the cold wind coming around the buildings carried a fierce chill. The cold had been so intense for the past three days, in fact, that there weren’t even many cars on the street. The usual afternoon jams were gone, replaced by a smattering of taxis and buses with great plumes of condensing exhaust behind them. The M. E. had been circumspect on the phone, no doubt savoring what little bit of drama might be in this for him.
They didn’t speak as the car raced up Third Avenue. In the past few weeks Wilson had become more than usually taciturn; that was fine with Becky, she had problems enough of her own without listening to him complain about his. The last month with Dick had been stormy, full of pain and unexpected realizations. She knew now that Dick was taking money under the table. Strangely enough the money wasn’t from narcotics but from gambling. He had tracked a heroin network into an illicit gambling casino about a year ago. Dick’s father was in a nursing home, he was sick of the bills, he was sick of the treadmill; he collared the junkies but left the gambling establishment alone—for a few thousand dollars. “It’s gambling,” he had argued; “what the hell, it shouldn’t even be a crime.” But since it was, he might as well let it pay the six hundred a month his father was costing. God knows, they might even be able to put enough aside for a decent apartment one of these days.
It hurt her to see this happening to Dick. The truth was, she had sniped at him for it but she hadn’t tried to stop him and she hadn’t turned him in. Nor would she. But Dick was a corrupt cop, the one thing she had sworn she would never be, the one thing she had sworn she would never allow him to be. Well, he hadn’t asked permission.
She had always assumed that she would never give in to the temptations that were so common on the police force—and he had sworn it too. But he had and by not stopping him she had too. Now they bickered, each unwilling to confront the real reason for their anger. They should have had the courage to stop; instead they had let things happen. They had disappointed one another and were bitter about it.
Bitter enough to spend more and more time apart. Often it was days between shared evenings or monosyllabic breakfasts. They used to work their schedules to fit; now they worked them to be apart. Or at least as far as Becky was concerned she just stopped making an effort with her schedule. She drew what she drew, and overtime was just fine. Eventually there would be a confrontation, but not now, not today —today she was heading up to the M. E.’s office to be let in on a new case, maybe something really interesting for the first time in too damn long.
Evans was waiting for them in the reception area. “Don’t take off your coats,” he said, “we’re going to the freezer.” That meant the remains were in an advanced state of deterioration. The Medical Examiner’s office had a claustrophobic freezer compartment with room enough for three surgical tables and a few people squeezed in tight. Wilson’s eyes roved as they went down the disinfectant-scented hall toward the freezer; his claustrophobia had a field day in the thing. More than once he had commented to Becky that the freezer had figured in his nightmares.
“It’s rough stuff again,” the M. E. said conversationally. “I only call you folks in when I’ve got some real gore. Hope you don’t mind.” It could be that Evans lacked taste or it could just possibly be an attempt at banter. Becky didn’t bother to laugh; instead she asked a question.
“What are we going to see?”
“Three DOA’s, very decomposed.” He ushered them into the starkly lit freezer and pulled the door shut behind them. He didn’t need to say more; the bodies had clearly been attacked the same way DiFalco and Houlihan were attacked. There was something chilling about seeing the same type of scrape marks on the bones, the same evidence of gnawing. Becky was frightened, too deeply frightened to really understand her feelings. But she knew the moment she saw these corpses that the Chief of Detectives had made exactly the mistake they had feared he was making—this was not an ordinary murder case and it was not a fluke.
“Goddamn,” Wilson said.
The Medical Examiner smiled, but this time it was without mirth. “I don’t know how to explain these bodies. The condition makes no sense.”
“It makes sense,” Becky said, “as soon as you assume that they weren’t killed by human beings.”
“What then?”
“That’s what’s to be found out. But you’re wasting your time with us, Underwood took us off the case.”
“Well, he’ll put you back on.”
“There are a lot of detectives in this department,” Wilson put in. “I’m sure he’ll find others. And it’s likely he’ll want more. This is going to be a big embarrassment for him.” Wilson shook his head. “A hell of an embarrassment. Let’s get out of this icebox. We’ve seen all we need to see.”
Evans opened the door. “You’ll get back on,” he said, “I’ll make sure of that. So start to work. You need a solution.”
They didn’t bother to ask the M. E. how the bodies had come in; instead they called headquarters and got referred to the right precinct. As soon as he was off the phone to headquarters Wilson called the 41st Precinct in the South Bronx and asked to speak to the Captain. Sure they could come up, but there were already detectives on the case. “Might be a tie-in to another case, one of ours.” He put down the phone. “Let’s move.”