“You look tired.”
“I am.”
“Been working late on a case?”
Gentry shook his head. “It was something else.”
“Well, pull up a stool and tell me all about it. Iam married. I need to live vicariously through my single male friends.”
“Sorry, Chris,” Gentry said. “It wasn’t that either.”
“Too bad.” Henry sat down heavily. “What I was telling my assistant, Laurette, was that I miss the days when you were with the SNEU. While everyone else was giving us bullets and bomb parts, you gave us real nutbusters to unravel. ID-ing dried blood on a safety razor, looking for traces of gunpowder in water from a fish tank, trying to find heroin in saliva somebody spit onto the street.” Henry frowned. “ Lot of liquids, now that I think of it. But challenging.”
“Right. The good old days.”
“Hey, they were rewarding days for everyone. You don’t give the crime lab that kind of stuff anymore. A hit-and-run once every three or four months. Mortar analysis of falling cornices. From everyone else it’s still bullets and bomb shards.You ever think of going back to the SNEU?”
“No. You ever think of going back to the army?”
Henry winced. “Touché. On the other hand, you did do it over ten years. Most men would’ve burned out.”
“Flattery won’t work either.”
Henry shrugged. “Anyway, here you are. What can I do for you?”
Gentry unzipped his overnight bag, withdrew the Baggie, and handed it to Henry. “I fished this from the wall of my apartment building last night. I was hoping you could tell me what kind of animal it belongs to.”
Dr. Henry held the bag up to the fluorescent light. He shook it lightly, opened it, sniffed it, then pressed it shut. He handed it back to Gentry.
“Well?”
“Like I told you,” Henry said, “there was a time when you made my life interesting.”
“What do you mean?”
“This was way too easy.”
“You know what it is?”
Henry nodded slowly. “It’s a waste medium consisting primarily of nitrogen, phosphorous, and potassium. Also millions of microscopic, undigested insect parts.”
Gentry looked at him blankly.
“It’s bat guano,” Henry said. “Not only that, but it was collected almost straight from the bat.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because very early this morning we were given a sample almost exactly like yours.”
Gentry had been slumping. He straightened. “Explain.”
“Laurette was here and ran the analysis,” Henry went on. “She identified it and also noticed the lack of any bioremediation microbes-meaning no decomposition. Hence the freshness.”
“Who brought the sample to you?”
“A Metro North cop sent it over. He had a strange name-what was it? Arville something? Arvids?”
“Arvids Stiebris. Works under Ari Moreaux. I know him. What happened?”
“One of the MTA maintenance workers went out on his weekly inspection early this morning and didn’t report back or answer his pager. The shift supervisor called for a police escort. Arvids and he went out looking for the guy. They found the man and the guano.”
“What was wrong with him?”
“Physically, not much. He apparently passed out from the smell. There were scratches on his face and neck, but the EMT personnel who were called in said he got them when he fell.”
“Where did all this happen?”
“I’m really not sure. Somewhere along the subway tunnels, Lexington Avenue side of the station, I think. Arvids said the dung heap was a big one, about two feet high.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. That’s a lot of shit.”
“Anything else?” Gentry asked.
“About the sample, no. But totally by coincidence, when I saw the bat attack on the news last night, I called Al Doyle at home. He’s the Health Department’s Dr. Pest Control. You know him? Looks like a field mouse.”
Gentry said he didn’t know him or know of him.
“He’s not one of us I Love New York guys. Sees the burg as a pit stop to the federal level. Anyhow, he didn’t think the Westchester bats were anything to worry about. He said the attack up north probably happened because too many migrating bats tried to feed on too few bugs and ended up colliding with one another and with people who got in the way.”
“The news reports said the two people up there were practically gnawed to death.”
“I mentioned that to Doyle,” Henry replied. “He said bat attacks make good copy.”
“Horseshit. I saw the home video footage on the news report.”
“Me too. What can I tell you?”
“That you’ll call Doyle later and ask him what he thinks about the guano in Grand Central.”
“Actually, we had that discussion last night. He told me that we’ve had bats in the subways before. He said they usually migrate late in the summer or early fall. They look for a warm place to hibernate and give birth, and the subways fill the bill. He said there are thirty to forty thousand bats in the city parks, and it’s not uncommon for many of them to head underground.”
“I’ve lived in the city for eighteen years, Chris. I’ve never had bat guano in my wall. And that maintenance guy was obviously a little surprised by what he found on the train tracks.”
Henry shrugged. “There are renovations going on at Grand Central. There’s been a lot of new construction where you live in the West Village. Maybe that’s opened new niches for the bats or closed some old ones.”
“Oh, come on. How many displaced bats would it take to create a pile of shit two feet deep?”
“Listen,” Henry said, “I’m no bat expert. Maybeyou should talk to Doyle. He gets in around ten o’clock. I’ll give you his direct line at the Health Department.”
“No, thanks.” Gentry zipped his overnight bag and slung it over his shoulder. “I saw a bat lady on TV last night. I’m going to see if I can get in touch with her.”
Henry smirked. “I’d take a lady over Doyle too.”
“She seemed to know her stuff, Chris. That’s all.”
“Sure. Well, let me know what you find out.”
“I will.”
“And it was good to see you,” Henry said. “Come back with a real problem next time.”
“I’ll try.”
Henry waved the Baggie. “You want this?”
Robert shook his head. He had a feeling he’d be able to get more where that came from.
Eight
Midtown South is known as the busiest police precinct in the world. It’s responsible for Times Square and its millions of tourists, for Hell’s Kitchen and its mix of aspiring actors, old-timers, and human predators, for busy Grand Central Station, the residential elite of Park Avenue, and the heart of the popular Fifth Avenue shopping district.
Gentry took a cab to the station house. He wrote “in” beside his name on the duty blackboard, then made his way through the crowd of officers and people with problems. He said good morning to Detectives Jason Anthony and Jen Malcolm who sat at desks in “the squad pit,” as they called it, then tucked himself into his small, bright office in the back. He shut the door and fell into his swivel chair. There was a pile of folders on his desk about a foot deep. Bike messengers who ran people down. Cars that hit poles. A model plane that flew off a roof and struck a pedestrian in the eye. Gentry decided that most of these cases would keep. He ran his finger down the sun-faded auto-dial list taped to the desk beside the phone. He punched in 34# and looked for a pen.
Gentry couldn’t remember the name or title of the bat expert who had been on the evening news with Kathy Leung. He also couldn’t remember whether she worked at the Bronx Zoo or the Central Park Zoo. He assumed he’d get Kathy’s assistant, get the number, and get off the phone. He was surprised when the lady herself answered.
“Kathy?” he said.
“Who’s this?”
“Robert Gentry. Midtown South.”
“Detective,” she said flatly. “Hello. This is a surprise.”