up with someone who has any art or design background.”
“I thought this wasn’t a hate crime,” said Perez.
“Well, not publicly,” said Terri.
20
T erri was going through what seemed like endless microfiche provided by Hate Crimes, active files of individuals and organizations.
The phone rang and it was O’Connell. He’d just heard from his brother-in-law in the Twenty-third, who had just heard from someone who worked in the Fifth.
A body. Down by the old Hudson piers. And a drawing.
T he PD had erected a ten-by-twelve tent between the river and the West Side Highway, a hundred yards north of the Chelsea Piers sports complex where a new building had been going up. Outside the tent, there were pilings driven into the earth where they were still clearing out boulders and flattening the ground. All work had stopped, derricks idling, a string of workmen sitting on their hard hats. There were a dozen police vehicles, an EMT, and a Crime Scene van. Cars were slowing on the highway to see what was going on, though uniforms waved to keep them moving.
Terri had called and asked me to meet her here. I showed mytemporary badge to a uniform at the entrance to the tent. A CS tech handed me gloves, mask, and disposable bootees.
Inside, Crime Scene was combing every inch of ground like ants at a picnic. The terrain looked as if a minor earthquake had struck, slabs of concrete from the original pier upended by the construction. There was a smell of newly uncovered dirt spiked with something rotten. Behind my mask I was trying not to breathe. The same CS tech who’d given me the paraphernalia at the entrance offered up a Vicks. I lifted my mask and rubbed it below my nose.
I spotted Terri and the ME huddled with her men and some cops I didn’t know across the tent peering over a concrete slab about eight feet long and three feet wide. It was doing a Titanic impersonation, jutting out of the ground at an acute angle.
At first it looked as if the girl were alive, though I knew it couldn’t be possible from the condition of her body. But her face seemed to be moving, eyes blinking. I looked close, immediately sorry. It was maggots. Crawling in and around her eye sockets.
I closed my eyes too late, the image already imprinting on my retina.
“Body must have rolled under the rock after the attack,” said one of the detectives.
“Or the slab was used to hide her,” said another.
“It kept her nice and cool,” said the ME. “That, and being so close to the river.”
“How long has she been here?” Terri asked.
The ME leaned in, kissing distance from the corpse. “I’d guess weeks, maybe even a month or two. Hard to say, the way the body’s been sheltered. It’s all ice under the concrete, like she was in cold storage.” He plucked up a squiggling maggot with a pair of tweezers and dropped it in a bag. “Lab will tell you more once these babies are tested.”
The photographer’s strobe flashed, illuminating the girl’s hair like a halo.
The ME lifted her mini with a pencil. “Doesn’t appear to be a sexual attack. Underwear’s intact, and there’s no bruising on the inner thighs.” He moved to the torn fabric of her tank top. “Can’t tell how many stab wounds until we get her back and hose her down.” He indicated slight bruising on her inner arm. “And she’s a user.”
“Probably a pros,” said Perez. “In this neck of the woods.”
“Any ID?” Perez asked CS.
“Nada. Just some cash, which her attacker didn’t bother to take.”
Terri caught my eye and nodded toward a makeshift evidence table. I knew what she wanted me to see.
“It was beside the body, half under her,” she said. “And youhear what the ME said? Could be weeks, maybe a month; it’s an old kill.”
“Yeah, I heard. And this sort of wrecks your moral-standards theory.”
Her eyes, above the mask, looked puzzled for a moment.
“You know, the part about him not killing girls.”
M onica
“I thought this wasn’t a hate crime,” said Perez.
“Well, not publicly,” said Terri.
20
T erri was going through what seemed like endless microfiche provided by Hate Crimes, active files of individuals and organizations.
The phone rang and it was O’Connell. He’d just heard from his brother-in-law in the Twenty-third, who had just heard from someone who worked in the Fifth.
A body. Down by the old Hudson piers. And a drawing.
T he PD had erected a ten-by-twelve tent between the river and the West Side Highway, a hundred yards north of the Chelsea Piers sports complex where a new building had been going up. Outside the tent, there were pilings driven into the earth where they were still clearing out boulders and flattening the ground. All work had stopped, derricks idling, a string of workmen sitting on their hard hats. There were a dozen police vehicles, an EMT, and a Crime Scene van. Cars were slowing on the highway to see what was going on, though uniforms waved to keep them moving.
Terri had called and asked me to meet her here. I showed mytemporary badge to a uniform at the entrance to the tent. A CS tech handed me gloves, mask, and disposable bootees.
Inside, Crime Scene was combing every inch of ground like ants at a picnic. The terrain looked as if a minor earthquake had struck, slabs of concrete from the original pier upended by the construction. There was a smell of newly uncovered dirt spiked with something rotten. Behind my mask I was trying not to breathe. The same CS tech who’d given me the paraphernalia at the entrance offered up a Vicks. I lifted my mask and rubbed it below my nose.
I spotted Terri and the ME huddled with her men and some cops I didn’t know across the tent peering over a concrete slab about eight feet long and three feet wide. It was doing a Titanic impersonation, jutting out of the ground at an acute angle.
At first it looked as if the girl were alive, though I knew it couldn’t be possible from the condition of her body. But her face seemed to be moving, eyes blinking. I looked close, immediately sorry. It was maggots. Crawling in and around her eye sockets.
I closed my eyes too late, the image already imprinting on my retina.
“Body must have rolled under the rock after the attack,” said one of the detectives.
“Or the slab was used to hide her,” said another.
“It kept her nice and cool,” said the ME. “That, and being so close to the river.”
“How long has she been here?” Terri asked.
The ME leaned in, kissing distance from the corpse. “I’d guess weeks, maybe even a month or two. Hard to say, the way the body’s been sheltered. It’s all ice under the concrete, like she was in cold storage.” He plucked up a squiggling maggot with a pair of tweezers and dropped it in a bag. “Lab will tell you more once these babies are tested.”
The photographer’s strobe flashed, illuminating the girl’s hair like a halo.
The ME lifted her mini with a pencil. “Doesn’t appear to be a sexual attack. Underwear’s intact, and there’s no bruising on the inner thighs.” He moved to the torn fabric of her tank top. “Can’t tell how many stab wounds until we get her back and hose her down.” He indicated slight bruising on her inner arm. “And she’s a user.”
“Probably a pros,” said Perez. “In this neck of the woods.”
“Any ID?” Perez asked CS.
“Nada. Just some cash, which her attacker didn’t bother to take.”
Terri caught my eye and nodded toward a makeshift evidence table. I knew what she wanted me to see.
“It was beside the body, half under her,” she said. “And youhear what the ME said? Could be weeks, maybe a month; it’s an old kill.”
“Yeah, I heard. And this sort of wrecks your moral-standards theory.”
Her eyes, above the mask, looked puzzled for a moment.
“You know, the part about him not killing girls.”
M onica
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