toward me. “Let’s go back to my office,” she said.
I followed her on back to her cubicle, and sat down on a metal chair near the door. She asked me to get up again so she could move the chair a foot while she closed the door. Then I sat down again, and she sidled around the old metal desk.
“You say there’s a connection between the two cases?” she said. “What evidence do you have?”
I started backtracking. “I mean there must be. The window off the fire escape was open in both cases.”
She said nothing, just looking at me.
“I mean,” I said, “the perpetrator must have come in that way. It was night. Upper West Side . Both cases they were young women.” I sat back in my chair, waiting.
“That’s it?” the detective said. “Where’s your evidence?”
I decided this wasn’t going well. I’d have to go on the offensive. “What have you done to solve the case with my girlfriend?” I demanded.
“How’s she doing?” Sirken asked.
“Lousy. She’s in a persistent vegetative state. She’s not improving. The hospital kicked her out. She’s in a crummy nursing home in the Bronx .”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Sure you are. Well, what leads do you have?”
“I can’t give you any information on the Finklemeyer case.”
“Then what about the Pollack case?”
She opened a file folder in front of her, flipped a few pages, then closed it. “We don’t have much,” she said. “There was no salvageable DNA under Miss Pollack’s fingernails. No finger prints on the bloody weapon. The blood was Miss Pollack’s.” She looked up, smiled as much as she was able. “No leads,” she said.
“But couldn’t there be a connection? Some kind of serial killer?”
“Do you know how many crimes are reported on any one night in this precinct alone?” the detective asked.
“No.”
“Four,” she said. “Do you think that all the crimes committed in this jurisdiction over a three month period are committed by the same individual?”
“Well, no, of course not. I just thought the modus vivendi was the same, so...”
She smiled, this time real. “ Modus operandi . Anyway, your girl friend wasn’t strangled.”
“No, she was hit in the head.”
“And she wasn’t killed.”
“No, but she was left for dead.”
“So, how can you even begin to say that this is the same modus operandi ? Please, Mr. Jackman. We are working on both crimes. If there is a connection, you can be sure we will find it.”
“But it’s been almost four months!”
She stood up, put out her hand. “Don’t call us. We’ll call you.”
I shook the hand. Not that I wanted to shake it. I felt like I could kill her, I was so angry. But that’s just a figure of speech. I’m not the sort to kill people. I’m just a regular guy; one of a million guys in New York City , part of the silent majority. I’m not a hot macho dude like Kimberly thought I was. I’m not macho. I’m not even brave. If I were, I wouldn’t have shaken her hand, but I’m not, so I did.
Then I just left. I opened the door, ran downstairs and out of the building. The heat smacked me in the face again, but I didn’t care. The police weren’t doing anything. They weren’t going to do anything. And there was poor Sherry, just vegetating. I started to walk, not caring where I went, block after block. Suddenly, I looked up and saw where I was: 96 th Street . Then I remembered the address from the paper. I made a left and walked some more: past Amsterdam , almost to Columbus . And there it was: 119. It wasn’t much of a building, just an ordinary brownstone that had been broken up into apartments long ago. I walked up the steps and opened the front door. In the vestibule was an intercom with three names: Arlene Fisher:1A; Jessica Finklemeyer: 2A, and Ryan
I followed her on back to her cubicle, and sat down on a metal chair near the door. She asked me to get up again so she could move the chair a foot while she closed the door. Then I sat down again, and she sidled around the old metal desk.
“You say there’s a connection between the two cases?” she said. “What evidence do you have?”
I started backtracking. “I mean there must be. The window off the fire escape was open in both cases.”
She said nothing, just looking at me.
“I mean,” I said, “the perpetrator must have come in that way. It was night. Upper West Side . Both cases they were young women.” I sat back in my chair, waiting.
“That’s it?” the detective said. “Where’s your evidence?”
I decided this wasn’t going well. I’d have to go on the offensive. “What have you done to solve the case with my girlfriend?” I demanded.
“How’s she doing?” Sirken asked.
“Lousy. She’s in a persistent vegetative state. She’s not improving. The hospital kicked her out. She’s in a crummy nursing home in the Bronx .”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Sure you are. Well, what leads do you have?”
“I can’t give you any information on the Finklemeyer case.”
“Then what about the Pollack case?”
She opened a file folder in front of her, flipped a few pages, then closed it. “We don’t have much,” she said. “There was no salvageable DNA under Miss Pollack’s fingernails. No finger prints on the bloody weapon. The blood was Miss Pollack’s.” She looked up, smiled as much as she was able. “No leads,” she said.
“But couldn’t there be a connection? Some kind of serial killer?”
“Do you know how many crimes are reported on any one night in this precinct alone?” the detective asked.
“No.”
“Four,” she said. “Do you think that all the crimes committed in this jurisdiction over a three month period are committed by the same individual?”
“Well, no, of course not. I just thought the modus vivendi was the same, so...”
She smiled, this time real. “ Modus operandi . Anyway, your girl friend wasn’t strangled.”
“No, she was hit in the head.”
“And she wasn’t killed.”
“No, but she was left for dead.”
“So, how can you even begin to say that this is the same modus operandi ? Please, Mr. Jackman. We are working on both crimes. If there is a connection, you can be sure we will find it.”
“But it’s been almost four months!”
She stood up, put out her hand. “Don’t call us. We’ll call you.”
I shook the hand. Not that I wanted to shake it. I felt like I could kill her, I was so angry. But that’s just a figure of speech. I’m not the sort to kill people. I’m just a regular guy; one of a million guys in New York City , part of the silent majority. I’m not a hot macho dude like Kimberly thought I was. I’m not macho. I’m not even brave. If I were, I wouldn’t have shaken her hand, but I’m not, so I did.
Then I just left. I opened the door, ran downstairs and out of the building. The heat smacked me in the face again, but I didn’t care. The police weren’t doing anything. They weren’t going to do anything. And there was poor Sherry, just vegetating. I started to walk, not caring where I went, block after block. Suddenly, I looked up and saw where I was: 96 th Street . Then I remembered the address from the paper. I made a left and walked some more: past Amsterdam , almost to Columbus . And there it was: 119. It wasn’t much of a building, just an ordinary brownstone that had been broken up into apartments long ago. I walked up the steps and opened the front door. In the vestibule was an intercom with three names: Arlene Fisher:1A; Jessica Finklemeyer: 2A, and Ryan
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