was eight o’clock. Usually he arrived at the precinct earlier, but the traffic in the Lincoln Tunnel was worse than usual this morning. There was a brisk knock on the office door, and his desk sergeant Ruggles poked his bald pate through. He had remarkably pink skin, like a baby piglet.
“Yes, Ruggles?”
“Beg pardon, sir, but I have an urgent call from Captain Cardinale of the Forty-seventh Precinct.”
“Okay, put him on.”
“Right you are, sir.”
“And Ruggles—?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Stop apologizing.”
“Yes, sir—sorry, sir. Right you are, sir.”
The sergeant’s ruddy complexion deepened and he withdrew from the room, closing the door behind him.
Chuck looked at the blinking red light on his phone, winking at him like an evil eye. The Forty-seventh Precinct included the Bronx Zoo, Botanical Gardens, and Woodlawn Cemetery. Morton made it a point to know as many precinct commanders as possible, and George Cardinale was a steady, competent officer, recently moved east from a stint in L.A. Whatever he was calling about, though, it couldn’t be good.
Morton picked up the phone. “Hi, George. What’s up?”
“One of my men just called in a one-eight-seven. Young woman, not dead very long. Rigor was just starting to set in.” “One eight seven” was police code for a homicide, though it was used more in California than New York. Cardinale had carried some of his West Coast habits back east with him. His jargon might reek of L.A., but his accent was pure North Jersey.
“Where’d they find her?” Chuck asked, stirring his tea.
“Woodlawn. She was laid out on one of the graves. I thought you should know ASAP.”
“Shit,” Chuck muttered.
“Another thing you should know.”
“What’s that?”
“Looks like all her blood was drained.”
“Christ, George.”
“It’s your guy again. What are they calling him—‘the Van Cortlandt Vampire?’ ”
“I’ll send my team over.”
“Leonard Butts is your primary on this one, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Funny little guy. Good cop, though, I heard.”
“You heard right. Listen, George, I gotta call my guys.”
“Send ’em to the precinct house and Sergeant Quinlan will take them to the scene. We won’t touch a thing until they arrive.”
“Thanks, George.”
“Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
“Thanks, I will.”
“Let’s get this guy, Chuck.”
“Yeah,” Morton replied, and hung up. Yeah, right. He took a sip of his tea, but it was already cold.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Woodlawn Cemetery spread over more than four hundred idyllic, leafy acres in the Bronx. Sandwiched between two major highways, the Bronx River Parkway to the east and I-87 to the west, it was spectacular countryside. Gently rolling hills and broad avenues were lined by thick, noble oaks and maples, and its expanse of greenery contained some of the most remarkable monuments and mausoleums in the country. Except for the distant hum of traffic, Woodlawn retained the bucolic splendor of its nineteenth-century origins. Its majestic grounds evoked the borough’s past as private farmland once owned by its namesake, Jonas Bronck, a wealthy Swedish immigrant.
Lee Campbell and Detective Leonard Butts entered through the Jerome Avenue Gate, a grand Gothic construction of carved stone and wrought iron that set the tone for the entire place, stately and solemn. This was not Lee’s first visit to Woodlawn. During his depression, he had found comfort wandering amid the tombs and gravestones.
Ever since Laura’s death, he had tried to imagine what it was like, being dead. To have the flesh he was so used to become inanimate and lifeless, dry as the leaves crunching underfoot as he roved among monuments to the dead. He imagined his skin, pale and drained of blood, sinking into his bones as his flesh decomposed, nature’s scavengers feeding off his body, as he had seen them do on so many crime scene victims. The thought comforted him. Even in
“Yes, Ruggles?”
“Beg pardon, sir, but I have an urgent call from Captain Cardinale of the Forty-seventh Precinct.”
“Okay, put him on.”
“Right you are, sir.”
“And Ruggles—?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Stop apologizing.”
“Yes, sir—sorry, sir. Right you are, sir.”
The sergeant’s ruddy complexion deepened and he withdrew from the room, closing the door behind him.
Chuck looked at the blinking red light on his phone, winking at him like an evil eye. The Forty-seventh Precinct included the Bronx Zoo, Botanical Gardens, and Woodlawn Cemetery. Morton made it a point to know as many precinct commanders as possible, and George Cardinale was a steady, competent officer, recently moved east from a stint in L.A. Whatever he was calling about, though, it couldn’t be good.
Morton picked up the phone. “Hi, George. What’s up?”
“One of my men just called in a one-eight-seven. Young woman, not dead very long. Rigor was just starting to set in.” “One eight seven” was police code for a homicide, though it was used more in California than New York. Cardinale had carried some of his West Coast habits back east with him. His jargon might reek of L.A., but his accent was pure North Jersey.
“Where’d they find her?” Chuck asked, stirring his tea.
“Woodlawn. She was laid out on one of the graves. I thought you should know ASAP.”
“Shit,” Chuck muttered.
“Another thing you should know.”
“What’s that?”
“Looks like all her blood was drained.”
“Christ, George.”
“It’s your guy again. What are they calling him—‘the Van Cortlandt Vampire?’ ”
“I’ll send my team over.”
“Leonard Butts is your primary on this one, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Funny little guy. Good cop, though, I heard.”
“You heard right. Listen, George, I gotta call my guys.”
“Send ’em to the precinct house and Sergeant Quinlan will take them to the scene. We won’t touch a thing until they arrive.”
“Thanks, George.”
“Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
“Thanks, I will.”
“Let’s get this guy, Chuck.”
“Yeah,” Morton replied, and hung up. Yeah, right. He took a sip of his tea, but it was already cold.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Woodlawn Cemetery spread over more than four hundred idyllic, leafy acres in the Bronx. Sandwiched between two major highways, the Bronx River Parkway to the east and I-87 to the west, it was spectacular countryside. Gently rolling hills and broad avenues were lined by thick, noble oaks and maples, and its expanse of greenery contained some of the most remarkable monuments and mausoleums in the country. Except for the distant hum of traffic, Woodlawn retained the bucolic splendor of its nineteenth-century origins. Its majestic grounds evoked the borough’s past as private farmland once owned by its namesake, Jonas Bronck, a wealthy Swedish immigrant.
Lee Campbell and Detective Leonard Butts entered through the Jerome Avenue Gate, a grand Gothic construction of carved stone and wrought iron that set the tone for the entire place, stately and solemn. This was not Lee’s first visit to Woodlawn. During his depression, he had found comfort wandering amid the tombs and gravestones.
Ever since Laura’s death, he had tried to imagine what it was like, being dead. To have the flesh he was so used to become inanimate and lifeless, dry as the leaves crunching underfoot as he roved among monuments to the dead. He imagined his skin, pale and drained of blood, sinking into his bones as his flesh decomposed, nature’s scavengers feeding off his body, as he had seen them do on so many crime scene victims. The thought comforted him. Even in
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