Death Angel

FIFTEEN

I was at my desk at 7:30 on Wednesday morning, pacing in front of the window. Papers were strewn all over the desktop-notes and sketches from Angel’s investigation-and on the floor, my Raymond Tanner files.

“You’ve got to calm yourself, Alex,” Mercer said when he arrived fifteen minutes later with coffee and Danish. “The whole department will be on this guy’s tail before noon.”

“Impossible. I’ve been up all night. There’s still no one picking up phones in admin at the Mental Health Unit at the Fishkill Correctional Facility.”

“Scully’s on top of it. We pulled photos of Tanner and the entire case folder is up at One PP.”

“How come he isn’t all over the news this morning?” I asked. “How come there isn’t a manhunt for him already?”

“The commissioner first wants to check that Tanner isn’t tightly tucked away in his cell at Fishkill. That could put a hitch in your theory.”

“I hope Scully has better luck than I do. I’ve checked our files. We haven’t even had a first letter about a fitness hearing yet. This whackjob is supposed to be in a secure facility till I’m in a rocking chair. He’s as dangerous a psychopath as they come.”

“How’d you treat him in your closing argument?”

“Like the beast he is.”

“Well I guess he’s had a few years to work on his body art, thinking of you the whole time. That could explain the tattoo.”

“Does Scully agree we should look at him for Angel’s death?”

“Whoa, Alex. Slow this one down. What’s your thinking? Tanner’s never killed anybody, has he?”

“Not that we were able to link him to. Where do I start? He likes young girls-teenagers. I know what you’re thinking, that Angel is white but Flo is black. Black and white-he’s done both.”

“Nothing young about the Austin sisters,” Mercer said.

“He was just gaming them, I bet. Shock value, but they’re not his type. He’s at his best in a park setting, though. That’s for sure. The three we tagged him for last time were farther uptown in St. Nick’s, but he’s clearly into Central Park now-as per the Austin sisters as well as last night’s attempt. He’s an ambush kind of attacker-the foliage in the Park gives him perfect cover to hide and to escape. He carries a lead pipe, and Angel had her head busted open with a weapon like that. No DNA, so maybe she was resisting the assault and Tanner went wild, like he started to do when Flo pushed back.”

“Possible.”

“Tanner’s got a thing for the devil, so maybe he’s sending a message to the Angel of the Waters. Not bad for openers, is it, Mercer?”

“Nice circumstantial picture. But that’s all you’ve got and may be all you’re likely to get, so let’s keep steady. Stick to what we know.”

At 8:01 I sat down and dialed the number again. This time a man answered, identifying himself as the director of the mental facility at Fishkill prison, about an hour and a half north of New York City.

“I’m Alexandra Cooper. I’m bureau chief of the Special Victims Unit of the Manhattan DA’s office. I’m calling to check on one of your prisoners. His name is Raymond Tanner.”

“How do you mean, Ms. Cooper? Check on- In what way?”

“I prosecuted Tanner for three rapes. The verdict was NGRI. Last I knew he was institutionalized at Clinton,” I said, referring to a maximum security prison tucked away on a bleak stretch of land near the Canadian border. “Our computer system tells me he’s under your roof now.”

“I don’t know all our men by name. I may have to get back to you.”

“Tanner’s memorable, sir. Three rapes of teenage girls in a park in Harlem, and a suspect in more than five other similar assaults. Has a psych history of auditory hallucinations, regular communications from Lucifer himself.”

“Many of our prisoners are in touch with the devil, Ms. Cooper. Directly or indirectly. Let me take your number and call you after I pull the file.”

I repeated the number twice. “My purpose is to find out whether Tanner is still in your custody or back at Clinton.” I decided not to include a third possibility-that he had fled the prison system and was out on the street. “We’re investigating a matter about which he might have information. There are two officers on the highway coming to interview you, so I just wanted to give you the courtesy of a heads-up. Thanks so much.”

“And who would those two officers be?” Mercer asked as I hung up the phone.

“I just figured that if I told him he’d lost a prisoner, I might not get a call back so fast. But if Tanner’s in the wind and cops are on their way up to speak with him, this guy is far more likely to freak out and tell me to put the brakes on our team.”

“And so far you beat the commissioner’s office to that call. Drink some coffee. You need all the caffeine you can get to fuel that competitive streak, Alex.”

“I would so love to deliver Tanner to Scully,” I said, taking the lid off my second container. I scooped some papers off the floor and handed them to Mercer. “See what this bastard did? I’m hoping there’s something in these folders that will tell us where he hangs out.”

It was eighteen minutes later when the prison administrator called back.

“Ms. Cooper? I don’t know how far along your detectives are, but if you can reach them on the highway, it might be good to stop them.”

“Why? Is there a problem with Raymond Tanner?”

The three-second hesitation said it all. “We’re trying to locate him for you.”

“For me? Don’t your people want to know where he is?”

“Of course we do.”

“What are the choices? His cell, the yard, the infirmary, the mess hall? Or could he be back at Clinton?”

“We’re working on that, Ms. Cooper.”

“I never received notice of a parole hearing or any action suggesting his release was imminent. Are you with me on that?”

“Yes. Yes, but-”

“I’d suggest you get past the ‘but’ as soon as possible.”

The faceless administrator with the mild-mannered voice was slow to respond. “Raymond Tanner has been a model prisoner, Ms. Cooper.”

“Sociopaths often are. I assume you’re not taken in by that fact.”

I’d had a murder case in which the defendant, a parolee, had tutored the warden’s children and given piano lessons to his wife. It was part of the well-documented manipulative character of some of the worst homicidal maniacs.

“He’s participated in all his compulsory therapeutic programs.”

“There is no known therapy for recidivist sex offenders, sir. That’s meaningless to me.”

“Nine weeks ago, Ms. Cooper, Raymond qualified for two-day passes.”

“He what?”

“Raymond qualified for work release. Two days each week, he’s on an early morning bus to the Bronx and he’s back here by late the next evening.”

I wanted to reach through the phone line and throttle the administrator, who sounded as though he’d taken horse tranquilizers.

“Right now. Right this very minute, do you know where Raymond Tanner is?”

“Most certainly. He should be at his job today. He’s training in food services at a nursing home in the Bronx.”

“Give me that name and address, please. And the person he stays overnight with while he’s away. We’ll need that, too.”

“Not without a subpoena.”

“Hardball, is it? I’ll have one for you shortly.”

“Why, Ms. Cooper? Has Raymond done something?”

“What’s your worst nightmare about one of your prisoners, sir?”

My rigid attitude was met by silence.

“One more thing, if you’ll tell me,” I said. “Do you keep a record of your prisoners’ tattoos?”

“Yes. Yes, these days we do.”

“So tell me about Raymond Tanner, please.”

“Give me a minute to examine the file,” he said. “Yes. A lot of graphics on his chest, his back, his upper arms.”

“Anything to suggest violence?”

“I can’t interpret these drawings, Ms. Cooper. Someone will have to do that for you.”

“How about his hands. Anything on his hands?”

“No images,” he said. “Looks like just words.”

Just. Just words. “Is one of them ‘kill’?”

“Could be that. It’s rough and hard to read, like so many prison tats are. Could say ‘kill.’ And it looks like the other word is ‘coop’-oh, Coop-as in Cooper? Now I see your worry.”

“I’m not worried a bit, sir. Tanner’s obviously had more than enough time to find me, if that was his primary goal. But I think you ought to be.” I thanked him and hung up the phone.

“Tanner’s out?” Mercer said.

“No hearing, no notice to us. Model prisoner and all that bullshit.”

“Let me call Peterson. He should be the one to give Scully the news.”

“Nan opened a grand jury investigation for Angel on Monday. I’ll ask her to go in again at ten and start one for Flo.” Prosecutors did not have subpoena power. That request for evidence or testimony could only come from one of the six grand juries that sat five days a week for an entire month.

“When did the work release start?” Mercer asked.

“Nine weeks ago. And Dr. Mayes said Angel may have been dead as long as a month or more. Add that point to my list of circumstances.”

“Will do.”

I switched places with Mercer so he could make the calls, while I went to tell Pat McKinney about the case against Flo and the fact that Raymond Tanner was at large.

I walked toward McKinney’s office, but it was still early and he wasn’t in yet. I reversed myself and went into the executive wing to tell Paul Battaglia.

The district attorney had heard about the attempted rape in the Park on news radio while being driven down to work. He was waiting for details from me when Rose announced me.

With great skill, Battaglia cross-examined me through the facts of Flo’s case. I also explained to him that Tanner might be a person of interest in Angel’s case.

“Does Mercer like that idea?”

“It’s too early for anyone to know enough to disagree, Paul, don’t you think?”

“Never too early for some people to disagree with you, Alex,” Battaglia said, striking a match as he clamped a new cigar between his lips and drew on it. “Nice work last night. Now tell Mercer to find the guy before he hurts someone else.”

“He’s on it.”

The morning was a frenetic choreography of phone calls and updates. Lieutenant Peterson put Mercer directly through to Commissioner Scully, Gordon Davis called to ask for the facts of Flo’s case, Mercer spent twenty minutes trying to reassure Flo neither her name nor any statements that could identify her would be made public, and the press had started its feeding frenzy with courthouse reporters sniffing around Laura’s desk for an inside scoop.

To get away from them, Mercer suggested we move down the hall to the conference room adjacent to Pat McKinney’s office. We spread Raymond Tanner’s long criminal history out on one side of the table and covered the other with Angel’s case, including all of Hal Sherman’s photographs of the scene.

I worked the landline and Mercer his cell, with bursts of interruption from Laura as calls continued to pour in.

“I’m switching through the administrator from Fishkill, Alex,” Laura said. “He says you spoke with him this morning. I’ll put him on this line, okay?”

I signed off with Nan, who was on her way from the grand jury with subpoenas, and picked up the prison admin call.

“I owe you an apology, Ms. Cooper. On Raymond Tanner.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll give you any information you want.”

“My subpoenas are ready.”

“Mr. Tanner’s first work release date was April 3rd.”

“That was more than two and a half months ago,” I said.

“He did return regularly for the first six weeks of his release. But it appears he went AWOL in the middle of May.”

My temper was ready to flare. “So you have no idea where Raymond Tanner is as we speak, is that correct?”

“I do not.”

“What’s the name of the nursing home where you placed him?”

“Sunrise Services on Gun Hill Road.” His answers were coming faster now. “But he hasn’t shown up there in a week.”

That fact didn’t surprise me in the least.

“And the residential address?” I asked.

“He stays with his grandmother on the Concourse. The exact number is here on my desk.”

“For your information, sir, both his grandmothers were dead before he was born.”

The chief administrator couldn’t resist one last shot. “I’m not the one who lost the trial, Ms. Cooper.”

“And I didn’t let a prisoner escape,” I said. “We’ll talk again, I’m sure.”

The fact that Tanner was at large, and was undoubtedly Flo’s attacker, would ratchet up the media attention on him and everything we were trying to get done.

Mercer and I were focused on our work when Mike arrived, shortly after eleven. He was carrying four large paper bags, grocery-store size, that appeared damp on the bottom and lower half.

“Good morning, Coop. Morning, Mercer. Peterson told me you had a late night.”

“And a productive one. Alex has the life history of Raymond Tanner laid out along that side of the table. You need to check him out.”

“What’s in your bags?” I asked.

“So that dredging-the-Lake idea of Gordon Davis’s may be the shot we needed.” Mike made himself a space at the end of the table with his back to the door, gloved up, and opened the bags one at a time to display their contents.

The first item was a sweatshirt-a navy-blue hoodie that zipped up the front. “Size medium. Unisex, I’d say.”

Then he removed the second piece of clothing, which was a pale-pink T-shirt, with a fitted body and cap sleeves. “This one’s a small. A ladies’ small,” he said.

Third was a pair of khaki-colored cargo pants, as damp as the first two pieces. “Also small, and nothing in any of the pockets.”

From the last one he extracted a dark-green plastic bag with a red tie-the large size, for lawn and trash.

“Check it out, guys. Tell me what you think I’ve got,” Mike said, tossing each of us a pair of gloves to put on before either of us touched any of the items.

“I’d say it’s the basic uniform of a homeless person.”

“Very good, Coop. Female variety.”

The pink tee was the only nod to feminine dressing. I picked it up to look it over, front and back, for markings. Inside on the seam was a label from Target.

The hoodie and cargo pants were traditional gear for young people living on the streets. Their styles allowed kids and young adults to be gender neutral, and the hoods made it easy to conceal most of the face if they didn’t want to be recognized. Trash bags were the homeless equivalent of sleeping bags-a bit of protection from the wind and weather when one settled into the sack for the night.

“Where did this stuff come from?” Mercer asked.

“The crew started dredging yesterday, from the western side of the pond.”

“Did a lot of things surface?”

“Not so much as you’d think because of how fierce they are about making sure there’s no garbage in or around anyplace. When they picked up again this morning, these things were all clumped together, about fifty yards from the far side of Bow Bridge, snagged on some rocks on the little island in the middle of the Lake.”

Mercer was doing his own check of the pockets of the pants and sweatshirt.

“I thought you’d want some photos now,” Mike said. “Then I’ll take them to the lab to have them dry out. Then to the morgue to see if they look like they’d fit Angel.”

Mike and I both had our backs to the door when Pat McKinney came in. I was leaning on the table, making notes on a legal pad, while Mike was giving me the names and contact information for the men who had found the items.

“Hey, everybody,” McKinney said. “Big score last night, Alex. And good call, Mercer, for bringing her up to the precinct. Maybe this won’t be a lost cause after all.”

I was glad that McKinney had eased up on me lately. The office was such a tremendously collegial place that it had always been jarring to have someone who ranked between the DA and me ready to backstab me for no apparent reason.

I turned my head to talk to him. “You want the details on the attempted rape? And Mike just came in with these clothes that were found pretty close to the body in the Lake.”

McKinney walked toward us and looked over my shoulder. I straightened up to tell him the story about Raymond Tanner, along with the news from Fishkill. Mike filled in the blanks about the search in the Park.

When McKinney stepped back toward the door, Mike and I returned to our conversation and my note-taking.

“If you ever get that three’s-a-crowd feeling, Mercer, my door’s always open to you,” McKinney said.

Neither Mike nor I moved a muscle. I wrote across the bottom of my pad in big letters, all caps: IGNORE HIM.

Mercer shook his head. “There is so much spite in your soul, Pat, I sometimes wonder how you don’t choke on it.”

McKinney gave one of his fake chortles. “It’s not spite, man. Who zings me more than Detective Chapman?”

“Mike’s funny, Pat. You’re just small-minded.”

“Willy Shakespeare, was he petty?” McKinney asked. “Isn’t he the wordsmith who said, ‘Pell hath no fury like a woman scorned’?”

I scribbled again and pushed the pad to Mike as soon as McKinney was halfway into his quote.

Mike never picked his head up but repeated the play and playwright’s name I had written down as though they had just come off the top of his head. “That would be Willy Congreve, Pat. The Mourning Bride. Lots of people think it’s Shakespeare, but then lots of people are ignorant, like you.”

“See, Mercer? He gives as good as he gets,” McKinney said on his way out the door. “Now Chapman’s mastered seventeenth-century literature? Just goes to prove, like Battaglia says, that he’s spending way too much time with Alexandra.”