Entombed

7

"That's just a sketch they showed on the news, Giuliano. It's not a photograph."

"I know that. But he's got an unusual face, no?"

The Silk Stocking Rapist was distinctive-looking to me, if in fact he closely resembled the inked rendering. Most often the portraits created by police artists looked like a generic composite that would not enable anyone to pick the assailant out of a crowd.

This perp had features that each of his victims had described to the man who worked, four years ago, on the drawing they all agreed resembled their attacker. He had almost a cherubic affect, with soft, puffy cheeks that rounded the shape of his face and seemed to push his eyes into a permanent squint. His dark black skin made it hard to notice the fine mustache that traced the outline of his upper lip, but several women described the way it felt when it brushed against their skin.

"What night was he in here?" Mike asked.

Giuliano had a great mind for his business. Customers came in once and it was rare that he would forget them when they reappeared weeks later. A nod of his head and Adolfo would know whether to seat the arrivals in the front, with his most prominent clientele, or bury them in Siberia, near the kitchen, or by the steps to the rest rooms.

"A couple, maybe three nights ago. Late, like close to midnight."

"Was it two nights or three?" I pushed him, knowing that two nights would place him here drinking just hours before Annika Jelt was accosted.

"Fenton," he said, stepping away from the table and whispering to the bartender, who thought for a few seconds and shrugged before responding to his boss.

"He's pretty sure it was the night before last. He remembers the guy, too," Giuliano said, "and Fenton was off three nights ago."

"You know the people he was here with?"

"Three guys. Investment bankers, maybe. You know the type. Two of them on their cell phones the whole time, talking about the market and deals. Money, money, money. No talk about broads even-nothing but money. And flashing lots of cash," Giuliano said, describing their manners and clothing, down to the brand of gold watch each was wearing. "Not regulars. Maybe Fenton knows them."

He waved to the bartender, who came over to the table. Fenton, too, agreed that no one in the group was familiar to him.

"None of them? No one you ever saw before? Nobody paid by credit card?"

"Two of them put hundred-dollar bills on the bar. I checked them myself."

"This isn't exactly a halfway house, Giuliano," Mike said. Local politicians, celebrities, sports stars, and well-to-do New Yorkers sat elbow to elbow at the tables that were turned over three times a night. "The cheapest scotch you serve is eight bucks a pop, so who were these guys? You hear their conversation, Fenton?"

"Some of it. The guy who put the first bill down, I think he was French. He did most of the talking. Sounded like they had all come from a party together and just dropped in here before they split."

"Was there only one black guy in the group?"

"Yup."

"He talk a lot?"

"Drank mostly. Don't remember him saying much."

Mike looked at me. "You and Mercer got room for me on the task force? If you can arrange for me to have this post-just park me here at Primola's bar-I can help keep the city safe."

"That's a deal. This one's a real long shot, Giuliano. Just promise me you'll call nine-one-one if you think you see this guy again."

"You're not convinced?" Mike asked. "You're the one who spent the better part of a year going to every community meeting and school association, if I recall correctly, telling people in this very neighborhood that the Silk Stocking Rapist lived or worked right among them."

What a thankless assignment that had been for Mercer and me. Some rapists were opportunists who attacked whenever the moment presented itself, whether the prey was fifteen or seventy-five years old. If she was in the wrong place at the right time for the perp, and she was vulnerable, he struck. This one was different. He targeted a physical type-most were tall, slim young women, in their twenties-and so far he had never deviated from his profile. Week after week we'd respond to requests to talk to citizens groups about the Silk Stocking Rapist's pattern and the risks posed in his targeted residential community. Rarely did any women under the age of sixty show up to listen to us, and the seniors who came could have passed our suspect on the street without his thinking twice about committing a crime.

"Look at the man in your corner deli," I used to tell everybody, "the dishwasher in the restaurant on your block whose shift ends at oneA.M., right before the attacks started. Your doorman, the super down the street, the guy next to you on the subway platform."

"So why couldn't he show up in your favorite restaurant, Coop?"

"It's certainly in the zone. So next time, Giuliano, make sure you get the glass he was drinking from before it goes in the dishwasher. A little saliva for his DNA is all we need. C'mon, Mike. I'm whipped."

He drove me the short distance to my apartment and waited until one of the doormen let me inside and walked me to the elevator.

I flipped on the lights and stopped to hang up my coat and scarf in the hall closet. I picked up the pile of mail that my housekeeper had left on the credenza and carried it into my bedroom. There was no flashing light on my answering machine, one more sign of my newly unattached lifestyle. Somehow, wherever in the world Jake Tyler had been on assignment, he left loving messages for me that cheered me when I returned at whatever ungodly hour from a day too full of violence and heartbreak.

I clicked on the television and listened to the local all-news channel as I undressed, washed up, and crawled into bed. After reports of a suspicious breach of security at a nuclear power plant upstate and a car accident in Times Square that killed three tourists, the commentator replayed the police commissioner's seven o'clock statement.

Mercer was behind the commissioner's shoulder as he announced that the Manhattan Special Victims Squad had identified a sexual assault pattern within the confines of the Nineteenth Precinct on the Upper East Side. Reporters at the foot of the podium furiously scribbled details of the cases, holding Xeroxed copies of the sketch that was posted on an easel next to Mercer.

"This is Manhattan SVS pattern number three of the new year," he said.

"How'd you slip the first two by us?" the Post veteran, Mickey Diamond, called out.

Here it was, only the last week in January, and three serial rapists had each claimed a corner of the island to terrorize.

"The first is in Chinatown, Mickey. Three cases involving abductions of women who are here illegally. Their status has not in any way affected our investigation of the cases, but it has made some of the victims' families reluctant to report details to us, and we're happy for any information the public has to offer." The subliminal message was that the rest of us weren't in danger from a criminal targeting poor immigrant women, who were unlikely to seek police assistance because of their immigration status.

"Pattern number two is in Washington Heights," the commissioner continued. "Five cases, starting at the end of last year. These have all occurred at known drug locations."

"Junkies?" Mickey interrupted again. "Junkies and hookers?"

"The victims have alternative lifestyles, Mickey. So far, they've been very cooperative. We have a couple of suspects and are making great progress on the investigation."

No wonder there had not been a press conference to announce patterns one and two, which my unit had been working on with the crew at SVS, around the clock and on all cylinders. Those cases weren't seen as impacting the lives of most Manhattan residents. Location, location, location, as they say in real estate. The Upper East Side made for different concerns and flashier headlines.

The commissioner tried to pick up his narrative about the new case. "On January twenty-sixth, at 0300 hours, a twenty-two-year-old female was attacked as she entered a brownstone at Three Thirty-seven East Sixty-sixth Street, between Second and First Avenues."

He described the physical assault in graphic detail. The stabbing would raise more alarm and attract more attention than a sex crime. Often, when people heard the word "rape," they foolishly assumed something had occurred as much because of the woman's behavior as the man's. Rape remained the only crime that too many people considered "victim precipitated," and scores of listeners would thereby distance themselves from their potential vulnerability by assuming it was an act that couldn't happen to people like them.

Now the commissioner gave the press hounds the news hook they were waiting for. "You may recall that several years back, the department declared a pattern of cases, also in the Nineteenth Precinct, that remained unsolved when the perpetrator seemed to have vanished four years ago. You gentlemen and ladies dubbed him the Silk Stocking Rapist, which is far too elegant a name for the vile things he does."

The gallery came alive. "Same guy?" one reporter called out.

"The ME's office has confirmed through serological testing that-"

"I thought this week's case wasn't a rape. How'd you get DNA?" another said.

"We're not going to tell you what physical evidence we do have, but a match to genetic material from the crime scene has been declared by the lab, so that we have confirmed our belief that the cases are related. We have reassembled a task force and we'll give you the details of that," the commissioner said, stepping back so the chief of detectives could describe the operation he had hurriedly put in place.

"Last time around, how many cases were there?" a young kid on the City Hall beat asked.

"Five completed rapes, four other attempts," the chief answered.

I thought of another eight crimes that rested in my case folder, which had not been connected by forensics but which had the same nuances of language and order of sexual acts the rapist performed to make me certain it was the work of the same man. The mayor had ordered the PC not to heighten the public's fear by including those other cases.

"This new attack, what'd the girl look like?"

A question like that could only have come out of the mouth of Mickey Diamond. In no other kind of case would a news reporter ask for a description of the woman. But the tabloid's titillating version of sexual assault stories required the flaxen-haired filly or the buxom blue-eyed beauty to fill in the blanks occasioned by the media rule of not naming rape victims in their stories.

"Still using silk stockings, or has he aged into support hose since the last time we saw him?" Diamond asked, to amuse the reporters around him.

I clicked off as they were appealing for the public's help and offering reward money for tips leading to the arrest of the attacker.

When I opened my door at seven the next morning, the rapist's face stared up at me from the front page of both tabloids, and above the fold on the Metro section of the Times. I showered and dressed for work, and drove downtown in my SUV to grab a parking space as close to my building as possible, sparing myself a cold, slippery walk.

I spent the morning reviewing notes of phone messages that my secretary, Laura Wilkie, had downloaded from the unit's hotline. For a bit of reward money, people were willing to turn in ex-husbands, unfaithful lovers, and ne'er-do-well nephews. All the leads would be turned over to Special Victims for follow-up calls.

Then I studied the file of Darra Goldswit's case, readying a checklist of questions for her grand jury presentation.

I heard Chapman's voice outside my office, in Laura's cubicle, just after 11A.M. "Morning, Moneypenny. Give us a kiss, will you?"

I knew she'd be in a good mood for the rest of the week. Laura was a perfect foil for Mike's flirtatious humor.

He ambled through the door, ran his fingers through the thick slice of black hair that rested on his forehead. "Carmine Cappozelli, purveyor of the purest and most potent rat poison this side of the Mississippi, sends his warmest personal regards. Told me he manufactured his first batch of rodent botulism in 1978."

"We knew that from the label you read."

"Yeah, but none of it was shipped until 1979. So that's the revised earliest date our skeleton went into the closet. That's why you need a good detective, instead of going on the stupid assumptions you lawyers make. Saves you a year of unnecessary digging."

"What other useful calls have you made?"

"Cold Case Squad. Scotty Taren caught the squeal. He's meeting me here later so we can run up to the morgue. See how far Dorfman gets today."

"Where does he even start on something like this that happened a quarter of a century ago?"

"My old man was walking a beat back then. Wouldn't it be a kick to think it was a case he could have solved? You just got to put yourself there in that time and place, think of the world the victim was living in."

"Easy to say."

"Think culture, Coop. Kramer vs. Kramer won the Oscar, Mother Teresa got the Nobel Peace Prize, Margaret Thatcher became prime minister of England, the Shah was booted out of Iran, Sophie's Choice was the bestselling book in America, Saturday Night Fever was the album of the year, Pittsburgh won the World Series, Martina beat Chrissie at Wimbledon, Spectacular Bid won the Kentucky Derby, and both John Wayne and Nelson Rockefeller died-but only one of them went in the saddle and it wasn't the guy who was supposed to. Are you there yet?"

"Close."

"There were eight hundred fifty-four homicides in the city, and two hundred sixty-three missing persons. Our babe fits somewhere in the middle of those numbers. I'm handing this to Scotty on a silver platter. I expect an ID by Monday. Where's Mercer?"

"He'll be here at one."

"I've got trial prep on a shooting from last summer with your psycho-colleague, Pedro de Jesus. If we start now, he may get himself up to speed by the spring thaw. I'll swing by later on."

He turned and bumped into Mickey Diamond, who was on the prowl to see what I knew about the rape pattern.

"I owe you a few rounds, Chapman. Lunch on me at Forlini's?"

"Not today, buddy," Mike said, trying to brush past the reporter.

"Did Chapman tell you he bet me fifty large that you'd be playing solitaire on Valentine's Day? I was dumb enough to think this was the real deal for you and Jake-"

No wonder Mike was trying to make a quick exit. "Wagering on my love life? Counting the days until Jake threw me back in the water? The sign of a true friend, Detective Chapman. Old maid, solitaire… nice to know you feel my pain."

I cracked open the window behind me and reached for a handful of snow off the top of the air-conditioning unit while Mike tried to apologize to me and shut Diamond up at the same time.

"Can you give me any scoops on the East Side case, Alex? Something I can quote to keep it on the front page tomorrow?"

"Nada. Scram, will you? I'll have news for you at the beginning of the week. Get lost. Follow Chapman and steer clear of me, okay?"

I finished rounding the icy slush into a ball and lobbed it at the back of Mike's head. "Don't write me off yet for Valentine's Day, sucker. The Post can always run another personal ad for me."

"Can't do worse than the first one," Mike said, wiping off the snow.

Several years back, on a very slow news day after I had taken over the unit, Diamond had written a piece that he titled "Legal Miss Who Misses Kisses." His theory was that I was crazy to take this job because no man in his right mind would want to date a woman who might confuse the first pass with an inappropriate touch-a criminal one.

"Harpo Marx, is he still alive? He's mute, right? Perfect for you. I'll see if I can find a number for him, blondie. Let me tell you what we ran into last night," Mike said, sauntering out of the office with Diamond at his side.

"Mike!" I tried to stop him but he didn't turn back. I didn't want him to leak word of the skeleton before I had a chance to tell the district attorney about it. It might come to nothing, but Battaglia would have my head if I made the wrong call on a story like that.