Silent Mercy

TWENTY-ONE

ZEV Levy had walked us back to the building entrance. Before we said good-bye, he had something else to tell us, a bit sheepishly. “I want you to know that I called Naomi a few times over last week-end. I left messages at her home.”

Mike had checked the answering machine at the apartment. There was nothing on it, whether because she had picked up the calls herself or because Daniel had listened and erased them.

“The tech guys in the PD will be able to retrieve those,” Mercer said, half bluff and half wishful thinking. “Remember what you said?”

Levy shifted uncomfortably. “I — uh — I think I just apologized for being so rude. That’s right, I offered to meet her for coffee too. I did try to make a — uh — an appointment.”

“At school?”

He reddened again. “No, down near her apartment. But she never returned my calls. And then, of course — well, the murder. I never saw her again. Maybe I wasn’t so far off when I called her friend a madman.”

“Thanks for your time,” Mercer said. “The Homicide Squad will probably send a few detectives over to talk with some of the students. We’ll try not to intrude too much.”

“Whatever is necessary. We’re very willing to cooperate.”

We made our way back toward Mercer’s car. “You think the rabbi was trying to make an appointment,” Mercer asked, “or a date? Bad choice of words today, that he should have held his ‘tongue.’ ”

“I get that he’s nervous, and that any involvement in a murder case is an extreme situation for Rabbi Levy and for the seminary,” I said. “But it certainly sounds like he had more than a professional attraction to Naomi. Can you push the lieutenant to get some guys up here for a more thorough interview?”

“That and scoring his phone records for starters.”

“I hate how this job makes me distrust everybody. I mean, maybe he was just picking up on her despondency.”

“And maybe he was just picking up on her, Alex. Gotta check it out.”

“I know we do, but sometimes it’s the worst part of my work. Makes me wish I’d been a prima ballerina,” I said, giving a tug to the sleeve of Mercer’s black leather jacket.

Both of us reached for our cell phones to check for messages. It was almost one in the afternoon. I held mine at arm’s length while Pat McKinney railed at me at the top of his lungs for not sticking around to give him details about the morning’s murder. Rose Malone, calling on Battaglia’s behalf, made the same complaint with more dignity.

“Hot water?” Mercer asked.

“Tepid. It will come to a boil by the end of the day, I’m sure. McKinney will be in the front office stirring the pot to try to nail me. Nothing from Mike about the autopsy?”

“Should be done by now,” Mercer said, checking his watch. “One from Special Victims. The serial rapist in the transit system hit again. Brooklyn, this time. And Vickee, warning me that headquarters is getting hell from the mayor’s office about these cases. He doesn’t want any more bodies in churchyards, can you imagine?”

“I need to be careful what I wish for,” I said as the phone vibrated in my hand and Mike’s number came up on the screen. “And the mayor better pray a little harder. Hello?”

“Who’s buried in Grant’s Tomb?”

“What?” I hadn’t heard that question since reruns of Groucho Marx went off the air.

“You heard me. Grant’s Tomb. Who’s buried there? And why don’t you smile when you see me?”

My head jerked and I looked up the steep hill we were climbing as we crossed Broadway going west. I couldn’t help but break into a grin and wave when I saw Mike at the top.

“Ulysses S. Grant, Detective Chapman.”

“Half right.”

“And Julia Boggs Dent-Grant. First Lady. Beloved wife.”

“Cross-eyed, she was. D’you know that surgeons wanted to correct her crossed eyes when she moved to the White House? But General Grant said he liked her just that way.”

“You ought to learn some tolerance from Ulysses’s attitude, Mikey. Why are you here?”

“Came to pay my respects to the general.”

Mercer and I continued due west, up the steep incline and across Riverside Drive, where the wide expanse of the Hudson River opened up below the stately granite and marble monument — the second largest mausoleum in the Western Hemisphere — built by a mourning nation as a tribute to Grant’s leadership to save the Union.

We sat on the great steps, catching the sunlight that brightened the dull March landscape, flooding the area between the two huge sculpted eagles that guarded the tomb.

“Any surprises at Naomi’s autopsy?”

Mike was halfway into a ham-and-cheese sandwich. He’d brought a second one for Mercer and a yogurt for me. “Nope.”

“Signs of sexual assault?”

“Inconclusive. No seminal fluid. Minor bruising on the thighs, but that could have come during a struggle anyway.”

“Mercy, mercy.”

“How can you say that, Mr. Wallace?” Mike asked. “You see any mercy in this matter? You think it was such a blessing to be beheaded by a dull hatchet?”

“The ME says that’s what the weapon was?” I asked.

“Let’s leave it at the fact that it wasn’t such a clean slice. He’s not sure what kind of blade, but it might have done with a good sharpening. Probably same one as for this new victim. Naomi’s killer didn’t get the job done with just one strike.”

“Any thoughts about drugs? That maybe Naomi was unconscious before she was mutilated?”

“I hope it’s the case for both women, but tox won’t be ready for at least a week.”

The complicated tests for toxicological finds in the blood and tissue were impossible to be rushed. It often took weeks, depending on the substance tested for, to get an answer to whether drugs were present and in what amounts.

“Did Chirico have anything to add?” I asked. Not that there were any good thoughts to have about this case.

“Not yet. Wound himself up in this one tighter than a tick on a dog’s ear. He doesn’t like anybody screwing with the Mother Church. The guy won’t budge from his desk. What’d you get?”

Mercer repeated what Rabbi Levy had told us about Naomi Gersh. All of it fit with her brother’s description of her as a pariah, and of her profound loneliness as she struggled to find a way to live her life. He also noted the rabbi’s apparent interest in helping Naomi relieve some of that gloom by suggesting a date.

“Then there’s this Bellevue piece,” Mercer said. “If you ask me, Naomi’s quirks were growing on the rabbi. She might have pushed back because she thought he was coming on to her. She told him she had a friend she had to see who’d been sick. Said he’d been at Bellevue.”

“A veritable whackjob? Now we’re talking,” Mike said.

“I thought I’d ride down there and rattle some cages. We have a pretty specific window. Naomi told the rabbi about this guy last week, and if he’s a Bellevue psych patient, I can start to look at discharges in the days before the murder—”

“And escapes. Eyeball the escapes too.”

“You’re going to need a subpoena. I’ll cut you a few when I get down to the office.”

“Ask one of your posse to do it for him right now,” Mike said. The stunning team of lawyers who worked Special Victims — Nan Toth, Catherine Dashfer, Marisa Bourges — would drop most of what they were doing to back up Mike and Mercer on any case. “I’m going to take you for a ride, Coop.”

“Where?”

“The Bronx. I got a hunch.”

“About Naomi?”

“No. About a church.”

“I wouldn’t dream of crossing you on that subject. Mercer, when you get to Bellevue, you should think about the emergency room too.”

New York had some of the finest private medical centers in the world, including the New York University facility adjacent to Bellevue. But cops knew the best trauma treatment was in the ERs at hospitals one would never choose for open-heart surgery: Harlem, Metropolitan, and Bellevue.

“Already doing that. Maybe Naomi didn’t like the rabbi calling her friend crazy ’cause she didn’t think he was crazy. Could have been at Bellevue for an injury. Treated and released.”

“Maybe he was giving his machete a practice run,” Mike said. “Hurt himself in the process. Or drugs.”

There were scores of people a day in and out of the Bellevue ER. Hundreds more who were in outpatient programs or coming in to receive meds. If you wanted to do one-stop shopping for the mentally ill in Manhattan, this hospital was the place to start.

“I’ll go straight to administration. Will you call Laura and ask her to fax up the subpoenas?”

“Right now.”

“Coop’s office at six tonight?” Mercer asked.

“Deal.”

Once again we went in separate directions, Mercer downtown and Mike and I heading due east to take the Triborough Bridge to the Bronx.

“You’re not telling me where?”

“No secret. It’s a long shot, not a secret. I’m taking you to my alma mater. The old church there — St. John’s — may have a clue or two.”

“Another St. John’s?” I asked. “Obviously not the Divine this time?”

“Nope. Just a little parish church built in the Bronx way before that one got under way.”

Mike had majored in history at Fordham University, one of the premier Jesuit institutions in the country. While the school had expanded its campuses into Manhattan, the original Rose Hill site was where Mike had studied.

“Time for confession?” I said, dialing Nan’s number to implore her help.

“Just like there’s a reason for Naomi to be dumped at Mount Neboh, this woman’s at St. Pat’s to make a point. If the perp has done that much homework, maybe I’ll get lucky.”

Mike was weaving between cars and trucks while I brought Nan up to speed on the events. She would put a team of our most trusted colleagues together and run interference with McKinney until I could return to the office.

The Gothic Revival church, St. John’s, was built in the 1840s as the house of worship for the parish of surrounding farms in what was then the bucolic village called Fordham. Today, with an overbuilt urban population on every side of the campus, the buttresses, gargoyles, and great bell tower of the church seemed a pleasant anachronism.

Mike and I had worked a case that took us to this neighborhood often just a few years earlier. As he turned onto the Fordham grounds from Southern Boulevard, I looked across at the serene Botanical Gardens that held such deadly memories for me.

“Tintinnabulation,” Mike said. “Your man Poe.”

“What?”

We were driving toward the chapel as he pointed to the tower. “Most scholars think these old bells were Poe’s inspiration for that poem.”

The cottage to which Poe moved with his young, terminally ill bride was a short distance away, and he walked this area almost every day that he lived nearby. “Hope you’ve got more to show for the ride than that.”

“Boy, does this bring back memories,” Mike said, getting out of the car and heading toward the plain wooden doors of the chapel.

I followed Mike inside. As we walked down the nave of the simple Gothic church, natural light streamed onto the white marble altar through the blue, yellow, and green stained-glass windows that lined the walls. Below them were a series of panels depicting the Stations of the Cross, scenes from the trial of Jesus by Pontius Pilate to his burial in the tomb.

Mike’s right hand was busy combing through his hair. He looked around, as though taking everything in anew, but didn’t speak.

“What is it, Mike?”

“Who was the last king of the French? That’s a subject dear to your heart,” he said, beginning to pace, staring up at the windows as he walked through the crossing.

“Look, it’s a little early for Jeopardy! Why did you bring me here?”

“Last king of the French.”

“Louis-Philippe. The July Monarchy, as it was called.”

Mike was motioning with his cupped fingers to give him more. “When?”

“Eighteen thirty to eighteen forty-eight.”

“I’ll take you the rest of the way, Coop. See these six windows? Three on each side? The most brilliant-colored ones?”

I looked back and forth. Of the sixteen windows that lined the nave, six were larger and far more exquisite than the others.

“So, Louis-Philippe had the idea to make a grand gift to the Catholics in America. He had these six stained-glass windows, said to be the most beautiful in the world, designed for St. Patrick’s Cathedral — the old one—”

“The one where the body was found today.”

“Exactly. They were created in Sèvres, France, and shipped to New York as the king’s — what do you call it?”

“Beau geste.”

“Yeah. But these windows didn’t fit at Old St. Pat’s. Imagine that? A king’s ransom worth of stained glass, but the wrong dimensions for the fancy new cathedral in Manhattan,” Mike said. “So the bishop shipped them up here to the little farming village of Fordham, so they could be the centerpiece of this new seminary that was still under construction and could be modified to hold them.”

I studied these glorious works with a deep appreciation of their magnificence — the depiction of handsome biblical figures, which were indeed so much richer in color and style than the other windows in the chapel, and than their replacements at Old St. Pat’s.

“Sorry for my ignorance, Mike. Who are they?”

“That’s Saints Paul and Peter, holding the Keys to the Kingdom. Then you’ve got the four apostles — John, Luke, Mark, and Matthew.”

The artistry of the glasswork was extraordinary.

“Now, here’s what got me thinking, Coop. You remember where the body was this morning?”

“Between two old headstones, and beneath the window that depicted Matthew.”

“Exactly. Manny Chirico was fixated on the names on grave markers for clues, but I kept thinking about the portraits in the stained glass, ’cause there was something unusual about that image.”

“In what way?”

“I mean, most of the time — in Christian art — the apostles are portrayed like this.” Mike was at his most animated, taking me by the hand to stand before these masterpieces of religious glasswork. “See? Each of them is painted with one of the living creatures described in the book of Revelation.”

The larger-than-life-size evangelists were posed on golden pedestals, and at their bases were bright blue enamel medallions — the same color as their halos — bearing their names.

“So that’s John, with an eagle at his feet,” I said. “Mark with a lion, Luke beside a bull, and then—”

“That’s what was different at St. Pat’s,” Mike said, breaking into my sentence as we stood beneath the stunning portrait of the fourth apostle. “There were no beasts, no creatures in those windows. But look, Coop, look at this.”

The French medallion below the figure in the fourth soaring window bore the name Matthieu.

He was robed in magenta, composing his gospel, pen in hand, as he gazed toward heaven. Holding the emerald-green writing tablet for him and glancing back at us was a young man — a young man with wings on his back, feathered and tipped with gold.

“A winged man,” I said in a whisper.

“He’s gaming us, this killer. Somehow he got himself over the gates at Mount Neboh—”

“Like Luther Audley said, the guy flew.”

“Well, he did it again this morning, into the graveyard. At least, that’s what he wants us to believe.”

“Like the symbolism at the fountain at St. John the Divine, when you asked me about the flying guy in the statue,” I said, visualizing the Archangel Michael, hovering over a decapitated Satan.

“Yeah.”

“You’re thinking that the killer left the body at St. Pat’s this morning, and cut out her tongue. You’re thinking he brought it here. That he knew about the connection between the two churches because of the windows, because of the classic portraits of the apostles.”

Mike nodded at me.

“But he couldn’t possibly have known there’d be a homicide cop at the scene who’d worshipped in this very chapel,” I said, brushing off the idea that had seized both of us so completely. “No one could expect this to be put together so quickly.”

“Of course not, Coop. But this bastard is showing off how well he knows his Bible, his religious readings, the haunts of the faithful — like this little jewel of a sleepy village church, with its legendary royal windows,” Mike said. “Forget about me piecing this together—”

“But you did.”

“Yeah. And by the time Commissioner Scully sits down with the cardinal tonight to talk about the desecration at Old St. Pat’s, you can bet the cardinal himself will make the very same connection. This is well-documented church history, kid, even if it’s news to you. Keith Scully went to Fordham Law School. He’d have this figured out even if I was walking a beat in Coney Island,” Mike said. “See that altar right there?”

I’d forgotten the police commissioner had a Fordham Law degree. I nodded as Mike pointed to the rear of the church where a decorative piece, elaborately carved with a relief of the Last Supper, stood next to the entrance.

“Yes. It looks like it came out of a museum.”

“Well, it’s the original altar from Old St. Pat’s, and it was installed here by Cardinal Spellman in the 1940s, a gift from the archdiocese. I may have encroached on a bit of the killer’s lead time, but the church hierarchy would have come to the same conclusion and connected that cathedral to this little chapel before the sun sets tonight.”

“So you’re right, Mike. The perp’s gaming us and he’s gaming the whole religious establishment as well. What are you doing now?”

Mike was running his hand along the wall, back and forth below Matthew’s window. “One more thought. I was looking for a crevice, a hiding place — but the stained glass is mounted flush into the wall.”

Although the window’s elevation stretched almost to the ceiling, its bottom was not much higher than our heads.

“You still think?…”

“One more place. There’s a reliquary here, at the end of the east transept. A shrine to Saint Jean de Brébeuf. There’s a Frenchman for you.”

I jogged to try to catch up with Mike.

“He was a Jesuit priest who was captured by the Iroquois and tortured to death,” Mike said. “Mutilated.”

That sort of eliminated any questions I had about why this would be a fitting place for a connection to our victim.

“He was so brave he never even whimpered during the torture,” Mike said, before he turned away from me again. “So the Iroquois cut out his heart and ate it, to try to internalize his courage.”

The reliquary was in the darkest recess of the church, marked by a small plaque that listed the other martyred Jesuit priests it honored. It was mounted high on the wall. On a shelf beneath it, far above us, was a silver chalice, like the kind used at communion.

Mike stood as tall as he could but wasn’t able to reach the shelf.

“What are you doing?” I asked as he ran past me and up the steps of the main altar.

“Stay put.”

He disappeared through one of the doorways to the right, and less than a minute later emerged carrying a wooden ladder I guessed to be six feet tall.

“What?. .”

“Watch it, Coop. Every altar boy needs a boost now and then to get up to the candelabra to put out the flames. There’s always a ladder backstage.”

I steadied the legs as Mike climbed the steps. Directly over his head there was a crossbeam, closer to the ledge of the reliquary than he could get with his outstretched arm. I closed my eyes for a second and imagined a winged man suspended from it. The exhaustion was playing tricks with my imagination.

“Get me closer,” he said.

I pushed the ladder slowly so as not to dislodge him.

Mike reached out again and grasped the stem of the chalice. He glanced into it, then pulled it to his chest to secure it, holding it there with his right hand while he guided himself down the rungs with his left.

When he had both feet on the floor, he extended the silver cup toward me. There within it was the discolored, putrefied tongue of the woman who’d been murdered at Old St. Patrick’s Cathedral earlier that day.