Solomon and Lord Drop Anchor

CHAPTER 3

Catch Me If You Can

Retirees still sit on plastic rockers on the front porches of the art-deco hotels. Hookers, fences, dealers, TVs, pimps, chicken hawks, and runaways still stroll Ocean Drive, hustling their wares. But the Yuppies have staked claims to South Beach, spiffing up the old buildings with turquoise and salmon paint, dressing themselves in bright, baggy cottons and silks, and hovering on the perimeter of perpetual trendiness. Over the whine of the window air conditioner is heard the agreeable hum of European engineering as the young lawyers, brokers, accountants, bankers, and journalists steer their Saabs, BMWs, and Volvos into oceanfront parking lots.

Cafes and comedy clubs now occupy once-abandoned storefronts. Stylish restaurants abound, strands of pasta hanging on wooden rods like moss on forest trees. Saloons with etched-glass mirrors and polished brass rails offer exotic tropical drinks at outrageous prices. Fresh tuna is seared ever so slightly on open grills. And for reasons inexplicable, a sushi bar stands on every corner. Raw fish is fine for shipwreck victims, but with all the crud floating in our waters, I prefer my seafood well done.

The apartment building was built in the 1930s, which in Miami Beach qualified as an historic site. The building had been empty for years, before the resurgence of South Beach brought fresh money and fresher hucksters to town. The newspapers coined the term “Tropical Deco" to describe the renovated hotels and apartment buildings. This one was called Flamingo Arms and consisted of a series of curved walls, glass block, and cantilevered sunshades that looked like stucco eyebrows. The paint was the color of a ripe avocado. Two metal flamingos formed a grillwork on the front door, and the same motif was picked up in the lobby with a mural of several of the pink birds high-stepping through a fountain.

The three of us-the coroner, the shrink, and the mouthpiece- were let in by a uniformed cop who recognized Charlie Riggs. We climbed a winding staircase with a looping metal railing to the second floor. It was a corner apartment facing Ocean Drive with just a sliver of a view of the Fifth Street Beach. Nick Wolf stood in a corner of the living room, his face drawn into a tight mask. Whispering in his ear was a cop in plainclothes. Nick Wolf shook his head and didn’t move. The cop came over to us.

“Alex Rodriguez,” he said, shaking my hand, and nodding to Charlie Riggs and Pamela Metcalf. He looked just right for a detective, which is to say he looked like your average forty-two-year-old, middle-class man who sells power tools at Sears. His dark hair was beginning to thin at the crown. He was of average height, average weight, and average demeanor, except for his nose, which, he later told me, had been head-butted one direction by a drugged-out citizen and smashed the other way by his partner’s errant nightstick while quelling a domestic dispute.

“I’m glad you’re here, Dr. Metcalf,” Rodriguez said. “You too, Charlie. Lassiter, give Nick a minute. Then he’ll talk to you. Now…”

He left it hanging there, and we all turned toward a desk in a corner of the room where a young assistant medical examiner was still snapping his photos. The ME nodded toward Charlie but kept at his work. His pale hair was parted high on his head and clipped short on the sides, a style favored by the current crop of young professionals. In rebellion, I keep mine unfashionably long and shaggy, and when in the company of callow youth, I incessantly hum Joan Baez tunes. He wore a white lab coat with a name tag. He didn’t look old enough to be a doctor, but I figured, no matter what, he couldn’t kill the patient. His little kit was open, and he had lined up his sketch pads, gloves, sponges, plastic bags, thermometer, trowel, chalk, and tape recorder.

Charlie walked straight to the body. She wore a black silk camisole and nothing else.

She was sprawled-legs akimbo-in her chair at a desk.

Her head was jammed through a computer monitor. The keyboard was pulled open.

Maybe Charlie Riggs was used to homicide scenes. Maybe it was just another day at the office for him. But not for me. The aftermath of violence chilled me. I didn’t know this woman, didn’t even know her name. I had no sense of loss for a loved one. I would not miss a laugh I had never heard. But I knew someone-a mother, a lover, a friend-would cry out her name. And somewhere, I knew, was someone who didn’t cry for anyone or anything. Someone so foreign to me as to be unfathomable.

My life has been circumscribed by rules. I tried not to hit after the whistle, and I never lied to a judge, though I’ve been tempted to take a poke at one or two. But there are games people play without rules. The hard-eyed cops know the players, stare them down every day. Could I do that? At the moment, filled with a mixture of anger and dread, I didn’t know.

I looked at Pam Metcalf, who seemed to be studying me. “Of course it’s dreadful,” she said, “but scientifically, Mr. Lassiter, it’s quite fascinating, too.”

Charlie Riggs took control. He gently pulled the body back into the chair. “Lividity of the face and lips, engorgement and petechial hemorrhages in the conjunctivae.”

He examined her neck. “No sign of a ligature. Crescentic abrasions on the skin, most likely fingernail marks. Probable cause of death, hypoxia due to throttling.”

Charlie Riggs turned to the assistant ME. “Manual strangulation. Any evidence of sexual battery?”

“Nothing… visible,” he stammered. “No contusions or lacerations other than the head and neck injuries. I swabbed the genitalia. No visible semen. However, vaginal secretions are consistent with… uh… sexual activity in close proximity to death.”

“You’ll check the smear for spermatozoa, of course.”

“Yes, sir. I thought I’d use methylene blue.”

Charlie Riggs shook his head. “You’ll never distinguish sperm cells from artifacts with that stain. Try hematoxylin and eosin for better differentiation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What else, what other tests?”

“Well… I don’t know.”

“What if the fellow’s had a vasectomy, or he’s an alcoholic with cirrhosis? Won’t find any wagging tails there, eh?”

“In that event,” the young doctor recited, as if taking his oral exams, “acid phosphatase determination will reveal the presence of seminal fluid. If the man’s a secreter, we can identify A, B, or H blood types.”

“ Verus,” Charlie said, beaming, a professor whose student had finally caught on. “Be alert to every detail. Don’t believe that old saw Mortui non mordent- ”

“I never did,” I chimed in.

“‘Dead men carry no tales.’ Hah! They can tell us stories horribile dictu, horrible to relate, but essential to our understanding of their deaths.”

The young doctor was nodding his head vigorously.

“Now, what about odor?” Charlie Riggs asked.

“Beg your pardon?”

“Vaginal odor? It’s okay to take your sweet time with the lab tests, but you’ve got one chance to work up the crime scene. Just don’t forget to use the old schnoz.”

“Tell him about the time you opened a stomach and ID’ed the restaurant by smelling the beer in the barbecue sauce,” I prompted Charlie.

“Only one ribs joint in town had sauce like that,” Charlie said. “Wasn’t hard to figure where he had his last supper, then a waiter identified his dining companion, a hired killer.”

The assistant ME bit his lip, shot an embarrassed look toward Pam Metcalf, and sank to his knees. His head disappeared between two pale, slightly chubby thighs.

“Three-to-one the kid says he smells barbecue sauce,” Detective Rodriguez whispered to me. He had been in the department twenty years and had little time for rookies in any field.

A voice without a face came from the general vicinity of the corpse’s pudendum. “What smells should I be… uh… looking for?”

“Anything, son!” Charlie boomed. “The latex of a condom or a surgical glove, maybe soap, talcum, or a douche scented with lily of the valley, even a man’s distinctive cologne. Some men splash it on their privates, you know. Maybe we find a guy who’s crazy for Aqua Velva.”

“Or Listerine,” Rodriguez suggested, “depending on his proclivities.”

There was the sound of a bloodhound sniffing, then the assistant ME picked himself up, looked sheepishly toward Charlie, and said, “Sorry, sir, but… it’s just plain pussy to me.”

“Oh, never mind. You’ll want to do a complete autopsy, of course. Take a good look at the neck. I’d advise elevating the shoulders, eviscerate the body, and remove the brain. If you want a dry field, don’t dissect the neck until the blood has stopped draining. Don’t let the homicide detectives rush you. Take your time.”

The kiddie coroner nodded, then piped up, “I’d say the assailant was right-handed, Dr. Riggs.”

From behind me I heard a snicker. “ Fantastico,” Detective Rodriguez said. “I’ll put out a BOLO for all right-handed guys.”

Doc Riggs was more diplomatic. “And how do you reach that conclusion, Doctor…?”

Charlie squinted at the name tag.

“Whitson,” the alleged doctor proclaimed. “Well, there’s a single abrasion on the right side of the neck and four on the left. So the assailant’s right thumb would have made the single abrasion, the fingers of his right hand the rest.”

“Assuming she was strangled from the front,” Charlie added politely.

“I thought of that, sir. You can tell from the concavity of the crescents that the strangulation occurred from the front.”

Charlie made a little tsk-tsking sound. He didn’t want to lecture the lad in front of spectators, but he had no choice. He examined the neck. “All I can tell is that the nail on the ring finger is jagged. In a couple of days, it will grow back, so the information is of very little use. As for the crescent, the direction of the concavity can be misleading. The crescent will be reversed, as often as not. Here, I’ll show you. Jake, roll up your sleeve.”

“Why me?” I protested. “I haven’t forgotten your electrocution experiment.”

“It was only two hundredths of an amp, Jake, and I turned it off as soon as you went into muscular paralysis. Now be a good scout.”

Everyone was watching, so the good scout rolled up his sleeve. Charlie looked around and spotted Pamela Metcalf, who was intently studying titles of the shelved books in the small apartment.

“Pamela, perhaps you can inflict some pain on Jake for a moment,” Charlie wondered cheerfully.

“Gladly,” she chimed in. She placed a cool hand on my forearm and dug five fingernails deep into my skin.

“I’ll always remember the first time we touched,” I told her, showing my All-Conference smile.

She dug deeper, letting up just before severing the radial artery. I held up my arm, and sure enough, the crescents went the opposite direction of each nail’s shape. Charlie was explaining something about the free edge of the arch of the nail having no purchase and therefore creating the reverse crescent and how fallacious it was to infer much from fingernail marks. I just looked at the little dents in my arm and said to Pamela Metcalf, “I’ll bet you leave a mark on every man you meet.”

“With some,” she replied, “it takes a sledgehammer.”

Having exhausted my store of witty repartee, I stood silently, surveying the scene. The apartment was sparsely furnished in Yuppie Modern-white tile and green plants, a large-screen TV and CD player, a few bookshelves. There was a galley kitchen with a few pots and pans and a cupboard containing bran cereal, microwave popcorn, bottled spaghetti sauce, and spinach pasta from a gourmet market. The oven was practically sterile, indicating either an immaculate cook or no cook at all. The refrigerator had four different flavors of yogurt, none of which had expired, bottled water, an eyemask filled with what looked like antifreeze, and not much else. The bedroom and bathroom were down a hall, but I hadn’t seen them yet.

Young Dr. Whitson picked up his camera and click-clicked through several roles of film, shooting the body, the furniture, and even one or two of me. Charlie puttered around the body for a while, giving more tips to the young pathologist. Pamela Metcalf walked through the little apartment, her green eyes bright, taking everything in, letting nothing out.

Nick Wolf motioned me onto the small balcony where we were alone. I looked him in the eye. I was half a foot taller, but he had impressive width. A stocky fireplug of explosive energy. “Michelle Diamond,” he said. “Ever see her on Live at Five? ”

I shook my head. Usually, Fm still working then. If not, Fm playing volleyball on the beach or fishing with Charlie. Afternoon television is for those in traction. Physical or mental.

“I want you to be a special prosecutor and lead the investigation,” Nick said. “Present a case to the grand jury when you’ve got a suspect.”

“Why can’t your office handle it?”

He didn’t hesitate, just shrugged those big shoulders. “Conflict of interest. I was seeing her. Not heavy-duty. But I’d slip over here in the mornings or she’d come by my place at night. It’s sure to come out in the investigation.

Before I could ask, he said, “I’ve been separated for six months. Irretrievably broken and all that.”

“So the first statement I take is from you,” I said.

He showed the hint of a smile. “Should I have my alibi ready?”

I looked at him hard. His girlfriend’s body was drawing flies and he makes a little joke. A used little joke.

“I don’t show much emotion,” Wolf said, reading my mind. “Not in public, anyway. Maybe tonight I’ll get drunk by myself. Maybe I’ll put my fist through a wall. But that’s none of your business. Your job is to find the slime that did this, get an indictment, and try the case.”

Through the glass I saw Pamela Metcalf talking to Detective Rodriguez. He was nodding and making notes on a little pad. Across the street the ocean breeze rattled the palm fronds. Traffic crept along Ocean Drive, young people cruising at a pace to see and be seen.

I came in and told Rodriguez what I wanted. A computer whiz to print out everything inside the beige box on Michelle Diamond’s desk and the disks in her drawer. All her address books, appointment schedules, credit-card receipts, a list of her friends, relatives, and coworkers, and a chronology of her daily routine. I wanted statements from her gynecologist, her hairdresser, her pharmacist, her landlady, her maid, and her masseuse. I wanted to know every man she dated in the last three years and anyone she met in the last three months. Did any deliverymen bring her groceries or furniture or laundry? Where was she every minute of the last week? Within forty-eight hours, I wanted to know more about Michelle Diamond than her best friend, her mother, or her lover ever did.

It wasn’t asking too much. Anyone who cares to can know everything about us. Somewhere, I am sure, there is a giant computer that stores a thousand megabytes about each of us. What we got in geography and who we took to the senior prom. Where we eat, what we buy, who we call. How much money we make and how much we give away. What airlines we use, where we sleep, how much we spend on clothes, booze, and pills. Traffic tickets, domestic disputes, diplomas, and the books we buy. Modern life is one sweeping, cradle-to-grave invasion of privacy. An encroachment on our ever-narrowing space. Behind us we leave a trail of carbon copies and floppy disks. Fodder for the snoop and the historian alike.

In the twenty-first century, they tell us, our houses will be smaller, our lawns nonexistent. We’ll work at home and recycle our garbage into compost. Our bathroom scale will record our weight, pulse, and blood pressure and transmit the information to the company physician and anyone else with the right seven-digit password. The computer will link us with the office, the grocery store, and each other. The paper trail will be obsolete, but in its place, microscopic chips and laser scanners will transcribe details even the most astute biographer would overlook.

“Lassiter, come take a look back here.”

It was Rodriguez, motioning me through the bedroom and toward the bathroom. I moseyed back there and stood, filling the doorway, peeking over Charlie Riggs’ shoulder. It was old-fashioned but clean, a small porcelain sink, shower stall, and toilet crammed into a room without a window. There were powders and perfumes and white fluffy towels, and on the mirror above the sink was a message scrawled in bloodred lipstick: Catch me if you can, Mr. Lusk.

“We got ourselves a show-off,” I said. “Now, who the hell is Mr. Lusk?”

“Probably some guy she was playing tag with,” Rodriguez said, “and it looks like he caught her.”

In the mirror I saw Charlie’s jaw drop in astonishment. It was not his usual expression. He moved closer, as if the image might disappear at any moment. “Pamela, come here please!”

In a moment Pamela Metcalf joined the party. And there the four of us stood. I hoped somebody knew more than I did.

“Mr. Lusk.” Pamela’s voice trembled.

“Yes, Mr. Lusk,” Charlie said.

“You know the hombre?” Rodriguez asked.

“George Lusk,” Charlie Riggs mumbled, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I’ll bring him in,” Rodriguez said.

Charlie laughed but there was no pleasure in it. “Sorry, detective. Mr. Lusk is quite dead.”

Rodriguez squinted at the mirror. “Then who’s-”

“In the fall of 1888, in the East End of London, the Whitechapel section, there were a series of murders of young women.”

“I get it,” Rodriguez said. “George Lusk was the cop who cracked the case.”

“Not exactly,” Charlie said. “He was a private citizen who formed the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee to patrol the streets and help the police. One day Lusk received a parcel in the mail. It contained a kidney cut from the body of one of the victims and a most grisly note. I can’t remember the contents exactly, but the note concluded-”

“‘Catch me if you can, Mr. Lusk,’” Pamela Metcalf said.

Charlie nodded.

“Hey,” Rodriguez said. “You’re talking about Jack the Ripper.”

Charlie nodded again and looked straight at me.

“And I guess that makes me Mr. Lusk,” I said.