Precious Blood Read online

  wednesday,

  december 4

  When Jenner woke, the sun was glaring through intermittent drizzle, glinting off the wet streets toward the East River.

  He needed to see the crime scene photographs from the Pittsburgh crew. The autopsy photos were sloppy Polaroids shot in some local hospital morgue or funeral parlor, the wider shots showing too little, the close-ups hopelessly out of focus. He waited until 9:00 a.m. to call, which was a mistake—Dowling had already been summoned to a four-car pileup on I-81.

  The morning passed quickly. Ana seemed quite cheerful, almost smug. She went through his CDs and pronounced Jenner’s taste Not Bad (she means for my age, he thought).

  She settled on Radiohead, and hummed along as she made the bed, badly, and tidied the kitchen, putting the plates and dishes back in the wrong cupboards.

  Jun stopped by, clearly wanting to meet Ana. Jenner was in the middle of introducing them when Rad Garcia called: Jenner took the phone into the TV room, leaving the two to get acquainted. The ID section had matched fingerprints from the Romen scene to the partials from East Seventh Street. Andie Delore’s preliminary tox screen was negative, the rape kit negative for semen.

  Jenner thought for a second, then said, “One thing: there was no sign of forced entry in Romen—it looks like she let him in. I’m thinking that that cop trick may be part of his MO.”

  Garcia said that he’d get the word out through Public Affairs, and tossed in a couple of “Detective Jenner” cracks before he hung up.

  Jenner called Mr. Delore in Boston, already back at the office. The attorney was his blustery self again, brisk and matter-of-fact. He muttered, “Of course!” when told about 88

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  the negative tox, and “Thank God,” to the results of the sexual assault workup; he didn’t ask after Ana.

  Now that there were known victims in two states, he wanted to know if the feds would get involved in the investigation. Jenner said the local investigators would make the call after reviewing the issue—the cases had only just been linked.

  He asked if Jenner thought involving the Bureau was a good idea; Jenner said he wasn’t sure that the FBI could add anything to the New York City investigation, and the state police were doing the right things in Pennsylvania—Dowling was good, and the criminalists seemed on top of things.

  Besides, any involvement by the feds would come at the cost of putting local noses out of joint.

  Delore said that he’d think about it, and seek counsel from his colleagues. In the meantime, he thanked Jenner for a job well done, and thanked him for his discretion and sensitivity. He asked for a report in writing and an invoice, then told Jenner he could consider this engagement finished, adding that he’d be recommending him to attorneys in need of a forensic expert.

  Outside in the main room, Ana had switched to Outkast, and was singing along to “Ms. Jackson.” Jun was sprawled on the couch, this time in brown cords, a long sage green knit sweater vest, and the gray Kangol, grinning.

  Jun called out, “Dude! Your houseguest can’t sing for shit!

  I feel sorry for you!”

  “Just be glad I’m not singing.”

  Ana said, “Jenner, what’s a kogal? Jun says he’s dating one, and he won’t tell me what that is.”

  “A very colorful Japanese girl who likes to wear expensive clothes that other people pay for. He’s joking—Kimi’s great.”

  Jun snickered. His girlfriend was coming over for lunch, then they were going shopping in NoLIta, where the boutiques were swankier than in the East Village and trendier Precious Blood

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  than in SoHo. Jun ordered scallion pancakes, crabmeat and pork juicy buns, and barbecued pork from Star of the East, which he said was definitely the best Shanghainese restaurant in the city; he was playing the New York Asian card, showing off for Ana.

  Jun was at the door paying the deliveryman when Bobby Dowling called. Jenner took the phone back into the quiet of the TV room.

  Dowling listened to Jenner’s news, congratulated him on nailing the link, and told him to hand the case file off to Garcia. They chatted a bit about the feds, about how they do it in NYC, and how other jurisdictions, even in small towns, sometimes do it better. “But, Doc, for chrissakes, don’t tell anyone I said that!”

  The sound of laughter rose from the kitchen. Jenner said,

  “Well, Bobby. It’s been good working with you—good luck with this case.”

  “You’re out then, Doc? I know you signed on as a consul-tant, but I figured you’d want to see it through.”

  “I kind of do, I kind of don’t. The Delores have buried their daughter now. I think my part in this is finished.”

  “I wish I could say the same thing, but I have a feeling things will pick up for our investigation tomorrow, after the funeral. I thought I’d go, show the family some respect; I think a lot of the guys will.”

  Jenner wasn’t following. “I’m sorry, Bobby—what funeral?”

  “Sunday Smith’s. Her parents got back into town yesterday, they’re burying her tomorrow.”

  “God! I thought she was buried weeks ago.”

  “No, sorry, my fault, I should have told you she wasn’t buried. Her family’s Mormon, and they were in Asia, testifying or whatever they call it. It took forever to even notify them, let alone for them to get back stateside.”

  Jenner thought for a second.

  “Can I have a look at the body? Where is it?”

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  “Romen Funeral Chapel, just outside of town.” He paused.

  “As far as seeing the body . . . well, what do you mean by

  ‘have a look’? Shouldn’t be a problem for you to examine her, but if you’re talking about opening her up, that’s something else.”

  Jenner thought about the autopsy report; if the autopsy protocol was so piss-poor, God only knew what they’d missed.

  “It kills me to say this, but I think she needs a proper autopsy. No disrespect, but that first pathologist was clearly way out of his depth.”

  “Well, Doc, that could be a problem. You’ve got no jurisdiction—heck, you’re not even technically an ME anymore.

  They’re good people, the parents, but they’ve been through a lot. Their daughter had her head cut off, and they just flew ten thousand miles to bury her; I just don’t see them going for it.”

  Jenner could hear the detective clicking on his ballpoint pen.

  “Bobby, look: speak to them, see if they’ll agree. You know how to talk to people. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

  Dowling sighed. “I’ll ask. But these are fucking pious people—I think the only thing that matters to them is that their daughter is with God now.”

  “Tell them this man will continue to kill until he is stopped, that other mothers and fathers will lose their daughters. That this could help stop him.”

  “I’ll try. I’ll go over there now and sit down with them. I’ll call as soon as I have an answer.”

  Kimi had arrived, dazzling in her platinum blond wig, frosted peach lipstick, and an electric blue smock tied at the waist with a vibrant orange sash. Her orange go-go boots had at least four inches of platform. Jenner winked at her, then sat.

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  They’d started lunch while Jenner was on the phone, but had set a plate for him.

  Jenner announced that he might be going to Pennsylvania; if he went, it would probably be overnight. He casually suggested they keep Ana company. He wouldn’t be leaving for a couple of hours, so they had time to go shopping, at least for a while.

  After lunch, Jun and Kimi put on their coats and sunglasses and said good-bye. Kimi held the door open, and turned to ask Ana if she was coming. Ana shook her head, suddenly wan. She gave Kimi a little hug, then closed the door behind them. When she turned to Jenner, he thought she might start to cry. He put an arm around her shoulder; as her arm
s slipped around his neck, it felt almost natural, the press of her body against his, almost as if it belonged there.

  Bobby Dowling called a couple of hours later: the Smiths had agreed to let Jenner do a second autopsy, but had stipu-lated that he couldn’t examine her head internally. Dowling would meet Jenner at the Gas’n’Go just off the Romen exit on I–80 at 8:00 p.m.

  He left the city in the mid-afternoon, picking up a rental car at National on East Twelfth Street. Past Wilkes-Barre, the fields were covered with snow and the roads were black and slick, the snow along the berm melting and dirty. Near dark, the sun broke through, and the western sky looked like mercury, bright and dense and heavy in patches.

  Dowling was late. The night had brought the cold, and Jenner shivered as he climbed out of the car into the bright light of the overhead lamppost at the Gas’n’Go. He went into the convenience store, newly fitted with acid green siding, a sharp contrast to the semi-derelict gas station. He nuked two frozen burritos and ate them in the car, washing them down with a can of Coke, regretting it immediately afterward.

  He found a PBS station broadcasting a concert of Satie 92

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  piano pieces, and turned up the heater. At around 9:30 p.m., Dowling’s cruiser pulled into the station. Dowling was in uniform, a snappy wide-brimmed hat over his hefty winter coat. He walked across the plaza, one gloved hand outstretched in apology, the other holding up a black case to show Jenner the camera they’d given him to document any findings.

  After exchanging greetings, they got back in their cars, and Jenner followed Dowling onto country roads. Away from the highway, the light died out rapidly. They passed a few farmhouses, isolated in the night and the snow, but little else until Jenner saw the funeral chapel floodlit in the distance. It was a fairly sizable brick building with a colonial white clapboard front, low columns, and a small steeple-like structure on its roof. It was nondenominational and looked churchlike, but not so much that it would put off the nonbe-liever.

  The funeral director, an older black man in black slacks and a short-sleeved white dress shirt without tie, opened the door for them. Mr. Divell was polite and helpful but clearly not enthusiastic—Jenner would be creating more work for him, and, as he told them several times, he had elected not to pass the costs of the additional labor on to the family.

  “I’ll set her up in the embalming room for you, Doctor.

  I am hoping that you brought your own equipment with you—we are a small facility, and we obviously cannot provide the sort of accoutrements to which you are accustomed in your institute.”

  He had a grave air and an obvious fondness for language.

  His voice was surprisingly deep and oaky for a small man, and he pronounced the word accoutrements in the French manner.

  “Thank you for taking the time, Mr. Divell. All I really need is a disposable apron, a pair of gloves, and a scalpel.”

  Mr. Divell gave a slight nod of satisfaction.

  “These things, we can provide you with.”

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  *

  *

  *

  Barbara Wexler got off the 6 train at Twenty-third Street instead of Union Square. She could pick up Paris Match at Dina Magazine Superstore on Twenty-first, and she needed new batteries, and Alkit Camera on lower Park Avenue sold AAs in packs of ten for pretty cheap. She couldn’t remember whether they closed at 6:00 p.m. or later: it was already 6:15.

  Her gamble paid off—Alkit was open until 9:00 p.m.

  Leaving the shop, she realized how much colder it had gotten. She walked down Park into Union Square. The north plaza, in summer filled with local farmers selling fresh fruit and flowers, was barren, empty except for a few skateboard-ers. She turned left on Seventeenth and walked toward her apartment, between Second and Third, opposite Stuyvesant Park.

  Even in winter, she liked the park, with its heavy Victorian cast-iron fencing and concentric oval paths. On its west side, it was bordered by the Friends Seminary, a handsome meetinghouse school in red brick and white trim, the wide proportions elegant confirmation of its Quaker origins. The park could be a little bit creepy—a lot of homeless guys hung out there—but it was a pocket of nature in the middle of the city, and if it wasn’t Michigan, it was a little breath of fresh air among the relentless press of buildings.

  Nearing the park, she narrowed her eyes and scanned the path ahead for weirdos, but couldn’t see much in the shadows. Hurrying to the sidewalk across from the park, she didn’t notice the man standing by a large suitcase, studying the church service schedule; if she had, she wouldn’t have given him more than a second’s thought.

  While her building, a prewar three-story brownstone, had a nice view over Stuyvesant Park, her apartment was a dingy studio toward the back on the third floor. It was a residential block, but both the ground and second floors were offices, a methadone clinic on the first floor, with two shrinks split-94

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  ting the second-floor floor-through; she actually wasn’t too worried by the clinic, but had made a big deal about it when she was bargaining for her rent.

  She collected her mail—junk, mostly—then set off up the stairs. From the second to the third floor there was an abrupt change in the upkeep, the way roads change the moment you cross county lines from an affluent to a poor one. In the gloom of the top landing, the runners were threadbare, and the area behind the balustrade was stacked with broken air conditioners and office chairs. The building was pretty empty at night; sometimes, when the wind picked up, or the old house settled a bit, it could be a little unnerving.

  But with fresh paint and Pottery Barn furniture, she’d made her little apartment warm and cheery. She opened the door with a smile; her cat was in the entryway, pacing in front of the little table where she put her keys.

  She hung her coat on the rack, the cat pressing against her ankles, purring. She glanced at her answering machine: four messages, all old. She didn’t know why she kept Brad’s last message—there was nothing romantic in it. He didn’t even sound friendly.

  She was such a victim! She smiled, and felt good about herself for at least having moved on to the point where she could now smile about her relationship with that asshole. All the same, she thought, it would have been nice to come in out of the cold after a long day to find at least one message waiting.

  She put her magazines (she’d splurged and bought a copy of L’Express in addition to the Paris Match) next to her one chair—another splurge, an oversize, overstuffed armchair.

  She had almost not bought the Match—she could have lived without another tribute to Johnny Hallyday—but there was a good-size piece with lots of photos about Princess Stephanie of Monaco. More than one person had told her she looked a little like Princess Stephanie, and sometimes, after a couple of glasses of chardonnay, she thought so, too. A little.

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  She pulled out a can of cat food for Milo, then cursed as she remembered she had to work on her paper on Ionesco—it was taking her forever. She really didn’t “get” him—absurd is funny, sure, but she didn’t think his writing was such a big deal. She was a French major because she loved France, not because she really cared about modern French literature.

  The buzzer surprised her. Almost 7:00 p.m. She was wary—sometimes addicts showed up at the clinic after hours, and a couple of times she’d had to call the police.

  She pressed down the intercom button and said hello.

  “Hi. This is Detective Willoughby of the Ninth Precinct detective squad. We’re looking for a Barbara Wexler.”

  Surprised and worried, Barbara answered, “This is she.”

  “We’re making inquiries into the death of the Hutchins student, and we’re hoping you might be able to help us. I’m sorry to bother you so late.”

  She could hear his walkie-talkie crackling as he talked.

  “Detective, I don’t think I know
her. I wasn’t in any of her classes.”

  “No, ma’am, we know. But there’s an issue about the pattern of facilities usage, specifically the Stevens Center gym on Thirteenth. We know you go there regularly, and we have a couple of questions. I promise it will only take a minute.”

  She hesitated; then she heard his radio again, and told herself to stop being silly.

  “Of course, Detective. I’d be happy to help in any way I can.”

  She went to wait by the door. She smoothed her hair in the mirror—maybe he was cute. Maybe he was cute and single!

  She smiled; she could be such a damn girl.

  She heard his steps coming up toward her on the stairs, and had to suppress a giggle of excitement.

  The embalming room was larger than Jenner had expected.

  There were two stainless steel embalming tables, one of 96

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  them piled with packaged shrouds and stacked white batting. Metal and glass cabinets ran along the pale green walls, signed inventory sheets taped neatly to their sides. There was a series of steel sinks behind the tables, and a large desk sat at the far end of the room.

  The smell of formalin was fairly strong, but the ventilation system kept it from becoming overpowering. Dowling stood in the doorway, hesitant.

  “Jesus, Bobby! Stop being such a pussy! She’s already embalmed.”

  “Doc, I don’t know what’s worse, the smell of formaldehyde or the smell of decomp—”

  Divell emerged from the corridor behind Dowling, pushing a gurney covered in plastic sheeting. The cop squeezed against the wall to let him pass.

  Divell positioned the gurney between the two tables and then removed the shroud from the body. Jenner saw that the head had been skillfully reattached, the seams barely puck-ered by the twine suturing.

  Divell sprayed a little water onto the embalming table where Jenner would work, a flat sheet of metal perforated with large drainage holes. He then leaned over and grabbed the girl’s arm as Jenner lifted the head of the gurney, allowing Divell to slide the body onto the table.