Saints Of New York

  'No, not at all. This is strictly confidential, Mr Lavelle. It just gives us a heads-up on a possibility with one of the staff.'

  Lavelle paused a moment, then said, 'Richard McKee. His name is Richard McKee.'

  'And how long has he worked for Family Welfare?'

  'Ten, twelve years,' Lavelle replied, 'and he's very good at his job, no question about that. He's never been in trouble. He's actually a model employee really. He works very hard. He's one of those that's here because it's his vocation, not for the paycheck. And I know there's nothing illegal about having magazines—'

  'Depends on what they are,' Radick said, 'and how old these girls were.'

  'Yes, yes of course, but in itself, you know? I mean, I don't—'

  'It's okay, Mr Lavelle,' Parrish interjected. 'We really appreciate your telling us about this. Now, I think it's probably best if we make a start with these interviews, don't you?'

  'Yes, of course. Sorry, I didn't mean to ramble on. I'll get the first one now.'

  Lavelle left the room and Parrish set out a notepad, a couple of pens, a digital recorder. Radick put the files on the table ahead of him, stacked in date order - Melissa beneath, then Jennifer, then Nicole, Karen, Rebecca and Kelly. Parrish also made a note to ask about Alice Forrester, Nicole's stepsister.

  The door opened, the first interviewee came through, and Parrish cleared his throat.

  FORTY-SIX

  Richard McKee was the fourteenth interview. He was in his late thirties, well-dressed, his hair immaculate, his shoes shined. He had on the kind of frameless, non-reflective spectacles worn by those who wished to appear as though they weren't wearing spectacles at all, but every once in a while he turned his head and the light reflected violet and pale blue off the surfaces and obscured his eyes.

  It was nearly two in the afternoon. They had questioned a little more than half of the employees, and - as yet - there had been nothing significant, nothing that raised the hairs on the nape of Parrish's neck. They all seemed willing to assist, understanding of the need to maintain confidentiality, genuinely concerned that there might be a link between their own office and the deaths of at least five young girls, all of whom were in some way already unfortunate, disadvantaged, even lost.

  'Seems such a sad state of affairs when someone who's already a victim is victimized again,' was the comment made by one Harold Kinnear, a fifty-three-year-old veteran of the business. 'Been dealing with adoptees and runaways and state wards and abandoned kids for nearly thirty years,' he went on. it wasn't easy in the Eighties, and it's even harder now. Seems the more civilized and sophisticated we become the less able we are to look after our own children.'

  Parrish felt that Kinnear's last comment could apply to him, perhaps one of the world's very worst parents.

  Parrish found McKee immediately concerned and co-operative. Yes, he had heard about the murder of Jennifer Baumann. Lester Young had told him. Lester had been the case officer for the girl they were interviewing about the possible sexual abuse.

  'I can't remember the girl's name' McKee said. 'The one that had been abused. Lester was her case officer, I know that much. I remember the one that was murdered though. I remember when he told me about it. He went out there with the police to see the Baumann girl, and then he found out someone had killed her. It really shook him up.'

  Radick looked at Parrish. Parrish felt like his heart had dropped into the base of his gut. Lester Young's name had come up for the second time . . .

  'But Lester doesn't work here anymore. He went over to the Probation Service.' McKee sighed audibly. 'I try and remember all the cases, but it's difficult. So many names and faces and files, and we're advised not to make any of it personal.' He looked away for a moment, and then he smiled with effort and looked back at Parrish. 'You try and make it impersonal, businesslike you know, but sometimes you just can't help it.'

  McKee had also heard of Karen Pulaski, though he hadn't been aware of her murder.

  'Of course, anything I knew is now very old,' he said. 'And what I did know, well I don't see that it would be relevant now.'

  'And the others?' Parrish asked him. 'Melissa Schaeffer, Nicole Benedict, Alice Forrester, Rebecca Lange, Kelly Duncan?'

  McKee shook his head, and again the light played off the front of his glasses and obscured his eyes. 'No,' he said, but there was a heartbeat of hesitation in his voice.

  'You're sure, Mr McKee?' Radick said, leaning forward, and Parrish sensed that Radick had picked up on the hesitation also.

  'Like I said, it's hard to remember every face and every name,' McKee said. 'I deal with hundreds of cases every year, some of them closely, some of them in a supervisory capacity, some of them simply because I'm on the referrals checklist. I even do reviews for case officers in training. I look over their files before they are submitted for examination. It's a lot of people in any given year, and these girls . . . well, they go back two years . . .'

  'I just want you to take a moment and think, Mr McKee,' Parrish said, and he repeated the girls' names - each one slowly, carefully, all the while watching for the slightest shift in McKee's expression.

  'No,' McKee said, his tone definite, his expression unchanging throughout. 'I really can't say that any of those other names ring a bell with me. Of course, if anything comes to mind later I'll let you know.'

  'That would be very much appreciated,' Parrish said, and he took out his card and slid it across the table.

  There was silence between Parrish and Radick after McKee had left the room.

  Radick broke it. 'I didn't get anything from him,' he said. 'Okay, so he may or may not have had some skin mags way back when. What the fuck, eh? Most people would think it abnormal if a guy didn't have a few skin mags at some point.'

  'Well, I figure that's sufficient grounds for arrest,' Parrish said, and he smiled sardonically. 'Fact of the matter is that he wouldn't have appeared a great deal different from anyone else we've spoken to, but we had those few words from Mr Lavelle and all of a sudden we're biased.'

  'I didn't get anything from any of them so far. They all seem like decent, concerned people, trying to do a really, really hard job in a really fucked-up system.'

  Parrish leaned forward. 'I agree, but we've spoken to - what? - fourteen of them. Another twelve to go today, and then there's the other twenty-odd on Monday.'

  'I need a break,' Radick said. 'Seriously.'

  Parrish looked at his watch. 'We need to get done,' he said. 'I want to get through these today, and then we can run checks on them tonight and tomorrow. Then we start afresh on Monday with the rest.'

  Radick couldn't disagree, and so he didn't argue. This kind of work did not wait. Word would be out among those who had not yet been interviewed, and if their man was one of them, and in his answers there was something incriminating, then they could not afford to give him any leeway. Let him go home, now apprised of the investigation, and he could remove evidence. The likelihood that this would happen was slim, but often the thinnest thread was attached to the strongest lead.

  Radick and Parrish pressed on - different faces, same questions, over and over with the girls' names. It was as Parrish had suspected. To all intents and purposes these people were good- hearted, somewhat jaded, a little exhausted with the frustrations attendant to any profession where a desire to help was the motivation, but on the surface they appeared to be nothing more nor less than what they said they were. By the time they were finished he could remember only Harold Kinnear and Richard McKee, Kinnear because of the telling comments he had made, McKee simply because of what Lavelle had said about the skin mags.

  Lavelle was last. It was past six. The office was now empty and both Parrish and Radick were mentally battered.

  'I don't know what else to say,' Lavelle began. 'I've been out there talking to them. Some of them remember the girls, others don't. I don't think I dealt with any of the cases directly, couldn't say I've ever spoken to them, but a couple of the files have crossed my d
esk from a referral perspective, you know? The thing is . . . well, you never expect something like this to happen, and there's no way of predicting who might get into trouble, so you can't help but deal with all of them in exactly the same way. Truthfully, certainly for the majority of us, there's no one case that's anymore important than any other.'

  'And from your discussions this afternoon, both with those that we had interviewed and those that were awaiting interview, is there anything that was said by anyone that appeared odd or unusual? Anything on your radar, so to speak.'

  Lavelle shook his head slowly, as if answering the question before he'd even considered it. 'I don't think so. No-one seemed stressed or overly anxious. There's a couple of people who've had homicide cases before. A ten-year-old who was beaten to death by her stepfather, a young boy who was killed by his mother, but it was years ago. Nothing to do with the current investigation. I think the general view is that the world is so fucked up that, well, something like this is bound to happen at some point. It's the career, you know? It's obvious in your case, but there's a lot of professions that deal with the less fortunate members of society, and they're going to touch the edges of this kind of thing every once in a while, aren't they? They're bound to I suppose, one way or the other.'

  'Okay,' Parrish said, tired now of hearing the same thing a hundred different ways. 'We just need your full name, date of birth, Social Security number, address, work history prior to your employment here, and then we're done.'

  Lavelle gave them what they wanted to know, just as all the interviewees had. Not one of them had objected. No-one had even inquired as to whether or not a lawyer or someone from Family Welfare's own legal department needed to be present. Helpful, co-operative, concerned, interested, eager to divulge anything that might help. It was all too easy to forget that the decent people were the majority. Perhaps there was a bad seed here, and perhaps they would find him on Monday.

  Parrish and Radick thanked Lavelle. They shook hands, left him behind to turn out the lights and lock up the building.

  'We have to find Young,' Radick said. 'Lester Young is going to be my priority right now.'

  It was as they reached the car that Parrish was paged. It was Pagliaro. Parrish called him back immediately.

  'I'm at the City Morgue,' Pagliaro said. 'I think we've got your runaway.'

  FORTY-SEVEN

  What little remained of the victim from the trashcan was spread out on a steel operating table. Remnants of clothing and personal possessions sat on an adjacent trolley, and it was from these that Pagliaro extracted the purse - in it the cell phone, gum wrappers, eye drops, condom - and showed it to Parrish and Radick. It was Radick who held up the plastic baggie, within which was the student ID card.

  The forensic pathologist, a genial, red-faced man in his mid- forties, introduced himself.

  'Andrew Kubrick,' he said, and then added with a grin, 'No relation to Stanley.'

  'So who do we have?' Parrish asked, looking at the ID card. 'Is this Melissa Schaeffer?'

  'I don't know yet,' Kubrick said, 'but what I can tell you is that skull morphology and femoral bone dimensions give us a Caucasian female, approximately five-three in height, somewhere around one hundred to one hundred and ten pounds.'

  Kubrick picked up the skull, already detached from the spinal column. 'There's a connective tissue joint between the frontal and parietal bones of the skull. As we get older that joint closes up. How far that suture is closed can give us approximate age. This young lady? I'd say somewhere between sixteen and nineteen.'

  'Any indication of COD?' Radick asked.

  'Strangulation,' Kubrick said, tone matter-of-fact.

  'How can you tell?'

  'Know what the hyoid bone is?'

  'In the throat?'

  Kubrick pointed to a spot on his own neck. 'Horseshoe-shaped bone, only one that isn't articulated to any other bone in the human body. Sits between the chin and the thyroid cartilage. It's a delicate little bone, and it's fractured in about thirty percent of all strangulations. This young lady was strangled, no question. There's no other broken bones, no indication of any damage to the skull.'

  'And how long has she been dead?' Parrish asked.

  'I'd say two, maybe two and a half years. The trash can wasn't airtight, that's for sure. She just broke down in there, much as she would have done had she been buried. Clothes rotted, flesh decomposed. Water got in there, did its work.'

  'Can was found in an alleyway at the end of Bay Street,' Pagliaro said. 'Some bum pushed it over with a shopping cart and the lid came away. It had been wired, but the wire corroded. Soon as it went over the base of the can came away, and there she was.'

  'Is it realistic that a trash can like that could have been in an alleyway for two years with no-one any the wiser?' Parrish asked.

  Pagliaro answered with a 'who knows' expression; Kubrick shrugged, and said, 'I have no idea. Can could have been there all this time, could have been there a week. The lid was wired shut, as your colleague says, but if it was down there with other trash cans and dumpsters I don't think anyone would have necessarily identified the smell of decomposition. Wiring the lid down prevented rats getting in there, that's for sure, but aside from that, well . . . hell, it could have been there all this time without anyone knowing about it.'

  'So how do we formally identify her?' Radick asked.

  'We don't,' Kubrick said. 'We could get a forensic anthropologist to try and reconstruct her face over the skull, but there's little chance of getting approval to do that. Weil do dental, but as far as I can see she doesn't seem to have had any significant work. Teeth are in good condition, no irregular spacing, no major cavities, no overcrowding. She just happens to be one of the very few who wasn't dropped into the orthodontist's chair at three years of age.'

  There was silence for a while - Pagliaro, Radick and Parrish on one side of the table, Kubrick on the other, the broken-down remnants of somebody's daughter on the smooth stainless-steel surface between them.

  is there any hope of determining whether or she was given drugs?' Parrish asked. 'Rohypnol primarily, or any other kind of benzodiazepine?'

  Kubrick was shaking his head before Parrish had even finished the question.

  'Not a prayer,' he said. 'You can pick it up in the hair for a month or so, but beyond that no. It passes very rapidly through the system.'

  'I figured so,' Parrish said, unable to hide his disappointment. 'How was the alley?' he asked Pagliaro.

  'Crime Scene went through it thoroughly but there was nothing there beyond the usual crap you find in such places. Nothing that related to this. What we have is the body, the trash can, the purse and its contents. I'll ask for the phone to be processed and we'll get whatever's on the card downloaded to see who she was calling, who might have been calling her. That should give us the owner of the phone, but that doesn't confirm that the dead girl and the owner of the phone are the same person, just like the ID card doesn't confirm that this is Melissa.'

  'I can take care of the phone,' Parrish said. 'Effectively this is my case now, isn't it?'

  'And you're welcome to it,' Pagliaro said, 'though God knows what you're going to do about formal ID and informing next of kin and all that.'

  'I'm going to proceed on the basis that this is Melissa, certainly as far as the investigation is concerned. I'm not going to speak to her family, not yet . . . hell, maybe never. We can't exactly ask them to come down and ID her—'

  'I'll see what I can do on the forensic anthropologist front,' Kubrick said. 'Sometimes we get graduates from the university down here who do some work for free. For the experience, you know? They're properly supervised so it won't be bullshit, but I can't guarantee anything.'

  'That would be good,' Parrish said. 'I really appreciate that. Anyway, we'll get the phone sorted out, and we'll go from there. I think it's her. I feel in my gut that it is her. I don't see her purse and her phone being put in a trash can with some other girl's body, do you?'
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  'Who knows?' Pagliaro said. 'I stopped being surprised by any of this shit years ago.'

  Parrish thanked him. Pagliaro left. Kubrick said he was off-shift imminently, and he needed to close up the place.

  Parrish took the phone, signed for it, called Valderas as they were leaving.

  'I need you to authorize some work on a cell phone, and I really would like to get it done tonight or tomorrow.'

  Valderas said he'd do what he could.

  Parrish told Radick to take him to the Precinct, drop him there. He planned to start running backgrounds on the employees from South Two.

  'I'll come do it with you,' Radick said. 'And I can see if there's any trail on Young at the same time.'

  'It's okay. I have nothing to do this evening. You go do whatever. I've wrecked one evening for you already, so I'll check on Young as well . . . can't be that hard to find someone who's worked both for Welfare and Probation.'

  Radick hesitated, and then said, 'The thing with Caitlin—'

  Parrish shook his head. 'Forget about it. I was being an asshole. I can be an asshole far too often and far too loudly. It means a great deal to me that you didn't speak to anyone about that. I'll sort things out with her.' He smiled wryly, issues, you know? We all got issues.'

  Radick let Parrish out at the 126th, watched him as he hurried up the steps, carrying the notepads and files, the cell phone in a baggie, and he wondered if he would ever be as alone as Frank Parrish.

  He called Caitlin, shared a few words, and then turned around and headed directly down Hoyt towards Smith Street.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Parrish found Valderas, turned over the cell phone.

  'You got the Schaeffer girl, I hear.'

  'We are assuming it's her, yes.'

  'Not enough left of her to give you anything?'

  'Enough left to tell us she was strangled. That's all we've got.'