"Likely To Die" - читать интересную книгу автора (Fairstein Linda)

6

YOU KNOW HOW I HATE TO START OFF BY agreeing with Chapman, but most days it really does look like the inmates are running the asylum,“ I commented as I turned to my padful of case notes, ”and with a good number of problems contributed by some of the staff, too.“

“Chief,” Peterson said by way of explanation to McGraw, who was not used to prosecutors playing a role in a police briefing, “I asked Alex to round up all the sexual assault cases she’s had in any of our hospitals during the last couple of years. My guys wouldn’t know about anything that wasn’t a homicide, so I thought it might be useful ‘cause of the way Dogen got it in this case.”

“Sarah and I pulled everything we could think of, but it’s just a sampling. Any of your loved ones thinking about elective surgery in the near future, try the Animal Medical Center or a visiting nurse service-these big hospitals could kill you. I’ll start close to home.

“Here at Mid-Manhattan we’ve got a few open investigations. The 17th Squad just locked up a janitor who’s only worked in the place for three months. He likes to slip into a white lab coat, look for rooms with women patients who don’t speak English-they don’t seem to question his presence, probably because they can’t. The women assume he’s a doctor, so when he pulls back the covers and starts to do a vaginal exam they submit to it. His name’s Arthur Chelenko-arrested and fired two weeks ago. Only then did Personnel get a record check. He was fired from Bronx Samaritan last year for doing exactly the same thing. Just lied on his résumé-no one checked it out-and he’s back here in business again.”

“In jail?”

“No. He made bail-he’s out pending indictment and trial.”

McCabe, Losenti, and Ramirez-the three detectives who’d get stuck with doing the legwork-were taking down all the information and I passed them copies of Chelenko’s rap sheet, with his address and pedigree information.

“Any history of violence?” Wallace asked.

“Not according to his sheet. But, of course, we’ve got to factor in the grudge motive, or the possibility of a frenzied response if his intention was a sexual assault and Dogen struggled with him.

“Then there’s Roger Mistral. Anesthesiologist. Got a heads-up from the D.A.‘s office in Bergen County, New Jersey, when they heard about the murder on the morning news. They convicted Dr. Mistral of rape last month-found him in an empty operating room having intercourse with a patient he’d resedated with a horse tranquilizer after she came out of surgery for a foot injury.”

“What does that have to do with Mid-Manhattan?”

“Maybe nothing. We’re checking his records, too, though. Would you believe that the state licensing people here in New York, the Office of Professional Discipline, issued a ruling right after the jury verdict that his conviction won’t be final until he’s sentenced in May? Well, they did. So he’s still allowed to be doing per diem work anywhere on this side of the Hudson River for another six weeks.”

McGraw asked if we knew his whereabouts for the past forty-eight hours. “Can he account for his time since Monday night, when Dogen was back in town?”

“Nobody’s talked to him yet,” I ventured in response. “His wife kicked him out after the Jersey trial so we don’t have a current address on him. Rumor has it that he sleeps on an examining table in one of the X-ray rooms in whatever hospital he’s spending his time in ‘cause he’s too cheap to spring for a hotel. Somebody from the team will have to talk to him when he shows up for duty tomorrow. We’re checking all the local staff.”

“Talk to him?” Chapman broke in. “I’d like to beat the crap out of him. The only difference between what he did to an anesthetized patient and necrophilia is that the body was still warm. What the hell is that kind of thing all about?”

“Come to my lecture for the Lenox Hill Debs tomorrow night, I’ll try to explain it. Now, Sarah Brenner has an active one. She’s got a complaint about an attending ob-gyn. He’s a world-renowned fertility expert with an office on Fifth Avenue. He’s got privileges at Mid-Manhattan, as well as three other East Side hospitals, so he’s in and out of here all the time. No record-name’s Lars Ericson. Victim claims he raped her when she came into town from New Hampshire last month.”

“Has he been collared yet?”

“Not-”

McGraw barked at me. “What are you waiting for?”

“Well, Chief, the victim suffers from multiple personality disorder-she’s thirty or forty different women, depending on what day of the week you talk to her. It seems that two or three of her personalities wanted to have sex with Dr. Ericson, but at least one of the others didn’t want to consent. Sarah’s trying to figure out which one made the complaint.”

Wallace passed behind me to grab a soda out of the refrigerator, whispering as he bent over, “Welcome to the wacky world of sex crimes. This should be an eye-opener for the Chief.”

McGraw wasn’t amused.

“Then we have our stalker: Mohammed Melin. Remember De Niro inTaxi Driver? Well, this guy makes him look easy. Melin drives a yellow. Owns a medallion. Seems he had some kind of prostate infection, so he showed up in the emergency room here late one night. A young resident treated him-she’s a very good doctor, and she’s lovely as well. Examined him, prescribed some medication, and simply rubbed a little salve onto his penis-fifteen minutes of tender loving care and she hasn’t been able to get rid of him ever since that encounter.”

“Actually, Chief, that’s how it started with Coop and me,” Chapman interjected. “One stroke and I’ve been following her like a slave for ten years. Love reallyis a many-splendored thing.”

I ignored him and went on with my litany. “Now Mohammed waits outside the hospital in his cab whenever he’s in the area. Elena Kingsland-she’s the doctor-finishes a shift, walks out of the hospital exhausted in the middle of the night. She steps off the curb to hail a cab and there’s Mohammed. No charges against him yet, if you can imagine it-just sitting in his taxi on a public street, not doing anything to anybody according to the Penal Law. Twice he’s been caught in the hospital, roaming around trying to find Kingsland at 3 or 4A.M. Those arrests for trespass have been misdemeanors, so he’s been walked in and out of the system both times. We’ve been trying to work him up for something more serious. Finally found a welfare fraud and we now have a warrant for his arrest on that case, but he hasn’t been around in at least three weeks.”

That was all I had on the list for Mid-Manhattan Hospital. Wallace watched me put down the first pad and reach for the next one in the pile, where I had gone on to note incidents in other facilities.

“Hey, Alex, don’t forget that one I’m sitting on in Stuyvesant. We’ll have an answer on that in a few weeks.”

“Tell them about it, Mercer. I didn’t even include it in the roundup. Sorry, my fault.”

“There’s a twenty-six-year-old woman in the psych wing. She was emotionally disturbed as a teenager. Tried to kill herself with an overdose when she was seventeen. Been in a coma ever since. Almost ten years and the most she can do is move her eyelids from time to time. They’ve had her on life support, in long-term care, at Stuyvesant for all that time.”

I remember being struck by the horror of that story four months ago when Mercer first came to me with the case. It still hurt to hear him describe the unthinkable.

“Well, she’s about four weeks away from giving birth. The fact that she hasn’t been conscious for a decade didn’t stop somebody from climbing on top of her bones and raping her. The security’s real tight on her wing, so if it’s not her old man-her parents and sisters are her only visitors after all these years-it’s obviously some sick bastard who works there.”

McGraw and the others who had not known about the case were shaking their heads in amazement.

“Suspects?” Lieutenant Peterson asked.

“Everyone from the broom pushers who swab her cubicle to the head shrink on the service,” Mercer responded. “Cooper got us a court order so we could draw blood and do DNA on the fetus. Then we’ll be getting the same thing from every one of the guys who had access to her. We’ll nail him.”

I continued on my institutional odyssey around Manhattan in which not a single private or public hospital seemed to have been spared the indignity of some kind of sexual assault on the premises within the past three years. Occasionally, the assailants were health-care professionals themselves; frequently, they were technical workers who were assigned to the departments essential to the operation of these little villages-maintenance, food services, janitorial staff, aides, and messengers. Sometimes they were patients, free to move about from one area of the hospital to almost any other, and often they were interlopers who wandered into these enormous structures with no business being inside at all.

“Obviously, we’ve got to look at everybody-from the professional staff to the underground population.” I had already learned the hard way that it was better to cast a very wide net at the start of an investigation in order not to overlook any potential suspects.

By the time we had gone around the room and each of the detectives had described his actions for the day, it was close to ten o’clock. McGraw told Wallace to turn up the volume on the television and switch it to Fox 5 News to catch the headline stories. One of the guys who had retired from the squad was now covering the crime beat for the station, and from the posture of attention McGraw suddenly assumed it was obvious he had leaked something to his former protégé in order to get his face on the tube.

Mike shook his head and suppressed a snide remark as all our business stopped so McGraw could admire himself on the screen, telling the public that his detectives had a lot of great leads and expected to have someone in custody by the weekend. The guys in the room didn’t appear to be surprised by his phony optimism, just annoyed. The moment the camera lens shifted to the Mayor’s face, McGraw rejoined our group.

“Who’s got the autopsy?”

“The Chief’s doing it himself in the morning,” Chapman answered. “I’m observing.”

Good news for me. I had enormous respect for the Chief Medical Examiner, Chet Kirschner, and an easy relationship with him. I was likely to have preliminary results of the procedure by tomorrow afternoon.

“Motives,” McGraw went on. “Who’s thinkin‘ what?”

“Could be a straight-out sexual assault,” Jerry McCabe offered. “Pick from any one of your categories of guys walking around these empty halls at night. Late Monday, around midnight, say, he comes across a woman alone in her office. She’s strong. Thinks she can fight him off. Can’t overcome the knife. Bingo.”

“Just as easy for it to be a burglary, and Dogen surprised him in the middle of it,” countered Wallace. “Even though the wallet’s still there, doesn’t mean there isn’t something missing and we’re not yet aware of what it is.”

Wallace was one of the most thorough detectives I had ever worked with. His methodical mind would be certain to go over every object in the doctor’s office, looking for any paper, file, or book that had been moved or rifled through. He went on. “Maybe he was in there, starting to look for something to steal, when she showed up in the office. He panicked and what started as a robbery became a sexual assault.”

“Yeah, but which came first, the rape or the stabbing?”

McGraw was too stubborn to throw that question directly at me and too stupid to know that I wouldn’t be able to answer it, either. Most people liked to think that logically the forced sex act had occurred before Gemma Dogen’s firm, trim body had been shredded into ribbons of bloodied skin. But there is no logic in this world of murderers and madmen. I had seen just as many cases in which the attacker had become aroused by the frenzied act of killing and then committed the sexual assault as an afterthought.

Chapman said, “Let’s wait and see what Kirschner finds. We’re all just guessing at this point.”

McGraw was still looking for a motive. “Say it’s not one of these lunatics, for the sake of argument. Keep your eyes open for somebody who had a reason to do this. When you talk to her colleagues, see who benefits from getting her out of the way. Who replaces her as head of the department. Get hold of her will and see who gets the money. Don’t overlook the usual stuff here just ‘cause it’s in a hospital.”

The men around the table were closing up their pads and getting ready to stand up for a stretch. They had heard what they had come in here for, and were ready to blow off McGraw in favor of food and a night’s rest. Despite what he had said on the news about closing this case quickly, they knew the greater likelihood was that there were going to be endless round-the-clock shifts of interviews and interrogations for weeks to come unless or until one of them got very lucky.

I walked toward Lieutenant Peterson as I remembered to ask him about the eight men who had been in the holding pen when I entered the squad room. “What are they in here for, Loo?”

“Jeez, Alex, those are some of the guys we found living in the hospital corridors. This was just on the first sweep of the Mid-Manhattan building today. I’m not talking about the tunnels or the psych wing or the grounds. A couple of ‘em were in empty patient rooms, and one was sleeping on a gurney in a hallway near a storage area. Ramirez’ll have to tell you exactly where they were. He’s got it all charted out. I got a couple of men talking to each one of ’em now.”

“Are they sus-”

“I don’t know if they’re suspects, or witnesses, or simply poor old souls without a roof over their heads, so don’t ask me. They were just somewhere they ain’t supposed to be, living in a hospital, so now they’re in the middle of a homicide investigation and I don’t know what to do with them myself.”

We were both thinking the same thing. Each one of them was a potential lead in our case and the moment we let them out the door of the precinct we were not likely to find them again. I was treading on sensitive territory. If they were being kept here, in a holding pen, then any questioning of the men by detectives would be viewed by the courts as custodial interrogation. The police conduct would be considered coercive. The judge eventually assigned would criticize the length of time each man had been detained without legal counsel and examine the conditions under which he had been confined.

It was obvious Peterson’s team could not ignore these Mid-Manhattan freeloaders, but we had to think of the legal ramifications. And we had to do it now. The value of any information we got from these individuals would be compromised by the manner in which we obtained it.

I tried again. “What are you going to do with the men after they’re interviewed?”

McGraw snapped at me as he picked up a telephone to dial out, almost inhaling his cigarette butt in his haste to open his mouth and respond. “They’re ourguests, Miss Cooper. Understand that? I’ve extended the hospitality of the precinct to them-for tonight and for as long as they want it. So before you write me up and snitch on me to your boss, take a good look around out there.”

Peterson shrugged his shoulders as McGraw dropped the receiver and motioned for me to follow him to the archway that led into the main squad room. His booming voice continued to ring out. “The door to the pen is wide open. See it? These gentlemen are free to sleep on the bench or the floor. We’ve been feeding them better than they’ve eaten in years. Haven’t we, Scrubs?”

A grizzled old man with no hair and dried scabs all over his forearms looked up at McGraw from his perch on the edge of a detective’s desk.

“That one’s called Scrubs. Says he can’t remember his real name. Had nowhere to go when he was discharged from Stuyvesant Psych four and a half years ago, so he just made the hospital his home. His shopping cart is down by the precinct garage, full of green uniforms and God knows what else. He steals-make that ‘borrows’-surgical scrubs from the linen supply closets and sells them to other homeless guys without clothes.

“You hungry, Scrubs?”

“No, sir.”

“Any of my boys feed you today?”

“Yessir, Mr. Chief. Had me two sweet rolls and a pastrami sandwich. And five Coca-Colas.”

“Tell the lady what else you did today.”

“Watched television. Right in that room where you is. Saw cartoons, saw wrestling, saw a picture of the lady doctor what got killed over at my place.”

“You know her?”

“Never seen her ‘cept on television.”

“Where do you want to go tonight, Scrubs?”

I had the distinct feeling the poor old guy had been asked this question earlier in the day, before he was made to perform for me.

“Happy to stay right here with you, long as you’ll keep me.”

McGraw turned to eyeball me. “Tellthat to Paul Battaglia, will ya? I don’t want anybody thinking I’m rough riding over these nutjobs. I’m taking very good care of them until I know what we got here. Those are my orders.”

I figured I’d better save the $64,000 question for Peterson. As McGraw stormed away from me, I looked over at the lieutenant and quietly asked, “What if any of them told you he wanted to walk out of here tonight. Are they free to leave?”

Chapman brushed past me as one of the men handling the phones yelled out his name. “Let her take a couple of them back to her place for the night, Loo. She’s got a real soft spot for the old guys, don’t you, Coop? She won’t cook for them, but I guarantee they’ll be back here tomorrow with fine-looking new threads on, every one of them.”

“You know I can’t let any of ‘em walk out the door, Alex. They obviously don’t like to stay in shelters, and none has a single family contact to give us. We’ll never see them again. We printed each guy-”

“Youwhat? ”

“Alex, they consented to it.”

“This kind of ‘consent’ won’t hold up for ten seconds when we get to court. You know better than that. Heaven forbid any one of these men has anything to do with Dogen’s murder, we’ll lose all the evidence you get out of this.”

“Actually, on a couple of the name checks we ran in the computer there are outstanding warrants for at least three of them. Minor stuff-jumping the turnstile, petit larceny, criminal trespass. Nothing to suggest violence but just enough to let us keep them in our care until we take them down to the courthouse to arraign them on the charges.”

More complications. “So do you know if they’ve got lawyers on the pending cases?”

“Easy, Alex. We didn’t run the name checks ‘til after we asked all the questions. I know you don’t like the way we’re running this aspect of it, but we really don’t have any choice under the circumstances.”

I wasn’t going to resolve this tonight, but it would be first on my list to take up with Rod Squires in the morning. As Chief of the Trial Division, he had taken on McGraw more frequently, with more success, than any dozen of my colleagues combined.

I packed my notepads back into the Redweld, walked over and sat on the chair next to Mercer’s desk while we both waited for Chapman to get off the phone.

“What do you feel like eating?” I asked, since I was picking up the dinner tab.

“I got a real craving for Chinese food tonight.”

“Shun Lee Palace?”

“Attagirl, Cooper. That’s the best.”

Chapman replaced the receiver, said his goodnights, and joined us as we stood to walk out.

“Could be the break we need. That was a psychic who called in. She saw the story about Gemma Dogen on the early news and has been getting vibrations all evening. Told me that if I could give her a few more details, she might divine the killer’s identity for us by morning.

“Don’t screw up your puss at me like that, Blondie. How do you know it won’t work?”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her to join the three of us for dinner and we’d discuss it with her.”

“Mike, I really don’t feel like ending my night with-”

“Relax, Cooper, don’t lose your sense of humor the first day. Where’re we going? I didn’t tell her the name of the restaurant and I didn’t tell her what time we’d be there. I just told her that if she was areal psychic, she’d show up. C’mon, Mercer, let’s get out of here.”