Gladyss of the Hunt. Arthur Nersesian
first two women were both naked, and their bodies were positioned beside the bed. The top of their bodies pointed north and their feet always point south. He also taped up the limbs in both cases.
“The main differences between the three murders are: one, the location, and two, the numbers he carved into their foreheads,” he said, repeating what he’d told me at the crime scene.
“Are there any defensive wounds?”
“No, nor was there any epidermis under their nails. He drugged and strangled Mary Lynn MacArthur. Actually, first he stabbed her with a screwdriver.”
“How’d he decapitate her?”
“The cuts indicate a knife, but I don’t know why he didn’t also use it as the murder weapon.”
“Did they find prints, hair, fiber, anything like that?” I asked. I was hoping to match Noel’s hair with something.
“Oh yeah, all that stuff. But the problem is, there are no matches between any of the three locations.”
Bernie continued giving me background: Initially they had canvassed the area looking for witnesses and surveillance tapes from surrounding businesses. Nothing turned up. They had tracked down the escort services that handled the girls, and found that the killer had used stolen credit cards, never the same one. All three guys who’d had their cards stolen worked in midtown; other than that, no connections. The squad had spent the last few weeks going through the list of the victims’ regulars. Again, no cross clients. They found johns with records, but nobody with anything serious. In short, the trail was cold.
A week ago, a profiler from Police Plaza, Barry Gilbert, had been assigned to the case. I remembered him from the academy, where he’d taught a class in forensic psychology: an intense guy with a shiny widow’s peak.
“Barry thinks we’re looking for a young white guy who is organized and modestly up on forensics,” Bernie continued. “He probably has a history with hookers. He might have some priors for drugs, prostitution, and maybe credit card fraud, since he’s used them for paying the ladies. Considering the hot-sheet dives he takes them to, I’m guessing he’s broke. And he probably has sexual problems, seeing how he hasn’t screwed any of the vics.”
“Did Dr. Gilbert say anything about the taped-up limbs or the carved numbers?”
“He said considering the way the limbs were lassoed and the numbers looked branded on, we might be looking for a cowboy. I think he was kidding.”
“It’s so strange,” I thought aloud, recalling my academy classes, “that one day, out of the blue, some john plans not just a murder, but the whole mutilation and post mortem numbering thing. In cases like this, isn’t there usually an earlier version of the murder?”
“Crystal Hodges,” Bernie responded. “Barry thinks I’m way off, particularly ’cause it was so long ago, but she was the only blonde hooker I could find whose murder could’ve been an early draft of the current ones.”
“Was she tall?”
“Six feet and blonde. She was drugged and strangled, and her head was nearly hacked off. It all fits the M.O. But it was in the early Eighties.”
“They never found the killer?”
“Everyone figured her pimp did it, because he was later arrested for killing another hooker, but he swore up and down he didn’t, even though he confessed to the other murder.”
“Shouldn’t you interview him?”
“He died in jail in ’87, so who the hell knows.”
Bernie’s phone rang. He said he needed a moment, so Annie took me into her office. She said their top priority today was finding out the identity of victim number three. They had taken her fingerprints and were waiting for her arrest record to turn up.
I said I was amazed they hadn’t found more evidence at the scene.
“Her purse was missing, so there was no ID or anything. The killer must’ve took it,” Annie said.
“Or the maid,” Alex muttered.
“Maybe the killer dropped her lipstick. I found some on the staircase,” I told her. “But it wasn’t in the actual crime scene so Bernie chucked it.”
“And Alex said Bernie was just looking for someone cute to work with . . . Then here you are finding lipstick.”
“What kind of guy is Bernie?”
“Neither sleazy nor easy. He’s actually a great cop who’s going through a tough patch.”
“He said his partner died?”
“Bert passed away late last year, yes.”
“How did Bert’s daughter pass away?”
“What daughter?”
“Juanita?” I asked.
“That was Bert’s wife, his third wife,” Alex interjected.
“He liked them young,” Annie added.
“Where’d you hear about her?” Alex asked.
“I just saw the memorial card in Bernie’s office.”
“She died of AIDS about five years ago,” Annie confided. “It’d be wise not to mention any of this to Bernie. One of the many things that will suddenly make him explode.”
“He can be very moody, but he wasn’t always that way,” Alex said. “Things started going bad after the Towers came down.”
“Both of them went down there. Bernie and Bert were pulling as much overtime as they could to boost their retirement package,” Annie completed. “Then Bernie came back with a cough that wouldn’t go away—”
“—And a firm decision not to resign,” Alex tossed in.
“—But Bert just got sicker.”
“You have to understand,” Alex said, “Bert was more than the captain here—he really was a father to us all. He ran the show and we all loved him.”
“He only just died,” Annie replied.
The two of them really did finish each other sentences, it was kind of annoying.
“But he had been fighting cancer for years,” she went on. “Thin as a rail. Always going in for more treatment.”
“Actually I think it was the foot injury . . .” It was Alex’s turn. “That’s when Bernie started getting grouchy.”
“He said it felt like a snake had bit him,” Annie added.
“What happened to his foot?” I asked.
“Toward the end of the recovery period, Bernie fell through a hole at the Pile—that’s what they called Ground Zero—and shattered his foot in a million places,” Alex explained.
“It’s been operated on like a half a dozen times.”
“No sooner had he checked out of the hospital the last time, his foot still in a fucking cast, then Gayle moved out.”
“So within three months he loses his partner and his wife files for separation. Now he’s gasping for air, forced to stop smoking, and he’s got a bum foot, no running around.”
“He’s barely able to walk. But what’s worse is that he’s as angry as a Tasmanian Devil on steroids.”
“Someone said he had a nickname,” I hinted.
“Burnout Farrell,” Annie answered. “Don’t ever say it in front of him.”
“After Bernie had punched out a couple suspects and almost shot a young detective who was going to be his partner,” Alex said, “the new captain put him on modified duty, hoping he’d get tired and