Case of Red Lips

The Case of the Red Painted Lips

by

B.D. Adams ©2015

            Early winter – a very cold season in New York City. Mid-January. No more colorful leaves on the trees. Bright sunshine, but no warmth. The sleeping trees looked like old, gray men. Luckily, not much snow right now. All tinsel and party hats have been swept from the streets. Nothing now until St. Patty’s Day.

            Neal Scarpetti of Irish/Italian heritage, had been a New York City Cop for a couple of decades. Neal’s his name and homicide’s his game. He loved his work, but his two ex-wives wanted different things for him. The second wife wasn’t all that wild that he’d keep postponing his retirement. He had not known what a worrier she was. He had been shot only once, many years ago while they were married. A very angry husband (not because of Neal) had an armory of weapons. The husband had barricaded him and his estranged, unfaithful wife in their Tribeca, second floor, walk-up and shot at anything that moved. Neal was clipped, but lived – and so did the wife. The husband wasn’t as lucky. A NYPD SWAT sharp-shooter had him in his crosshairs. But now, Neal would approach retirement, but not too soon. A different kind of death to his mind.

            This morning, he and Frank Mallory, his longtime partner, were loaned-out to Brooklyn. There was a new serial killer from lower Manhattan that might be expanding to that borough. Neither Frank nor Neal were looking forward to this. Serials were nasty assignments, no matter where they happened. There had only been three murders with the apparent same M.O. (Modus Operandi) and this one might be number four!

            The murders began in October – just before Halloween. Then, there was one a month. Each more brutal than the last. All victims were obviously Prostitutes and found in vacant areas outside between buildings. The tie-in for each body was the very red lipstick on and around their lips --- not very artistically painted! And, the jagged cuts and bruising of their breasts were almost the same. What would they see with this victim?

            Neal drove them in their unmarked Crown Victoria – fully loaded -- to the Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn. How appropriate, Neal thought, a murder in a cemetery. This cemetery was a really large expanse with lanes named with trees or flowers. The body was by Tulip Ave. – which was near to a Transit Authority’s corral by 36^th Street. A very noisy area most of the time! If there was a scream in this area, she would not be heard. Sad for this victim, if she screamed.

            Neal parked at the corner of 36^th St. and 7^th Ave. (a very short stretch of 7^th in Brooklyn) facing the wrong way. Other police vehicles were parked across the street to barricade it from thru traffic. The fencing with all the vining foliage was peeled back to accommodate the CSU’s van and the M.E.’s bus (Medical Examiner) when it arrived.

            Neal opened a stick of gum as he exited the car. The gum was because he wanted to kick smoking – a reason for the loss of a recent girlfriend. He loved his work, but he needed a

woman in his life. His current girlfriend wanted to quit, also, so they made a pact. Also, he buttoned his warm, khaki-colored trench coat she had given him. A Christmas gift. Thoughtful person, she was. All he gave her was a sweater. He thought she liked it.

Neal and Frank approached a couple of Brooklyn detectives known to them; Sid Roselli and Lyn Martin, both average bodied for their heights -- Lyn was the shorter man. Sid had dark hair -- Lyn had blondish hair. All the men were in their late fifties or early sixties. Vintage detectives. Frank went ahead of Neal to the body. Photographers busily snapped their cameras.

           “What we got?” Neal asked Sid.

           “Hope your breakfast has digested. It ain’t pretty, Neal,” Sid warned.

           What murder is, Neal mused to himself. He went toward Frank, who looked a little pale as he recovered the body and deserted the scene. Then, Neal saw there were a few uniformed officers who had just up-chucked as they stood near, without contaminating the scene. He lifted the plastic sheet, and then he saw! He saw that this was more brutal than the ones in Manhattan!

           Neal dropped the sheet quickly to cover the victim again -- like he saw something he wasn’t supposed to see! Then, he moved hastily away and lost his recent bagel and coffee!! He grabbed the paper towel handed to him and took a sip of water from the offered bottle.

           After he recomposed, he went back to the victim and knelt to remove the sheet again to do his job. He saw the poor woman was naked and her lips were dramatically painted with very red latex paint! Not feminine lipstick; a new twist. And, her breasts were actually, neatly sliced off! She looked like a cadaver in a college anatomy class -- like the class he attended years ago while in training. This Perp must want to make a bigger statement with this woman, Neal thought to himself!

          She laid on her back and her hands were obviously behind her back; possibly tied like the ones in Manhattan. It looked like her legs were broken, same as the Manhattan victims, but more viciously, more breaks! She was young, probably mid-twenties, with a slender build. At her age, though, she was probably a pro. Her professionally died, reddish hair was matted with blood. More frozen than dried. The pedicure was not cheap. She was a call-girl, not a street-walker. Without a doubt, the work of a woman-hater!

          “We’ve been looking for her boobs …. “ Sid began.

          “Breasts, Sid. Show some respect,” Neal said.

          “Breasts,” he corrected. “Nothing yet. The lips are what did it for me. Why paint the lips with house paint?” Sid said with some remorse. “And, the broken legs! Like … like …”

          “Yeah. I know,” Neal interrupted, and then confessed, “Me, too.” He took out a new stick of gum to chew to calm his reaction. “Any ID?” Neal inquired.

“None we’ve found yet. Still looking … combing,” Lyn offered.

            “How long has she been here?”

            “Over night or two days. She was covered with frost. The M.E. will tell us,” Sid assured.

            “Who is it this time?” Frank asked.

            Sid wryly grinned and said, “Jackson. He’s good, but Simpson will have a fit that the Black M.E. was assigned over him.”

Neal made a sigh of relief. He did not like Dr. Simpson in Brooklyn. He was an old-time

racist! He didn’t like Italians either. There were still a lot of those guys in the Force.

            “Well, if Simpson had a better personality that would be better for him,” Neal suggested for the older M.E. “I’ve worked with Jackson before. He’s thorough and I like him.”

            “Yeah,” Lyn concurred. “He doesn’t demand you call him DOCTOR like Simpson does.” Everyone calmly chuckled at this reality.

            Now, with the lighter air, they got down to business -- especially, since Jackson had arrived.

            “Hi, fellows,” Dr. Mark Jackson greeted. “What’s new?” Even the M.E. grimaced at what he saw. Mark asked, “Have you found her breasts?”

Sid and Lyn shook their heads, no. They made their report since it was their turf. Jackson nodded he understood.

            Neal suggested that the breasts were souvenirs, trophies, for the Perp. All the men nodded with their affirmation.

            A couple uniformed police helped Jackson spread out the larger plastic sheet beside the victim. Before moving the body, Jackson took out his thermometer to push the point into her liver to determine how long she had been dead.

            “Looks like anywhere from 36 to 48 hours,” Jackson mused. “OK, gang, see the adhesive residue around her mouth that the paint isn’t hiding.” He turned her head slightly to better show the detectives. “She was heavily gagged. Probably with construction Duct-tape. Then, her lips were painted after the tape was removed and after she was dead. Her lips don’t show any wrinkling like if her lips were pursed, puckered or stretched like in a scream.” One of the Crime Scene members took tweezers to extract a sample. Jackson allowed this as he pointed to a good slice. There was no tape seen in the area.

Then, after he tested the dryness of the paint on her lips, he requested of Sid, “Let’s turn her over on to the sheet. I want to look at her hands.”

            “But …” Sid started. He pointed to her horribly broken legs.

            “But, what, Sid?” Jackson asked calmly, and then said, “Her broken legs don’t hurt now. Is that what bothers you?” They managed to roll her to her stomach, while the photographers took more shots of this angle.

            “You’re not old enough to remember when Lawrence Taylor with the Giants broke Joe

Thiemann’s leg on Monday Night Football, which ended his football career,” Sid reminded.

            “And that was because of a black guy. Right?” Mark said plainly, while he continued his examination.

            “No, Mark. It was because of a great defensive back. Black or white.” Sid said very matter-of-factly. “It was Thiemann’s bad luck, a good quarter-back of the time. That’s all.” He didn’t look at Mark, but expected a reaction.

            “Sorry, Sid,” Mark apologized. “Sometimes I suffer from Simpson-itis.”

            They smiled a knowing smile to each other and proceeded to do their work. Neal was happy to see this. Lyn helped to straighten the woman’s legs. Sid was relieved.

“OK …look at her wrists. She’s been tied or cuffed twice. See the bruising?” Jackson pointed out.           

“So she was moved to here before she died?” Lyn speculated.

            “I believe so, but I’ll know more once we get her to my lab,” Mark stated. “See these puncture wounds on each side of her butt cheeks? (he rarely used medical terms) Because of the bruising, something was passed through the holes. Just one object. I believe her butt was pierced while she was alive. Had to be extremely painful, as well! Were the victims in Manhattan wounded like that?” He waited for Neal or Frank to answer.

            “How’d you get so smart?” Neal asked with a teasing wink. “Yes, all three had the same wounds. Our M.E. is still investigating, though. Give him a call. He’ll welcome your insight.”

            “Well, let’s roll her to her back, get her bundled, so I can get her to the lab,” Mark

requested, but also asked, “No ID? (the detectives shook their heads) I’ll get busy on her prints.”

            He left the crime scene with the body to the detectives and the CSU team.

=======

            The alcoholic bum who “found” the body had been detained for the detectives to interrogate. And, he was a drug user from the needle tracks on his arms. He was average height, skinny because he drank more than he ate. As with any bum, his clothes were filthy and so was his body. He stunk! He was given coffee and a vending machine sandwich, hopefully to sober him up. Because he was so drunk/stoned, when he was left alone in the “cage,” he passed out on the floor in a corner.

            Detective Roselli called Belleview to come and get him. He needed to be detoxed. If it worked, they might be able to talk with him later that day or tomorrow morning.

            However, the doctor at Belleview informed that the bum wouldn’t be available until the

morning, if then. He was also shot-up with a large amount of Heroin. The doc was amazed he was still alive! A Uniform was assigned to the bum’s hospital door, even though he was cuffed to the bed.

=====

            At 6pm, it was pitch black. Neal dropped Frank off at his street corner so he could go home to his wife and two kids. He really envied Frank’s family life. Neal had no children – two wives, but no children.

            Neal was only a short trip to the East Village to his Rent-Control apartment where he had lived since the second wife. He would never give up this Rent-Control. Too valuable!

            At his street’s corner, there was a neighborhood bar that had the ethnic diversity for the patrons – Irish and Italian. O’Luigi’s Pub was the name. He parked his unmarked police vehicle (even though it was obvious) more near to his apartment house. There was no underground parking for this building. Oh, well … the area was peppered with resident lawmen. And there were cameras everywhere. He smiled at this thought, as he left the car and locked it.

            The noise of the bar could be heard very well, nearly a block and a half away. A very busy place even during the week. Shortly, Neal entered the bar and was greeted by other police comrades, as he hung his coat on one of the wall hooks for that purpose. The bartender, an attractive and voluptuous woman in her fifties, handed him an Old-Fashion glass filled with Bushnell’s Irish Whiskey, a sipping whiskey. Maria and Neal were … involved. He really needed her involvement tonight since he had dealt with that dead woman of this morning.

            He sat at the bar and began to sip his drink. Maria was savvy and left him alone with his

drink, so he could unwind from his day. They did catch each other’s eye; a small game for them. A pleasant game. Not planned, but Chris Isaac’s song, Wicked Games, played on the Jukebox.

            Neal felt the song’s lyrics were appropriate, as he took a decent sip. Then, his cell phone vibrated. It was Sid.

            “Scarpetti,” Neal answered.

            “You’re not going to believe this!” Sid stated.

            “Oh, Christ … what now?”

            “There’s a new body here and there’s a new bum, also. But, he’s dead.”

            “You’re kidding.”

            “No kidding.”

            “In the cemetery?”

            “No. In an abandoned apartment at the Projects on Avenue X. A resident’s dog alerted the owner, the owner notified the Super,” Sid said. “The responding cops had enough know-how to notify us.”

            “Same M.O.?”

            “We’re waiting for you and Frank.”

            “Where was the bum found?” Neal wanted to know.

            “Outside the building with the needle still in his arm. Could be Coke, or Crack -- could be Heroin, like the guy in Belleview. Jackson’s team is already on it!”

            “All right. I’ll get Frank. We’ll be there soon.”

            The bum was a new part of this killer’s M.O. In any part of New York, a dead bum was no reason to take notice. But now, it was more obvious that they could be part of the killer’s plan – not just coincidental.

            Neal caught Maria’s eye and held up his cell phone. She understood what that meant and gave him a sad, knowing smile. He would make it up to her.

            He called Frank, and then he picked him up at the same corner where he had let him off only a couple hours ago. No rest for the wicked.

= To be continued next month – February =