Red Lips -- Part 2

 

 

 

Case of the Red Painted Lips

Part 2

by

B.D. Adams ©2015

 

N

eal poured freshly brewed coffee from his ancient, but dependable, electric percolator into his favorite mug. Every morning, the pot tasted so good – never bitter. Black coffee, always black. And, he really wanted to smoke, but he was a good boy.

               Maria preferred Latte, sweet coffee. He didn’t begrudge her taste. The bar only had regular coffee makers, no special coffee. She woke earlier and left before he rose, so she could get her choice in the Deli near the bar. There was no cream or milk in Neal’s fridge this morning. He should be more conscious of her needs in his place.

He knew she wasn’t just a bartender – she was the go-to manager for the bar’s deliveries. Especially the early deliveries of pastry, produce and meat. A multi-faceted venue. The owner’s nephew had a key for the liquor deliveries.

The bar would be open for breakfast soon to sell the pastries. Also, in the afternoon to late night, appetizers were served to go with the patrons’ drinks -- not just popcorn or peanuts. Her decision of the Cook, and food ideas, pleased the Irish owner, who was married to an Italian woman.

Maria had had only a couple of hours of sleep, so she would go back to her tiny, studio apartment after the morning deliveries. She lived in Little Italy, good Italian woman she was, to get a decent nap so she could be rested before the evening/night shift – her preferred shift.

That was good because Neal rarely did an 8 to 5. More like 8 to whenever. He should give her a key to his place – he trusted her. After a year, he should. Definitely decided that he was falling in love with her. Potential marriage? He wasn’t sure of that … yet.

He was proud of her, though. Recently, she had taken classes to better manage the bar. They were evening classes on her scheduled nights off work. Maria was braver than he. Too cold at night in New York, especially during the recent Fall!

            Even with the very cold outside this morning, his Rent Controlled apartment was toasty with the old steam-heat boiler in the basement. He wore his sweatpants and shirt and the nice house shoes Maria had given to him, also for Christmas. He took his mug to sit in his tattered, dark brown cloth recliner chair that had a few coffee stains on the arms. Right now, it was 7:00am and life was good.

            His bedroom and tiny kitchen had only one window each, but the living room had two, tall windows that faced East. This was his morning room, especially when the sun blared on cloudless mornings. This was a cloudless morning, however, the sky just hinted the sun around the buildings to the East. A winter morning. No matter, his chair was positioned, so he could sit in the sun, when it rose. He just sat comfortably to drink his coffee and to become more awake.

            Of course, Neal couldn’t just leisurely roll into his mornings. Not this one, anyway. He and Frank had schlepped to Brooklyn last night to see another gruesome murder. Presumably, the same MO as the others. The killer doubled his killings with this one, if it was the same. They would wait for the results from the Crime Scene Unit team.

His coffee mug rested on the card table by his chair, which was strewn with photos, typed descriptions and DNA reports from his briefcase. He began his morning perusal of this case. His captain allowed him to take paperwork home because of his experience and his “hunches.” Naturally, all of what he had were copies.

             Cause of death for the women was “blunt force trauma” – bashed in heads – and massive loss of blood. The murders happened somewhere else, not where they were found. The new paperwork, additional investigations he picked up yesterday, showed these women were not hookers, as first thought. The one in the cemetery was a call-girl; a high priced hooker.

She was the only one that didn’t appear raped, according to M.E. Mark Jackson. All the other women were raped. Definitely, a condom was used – no DNA -- plus there were no fingerprints from the killer. This guy knew what he was doing, Neal mused.

            The only difference with the body last night was it was found in a building. All of the others were found outside; two in vacant lots, one at a construction site and one in the cemetery. Was the killer trying to tell the police something? All the women lived alone, no roommates or steady boyfriends. Did they date the killer? Did he hire the call-girl?

The others had regular jobs – nothing flashy. They lived in dwellings in the vicinity of the bodies. The call-girl, however, lived in a nice mid-town apartment. Odd she was found in a Brooklyn cemetery. Many twists with this case.

            The dead bum last night was a local from the first questionings. Not a bad guy, just drunk or high all the time. And, after the idea came to mind that the bums were part of this killer’s MO, it was determined that all the murdered women had a dead bum near to the bodies – not real close, but close enough. All were heroin overdoses.

Neal played with the idea that the killer might need the bums because he was not all that strong. He might need help to carry/lift the women to the locations where they were found or to be look-outs while the killings took place. Neal decided the bums were not physically active in the killings. But then, you never knew. He and Frank and the Brooklyn detectives told the uniformed street teams to get the word out to the known addicts about someone who would pay them in dope, good dope, to help him carry something. There was a reward for their information. Only time would tell.

            Hopefully, the only bum who lived from the cemetery, now at Belleview, would be able to give some answers/insights. Neal would call the hospital as soon as he was at his desk.

            The Manhattan Team had been working on the call-girl’s apartment. The desk in her bedroom showed she was a successful prostitute. And, very attractive when not mutilated.

            Sid Roselli, one of the Brooklyn detectives, assigned uniformed police to canvas the building in Brooklyn this morning -- for what someone might have seen or heard. The building’s Super had confirmed the woman lived in his building. Soon, Sid and Lyn Martin (the other Brooklyn detective) would hike back to the building to survey the woman’s apartment to collect what additional evidence they could. The Brooklyn CSU was probably still there being thorough.

            While he sat and sipped his coffee, it occurred to him that he might need to protect Maria. Three of the killings were in lower-Manhattan, near where she lived and worked.

Neal finished his coffee, and then headed to the bathroom.

 =======

            Since he had the motor-pool car, Neal picked Frank up. Frank’s wife was the only other percolator coffee maker of which Neal knew. She always included a Styrofoam cup for him when he drove. He wondered if Maria would do this for Frank. Not important.

            They both wore dark suits and heavy overcoats. Today, Neal wore an argyle sweater vest of dark green and maroon, under his suit jacket. This was his Irish taste, even though it was more Scottish. Maria had mentioned that it made him seem debonair. What a word.

            As soon as they got into the Squad Room, Neal called the doctor at Belleview. The doc assured that the patient was progressing well – should be able to be questioned by mid-afternoon.

            “Is he awake now?” Neal queried.

            “Yes, but his mind is still a mess,” the doctor informed. “The amount and the quality of Heroin he had in his blood should have killed him. Just a little more time for my drugs to take him totally out of the fog. OK?”
           “Thanks, doc. But call me if anything changes.” That call was ended.
           Then, Frank’s phone rang. “Mallory,” Frank barked into the phone’s mouthpiece.
           “Hi. My name’s Curtis, Samuel Curtis, with the Neighborhood Tattle Tale Register. Are you Frank Mallory?” Curtis asked.
           “Yes, I am. What can I do for you, Mr. Curtis?” Frank began to make notes.
           “Well, this sort of thing usually happens to The Times or The Daily News, but one of our reporters, Mick Stanley, just received a message, a letter, that was directed to you and Detective Neal Scarpetti.”
           “OK. What kind of message?”
           “It seems the message has to do with murders that have been happening around lower Manhattan and parts of Brooklyn. Have there been notable murders. More than usual?”

            Frank snapped his fingers to Neal to pick up his desk phone to listen, which he did. Frank held up what he had written to show Neal. “Why do you think there were murders, Mr. Curtis?” Frank began to write more notes.

            “The letter we received says he ‘did the dead bitches.’ That sure sounds like murder. Then, he says, quote, ‘the bitches they found are like nothing of what’s going to happen next,’

exclamation. ‘The last one will be more personal to one of them, unless they already know,’ another exclamation, end quote. The writer referred to himself as a ‘Jack the Ripper.’” Curtis sounded nervous to tell this.
            Neal joined the conversation, as he said, “Mr. Curtis, I’m Detective Scarpetti. Is there a
signature?”
           “You guys can call me Sam. Yes – sort of a signature. He signed with “Kiss Off” and a drawn pair of lips in blood red oil paint – like artist’s paint.”
           “Why do you call it blood red?” Frank inquired.
           “Detective, we have artists on staff and that’s how they defined the color.”

            That was all Neal and Frank needed. They headed to the small office in Soho. Nothing had been released to the papers yet. This guy was either the killer or a legitimate newspaper guy. Frank and Neal would soon know.

 =======

            After their meeting with Sam Curtis and Mick Stanley, Neal was convinced that neither was the serial killer or the killer’s cohort. Just a nervous editor and an excited reporter for a small, neighborhood newspaper. This was big business for them!

            Sam was great, though. Once he figured this letter might be really important, he had it and the envelope tucked away in a large, clear plastic page covering. No unnecessary fingerprints. The envelope was addressed to the reporter with no return address, but the postmark showed it was mailed from New Jersey. That had to be a ruse by the killer, to try to confuse the police. This was one of Neal’s "minor" hunches.

Sam and Mick were sworn to secrecy with the knowledge that Mick would get the exclusive on the story, which made him beam with this idea.

            Frank and Neal headed back to their Precinct. Frank drove while Neal called Roselli and Martin to meet them at the Precinct.

 ========

           The Manhattan 5^th Precinct squad room had been renovated the year before; new desks, more pleasant color scheme, better restrooms. The break-room had been updated with two new microwaves and coffee makers that accommodated tea drinkers with instant hot water. That really impressed Det. Lyn Martin, a tea drinker.

            Once the four men got their coffees and tea, they went into the large conference room. The liquids were set on the permanent table away from the conference table to eliminate spills on the paperwork. Jackets were removed to mark their chairs, and then they sat to get down to business. Lyn made a joking comment about Neal’s sweater vest. He was Irish.

Everything was spread-out on the conference table. Neal uncovered the large magnetic/ marker “Storyboard” to show all the evidence to date for this case -- complete with the photos of the mutilated women with their grotesquely painted lips.

            The real letter from the small newspaper office was being tested in the Lab at One Police Plaza. Neal handed out the handwritten/printed letter copies. Each silently read:

 To: Dets. Neal Scarpetti & Frank Mallory

Manhattan 5th Precinct            

Jack the Ripper got nothing on me. I’m better. I’m smarter than you detectives. I did the dead bitches in lower-Manhattan and in Brooklyn. I’ll be the best Ripper there ever was! The bitches you found are like nothing of what’s going to happen next! The next one will be more personal to one of you, unless you already know! Just a heads-up.

Yours truly ---- Kiss-Off     

    

            “Me and Frank have wracked our brains to try to figure why he singled us out. This Perp thinks he’s smarter than us. He isn’t stupid, but not as smart as us,” he smiled a bit. The others chuckled quietly in agreement. After a short pause to shuffle papers, he continued, “We have four definite victims – yes? With a possible fifth.” All the other detectives agreed. “He used the description of ‘Jack the Ripper.’ What do you guys think? Does he want to be famous or what?”

            “I vote for famous,” Lyn suggested. “He’s no artist, that’s for sure. I believe he’s an underachiever. Not stupid, like you said, but needs more in his mundane life. Probably can’t get the women he wants. Or he’s unhappily married. He reads – magazines, novels – probably crime stories, paperbacks. His wordage is not all that juvenile. Good verb usage, like I’m better, not gooder. The first sentence is not proper, but no word is misspelled. The last sentence is his way to be in-tune, friendly, with you guys. He has had some education – to 8^th or 9^th grade. I doubt if he’s written anything other than an occasional letter-to-the-editor.”

            Neal smiled to himself. This was what he needed from Lyn, the Profiler. He made a note to canvas the other newspapers for “Letters to the Editor.”

            “He emphasizes that ‘the next one will be more personal to one of you!’ Personal – how? One of us? Will it be someone we know? Someone on the force or in our families?” Frank asked for the others. His concern was for his sister – unmarried, lived alone.

            “OK. Do we have any tie-ins with the victims other than they live alone?” Neal probed. “We have three in lower-Manhattan and probably two in Brooklyn. None of the women lived close to each other, none went to the same church, if at all. None of them were well-off. No wealthy divorces. Just average.”

            All the detectives began to scrounge more through the sheets of paper. Something had to jump out at them. They were veterans in the police force.

            Then, after several minutes, Sid spoke, “I think I have it.” He gathered a few other paper sheets, and then pointed out, “It seems four of the women, that includes the call-girl, had recently attended a Bartending Course in association with NYU -- near this precinct. Will we get the materials from the last victim’s apartment soon?”

Neal pointed to the conference room’s door. A secretary stood with a few correlated sheets of paper and moved to hand it all to Neal, who divided the sections for each detective.

“These are all copies. The Brooklyn Lab has the originals,” she assured.

“Ah, thanks,” Sid acknowledged the young woman. She went away to her other duties.

 

Sid read some of what he was given, as all the detectives did.

On a brief survey of this new evidence, the last woman was definitely number 5.

“Here it is, Sid,” Lyn confirmed. “She was a student, also. We’ll need to get the roster for this class, especially the instructor’s info. See if there was anyone with a record.”

            Lyn went to the Storyboard. He gathered a few magnetic buttons from the tray to attach

the new sheets of paper and to write brief descriptions and sequences.

Sid stayed seated, but asked, “What are the dates for the class? Is it still going on?” He wanted to make his notes.

            “Not now. Looks like it was an evening, eight week course – 7 to 9,” Lyn stated, as he read, and continued, “This last September and October.”
           “What?” Neal asked with great interest.
           “Eight weeks of evening classes this last September and October,” Lyn answered.
           “My girlfriend attended a class like that – for those months,” Neal confirmed. “I’ll ask her
about it.” Could this be the “personal” of which the killer warned, Neal wondered.
            The secretary stuck her head in and said, “M.E. Mark Jackson in Brooklyn for any of you. Line 3.”
            Frank was near to the phone so he answered, “Mark, this is Frank Mallory. Uh-huh –
uh-huh. The one from the cemetery? Oh – OK. We’ll be there soon.

 ========

           “As I told Frank, this is the new woman. There’s an item in her throat. Before I took it out, I wanted you guys to be here,” Jackson explained. “Did the Manhattan victims have anything like that?” Neal and Frank shook their heads no.

            The detectives were gowned-up, along with facemasks and surgical gloves. The woman’s body had been washed; her lips were without the red paint. The torso autopsy had not been started, so from her neck to her knees, she was covered with a light gray sheet. It was obvious her legs had been multi- broken, as well.

            “What do you think it is, Doc?” Lyn asked.

            “Something paper – thick paper,” Mark answered. “I scan bodies before I do the autopsy. That’s when I first saw it. Whatever it is, I believe it was shoved inside her throat before she died.” He sighed a little perturbed, as he informed, “I should have had this stuff for you fellows much sooner than now. As I said yesterday, Dr. Simpson was not happy that I was assigned to these cases. He had me doing unrelated things.” He smiled a wry smile.

            Mark positioned the goose-neck lamp at the woman’s mouth, forced her mouth wide opened and then positioned the stainless steel tweezers to grab the paper in her throat -- to carefully extract the thick paper.

            Lyn had taken a small, stainless steel tray, for which to hold the object. Then, Jackson used his gloved fingers to take the paper completely out of her mouth. He placed it on the tray. The object had been folded a couple of times. No printing could be discerned.

            The tray was taken to a long, open counter. All the men stood on each side – Lyn and Sid beside Mark, Frank and Neal on the other side -- and could see the paper object. Mark took his mini-flashlight to better illuminate it, as he carefully unfolded the paper with the tweezers.

            “Looks like a business card,” he said. “Sid, hold the flashlight, please.” Sid obliged.

            When the business card was opened, partially bled colors -- orange, yellow and green -- could be seen. The black print, however, was more than evident. Very legible. The two on the other side pressed in closer.

            Neal let out a very loud gasp! The card was from O’Luigi’s Pub – with the name of Maria Bertiani, Mgr. on it, also! More personal than what Neal wanted to see!

 

== To be continued ==