killings in Battery Park within the last three months, using the same technique you prefer, Moody. Girls tied up, abused, beaten, and young.’
‘You can’t pin those on me.’
‘I don’t need to. We have good DNA samples retrieved from Charlene Wilson. We’ve got the DNA of the Battery Park killer. I’d bet my pension we’ll have a match.’
‘Fuck you, nigger bastard.’
Moody lunged at him and the two officers restrained him.
Parker said, ‘Why, Paul, you should conserve your energy. You’re going to need it to keep you going for the next forty years in prison.’ He nodded to the officers. ‘Get this piece of shit out of here.’
He turned to the window as the door closed. Helen Abruzzi said, ‘It’s a bad one, sir.’
‘They’re all bad, Sergeant.’ He turned. ‘I need air. I’ll take a walk if you can find me an umbrella. I’ll come back to sign the papers later.’
‘Fine, sir.’
He smiled, and suddenly looked charming. ‘You’ve been doing a good job here, Sergeant. I’ve been noticing. There’s an inspector’s job coming up, if you’d like a posting to Police Plaza. You deserve it. I can’t promise, mind you.’
‘I know, sir.’
‘Fine. I’ll see you later, but ring the front desk and get me that umbrella.’
It was raining hard on the waterfront. Parker had borrowed a police raincoat with caped shoulders, and carried the umbrella Abruzzi had organized. The rain actually made him feel good, cleared the head. He lit another cigarette, and then an old man was running towards him in a panic.
Parker got his hand up. ‘What is it? What’s your problem?’
‘I need the police!’
‘You’ve found them. What’s the problem?’
‘My name’s Richardson. I’m a night watchman at the old Darmer warehouse there. I was coming off shift and I went to the edge of the pier to toss my butt in the water, and…and there’s a woman in the water!’
‘Okay, show me,’ said Parker and pushed him forward.
Katherine Johnson was a couple of feet under dark green water. Her arms floated to each side, her legs were open, the eyes stared into eternity. There was a look of surprise on her face and she was achingly beautiful in death.
Harry Parker took out his mobile and called the precinct. ‘This is Captain Parker. I’ve got a Jane Doe in the water only three hundred yards from you. Let’s get an ambulance and back-up out here.’ He stood there, holding his mobile phone, then handed it to Richardson and took off his raincoat. ‘Hang on to those.’
He went down a flight of stone steps, waist deep in water, and reached for her. It was stupid, because that was the recovery team’s job, but he couldn’t leave her there. In a strange way, it was personal.
She was covered for a moment by flotsam, and he went chest deep and pulled her in and above his head. Above him, he heard the sound of vehicles grinding to a halt as the recovery team arrived.
Parker went home, changed, had breakfast at his corner coffee shop – eggs, bacon, English breakfast tea – and returned to his office. But the dead woman’s face, the open eyes, wouldn’t go away as he phoned Abruzzi.
‘What’s happening with the Jane Doe I found?’
‘She’s at the morgue. They’ve brought in the chief medical examiner. I believe he’s doing the post-mortem himself later this morning.’
‘I’ll be down. Tell him I’m coming.’
When Harry Parker arrived at the office of the chief medical examiner, Dr George Romano was eating a sandwich and drinking coffee.
‘Harry, my man, what’s new?’
‘This Jane Doe from the river. I took her out.’
‘So you’re feeling personal about it, right?’
‘Something like that.’
‘I’m about to finish the post-mortem. I was just taking a break. What do you want to know? Did she fall or was she pushed?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Okay, Harry, join me, ’cause this one stinks.’ Romano drained his coffee and led the way out.
They went into the post-mortem room, where two technicians waited, suitably gowned. Romano held up his arms and one of them helped him into a robe. He went and scrubbed at the sink.
‘There she is, all yours, Harry.’
Katherine Johnson lay on a slanting steel operating table, her head on a wooden block. She was naked, the Y cut of the preliminary vivid against her pale skin. Romano held up his hands and one of the technicians pulled on surgical gloves for him. There was a cart loaded with instruments and a TV video recorder on a swivel.
Romano said, ‘Tuesday, March 2, resuming post-mortem Mrs Katherine Johnson, 10 Barrow Street, Greenwich Village.’
‘Hey, what is this?’ Parker demanded.
‘Didn’t you know?’ Romano looked surprised. ‘The guy who found her, Richardson? He was hanging around and discovered her purse. She must have dropped it when she went over the pier. Plenty of ID.’
‘Okay. Fine. Let’s get on with it. Why did you say this stinks?’
‘She’s a nice lady, well nourished, good condition, about forty years of age.’
‘So?’
‘So she died of a massive heroin overdose. Enough to kill her twice over. It doesn’t fit. Someone like her, in her condition? Plus, someone on that stuff at a high level would have needle sores all over. She only had two – the recent ones. One in the left thigh, the other in the right buttock. And what was she doing in the water?’
‘Accidentally overdosed and fell in?’
‘Maybe. But I doubt it. Like I said, she wasn’t an addict. And another thing. Her medical insurance card was in her purse and I checked it out. She was a lefty.’
‘So?’
‘Harry, with the greatest will in the world, I can’t see a left-handed person injecting herself in the side of the right buttock. It’s possible but unlikely.’
He reached for a De Soutter vibratory saw.
‘So you’re saying she was stiffed by someone?’
‘Harry, like you, I’ve spent years in the death business. You get a smell for it. Yes, I’d say someone wasted her.’
‘Which means I’ve got a murder case on my hands.’
‘I’d
