David Ellis - Eye of the Beholder

Shelly Trotter has come home and gone to bed.

People v. Terrance Demetrius Burgos

Case No. 89-CR-31003

September 1989

It was only Riley’s third trip ever to a morgue. He didn’t spend much time with dead bodies as a federal prosecutor, and, when he did, cause of death was rarely an issue. The bodies had usually been riddled with machine-gun fire from rival drug dealers.

He wasn’t sure why he was here. He wasn’t even sure why he was still reading about Cassie Bentley, when her murder had been dropped from the case.

He found Mitra Agarwal, an assistant county medical examiner. Mitra was a slight woman with a playful side who spoke with a soft Indian accent. She’d been one of the coroners on duty when the bodies came in. She’d been the one who showed Natalia Lake Bentley her daughter’s corpse.

Doctor Agarwal showed Riley into a large, sanitized room. On the beds rested the bodies of four women murdered by Terry Burgos.

Riley opened the autopsy report for Cassie Bentley.

“So,” he said to her, reading from the report. “ ‘A postmortem incision at the base of the fourth and fifth tarsal phalange.’ That means her toes?”

“Basically.”

“Why don’t you just say toes?”

“Why don’t you just say ‘the charges are dropped’ instead of nolle prosequi?”

Riley smiled. “Touché, Doctor.”

“None of the prostitutes have been claimed,” she said, opening herself to the bodies. “You’re lucky anyone’s still here.”

Families had one hundred twenty days to claim the bodies of their loved ones, so technically there was still time. But these girls had probably become prostitutes, in large part, because they didn’t have much for families to begin with. These women, he knew, were destined for unmarked graves in the county cemetery.

“Don’t keep me in suspense, Mitra.”

She led him to Angie Mornakowski’s cold, white corpse. She separated the fourth and pinkie toes on her left foot. Riley saw a bloodless incision, a precise cut slicing the small webbing of skin.

“They all have them,” she said. “All four that we have here. And Cassie.”

“Wow.” Riley sighed. “And nothing in the autopsies.”

She shook her head. “Other than Cassie’s. Frankly, I’m surprised they caught it with her. That’s something that could easily slip through the cracks. When you’re dealing with traumatic injuries to the head and body, it’s not at all surprising you wouldn’t notice an obscure slice between the pinkie toe and fourth toe. It’s not like this was a drug or poison case. You’re not looking for injection-”

“No, I know. I’m not criticizing.” He took a deep breath. “This is postmortem,” he said. “This is an afterthought”

“This is a signature,” she said.

Riley agreed with that assessment. “He’s leaving his mark.”

“Well, look at it this way,” the doctor said. “If you had any doubt that the same person killed all of these girls, you don’t anymore.”

Riley smiled at her. “I didn’t have any doubt.”

“Okay,” she said. “Well, what do you want me to do? Want me to exhume the other bodies? Amend the autopsies?”

It was hard to see how this mattered. Burgos had admitted to the killings, both to Joel Lightner and to the psychiatrists. This wasn’t exculpatory evidence-evidence that favored the defense, which Riley would be required to turn over. If anything, it hurt Burgos. It proved even more clearly that the same person killed all of these women.

And it could backfire. The defense could play it up, make the medical examiner’s office look incompetent. Make the coroners the issue, a distraction. Jeremy Larrabee would be more than happy to talk about anything that took the focus off his client.

To say nothing of the fact that Riley would have to ask Ellie Danzinger’s family for permission to exhume their daughter’s body, only a few months after they buried her. And for what? To prove something they already knew?

Cassie Bentley’s autopsy wasn’t public record. It wasn’t part of the case, and it was no longer anyone’s business.

“Let’s drop it,” Riley said to her. “Thanks for satisfying my curiosity.”

“Oohh.” Mitra Agarwal nudged him with her elbow. “How exciting. A secret. You and I are the only living, breathing people who know about the tarsal phalange incisions.”

“You, me, and Terry Burgos.” Riley thanked her and headed back to his office.

Thursday

June 23, 2005

LEONID KOSLENKO lives in a small bungalow on the northwest side of the city, fourth home in from the south. Detective Michael McDermott takes one last look through his binoculars at the home from his position across the street. He checks his watch. It is precisely two-thirty in the morning, Thursday.

McDermott raises the radio to his mouth and says, “The code is Yellow, Team Leaders. That’s Yellow.”

From the north and south of the two-story house, members of the Rapid and Immediate Deployment Unit creep forward, keeping low and close to the neighboring homes, concealing themselves from any sight line from Koslenko’s house and avoiding the illumination of the streetlights. Two eight-man teams, dressed in dark blue flame-resistant uniforms, Kevlar ballistic helmets, Tac vests, and night-vision goggles, armed with bolt-action rifles or shotguns, slowly converge on the house.

Half of each team breaks to the rear of the house. The other half gets within feet of the front door on each side, staying below the view from the windows.

McDermott hears the voice cackle through his radio, from the built-in mikes in their Tac vests.

“Team A in position.”

“Team B in position.”

McDermott takes a breath, then says into the radio, “The code is Green. That’s Green.”

The teams meet at the front door, where they use a battering ram to enter the house. Tactical vans race down the street from each side, squealing to a halt in front of Koslenko‘s, turning toward the house and shining bright lights over the entire property. Police officers pour out of the vans and circle the perimeter of the property.

McDermott hops out of the brush and draws his weapon. The interior lights in the house pop on one after the other. McDermott stops at the sidewalk, his handgun in one hand, the radio in the other. He puts out a hand to block Stoletti, who stands next to him, weapon drawn as well.

“First bedroom-clear.”

“First bathroom-clear.”

“Kitchen is clear.”

“Living room-clear.”

McDermott holds his breath, steeling himself for the sound of gunfire.

“Second bedroom-clear.”

“Second bathroom-clear.”

“Third bedroom-clear.”

It feels like he holds his breath forever, his pulse pounding.

“Basement is clear.”

“That’s all clear. We are all clear.”

McDermott jogs up the driveway and into the house. A foul smell fills the ground floor, like a combination of body odor and dirty socks. The place is in deteriorating condition. The paint is peeling on the walls. The kitchen looks like it was last upgraded in the seventies. There is little furniture in the living room, unless you count pizza cartons and oil-stained food bags thrown about, plates with crusted ketchup and remnants of food, now being feasted on by flies and other bugs.

“Well, shit,” he says, as Stoletti walks up to him. “He’s gone, and he’s been gone.”

His radio cackles. “Detective McDermott, the basement.”

McDermott takes the stairs down. The space is unfinished and unfurnished, save for a workout bench, some weights, and some taped-up boxes.