Robert Tanenbaum: Outrage

Marlene laughed. Loud, abrasive, and one tough investigative journalist, Stupenagel had been her roommate in college at Smith and they’d remained friends ever since. She reached for the reporter’s left hand, whistling at the diamond ring perched there. “That’s some rock,” she said. “You and Gilbert set a date yet?”

Karp groaned loudly, drawing glares from the two women. Gilbert Murrow was Karp’s office manager. He kept his boss’s appointment calendar, tried to steer Karp away from political pitfalls, and handled most of the administrative duties so that his boss could concentrate on his office’s efforts to mete out justice to the guilty and ensure that the unjustly accused would be exonerated. Bookish, pear-shaped, balding, and four inches shorter than his fiancee, Murrow had surprisingly won the heart of Ariadne, who by her own estimation had amorous relations with the Fidel Castros of the world if it helped her get a story.

The reporter held the ring up to be admired. “It is a beaut, isn’t it? The poor dear probably had to save for a year, considering the wages his miserly employer”-she gave Karp a sharp look-“pays him for all his hard work and loyal service. We are thinking a winter solstice wedding.”

“Then there’s still time for Gilbert to recover his senses,” Karp said hopefully.

“Watch it, buster, I know where you live,” Stupenagel answered, turning back to Marlene. “And don’t worry, honey, I also know lots of good-looking, eligible, and civil men, should some unfortunate accident befall your husband.”

After a little more of the pointed but friendly verbal jousting that was the hallmark of the relationship between Karp and Stupenagel, the three sat down. A freelance writer at the moment, Stupenagel wanted to pen a feature story for the Gotham City weekly magazine, tentatively titled “New York’s Number One Crime-fighting Couple.” Karp had cringed at the concept, and only Stupenagel’s blatant appeal to his sense of fair play and Marlene’s intercession had convinced him to go through with it. He’d been a little surprised that Marlene had been willing to do the interview-she’d never been one to seek publicity-but he was sure that Stupenagel had twisted her arm using whatever means she had available.

Of course, he’d set some boundaries. He wouldn’t discuss open investigations or current cases, except in the most general terms. Nor did he want her writing about his children except in passing.

The interview lasted nearly three hours. They discussed several of his most recent cases, including that of a college professor who’d killed her children because she said God told her to, a famous theater producer who murdered an actress and tried to claim she committed suicide, and, of course, the case against the Harlem imam Sharif Jabbar. They also covered several terrorist plots that, despite being outside the realm of their “official duties,” Karp and Marlene, as well as other members of their family and friends, had a hand in thwarting.

Finally, Stupenagel appeared to reach the end of her questioning by asking Marlene about the case of Dirty Warren and her possible new career as a crusading defense attorney/private investigator. After Marlene answered the questions, Karp pointedly looked at his watch. “Anything else?” he asked.

Stupenagel smiled. “Well, since I’ve got you here, I am working on another story about unsolved murders in the greater New York area,” she said.

“This sounds like a story more for the police than the DAO, but go ahead,” Karp said.

“Oh, I’ll be talking to the cops, too,” Stupenagel replied. “But I’d like your opinion as the chief law enforcement official in Manhattan. To start, I think there’s something like ten thousand unsolved murders in New York City going back to 1985, and roughly two hundred more go cold every year. In fact, at a rate of six hundred or so murders a year, almost a third of them will go unsolved.”

“I’m aware of the statistics,” Karp replied. “More than half of all homicides committed are solved within a year; after that, the chances diminish. Still, with an overall clearance rate of about seventy percent, which last time I looked at statistics compiled by the FBI beats the national average by eight percentage points, New York’s finest are to be commended.”

“Yes, but many of the unsolved cases are the unusual ones,” Stupenagel said. “And by that I mean most of the time the killer and the victim share the same background, come from the same neighborhood, and are even the same race and approximately the same age. Black gangbangers shooting other black gangbangers. Not only do the killers have criminal records, their victims usually do as well. More often than not, the killer and victim knew each other; only about a quarter of all homicides are between strangers. And of those, most are the result of a dispute-somebody gets pissed off when someone cuts him off in traffic, pulls a gun, and shoots. Granted, stranger-to-stranger homicides have nearly doubled from what they were fifty years ago, but still, if you’re not involved in criminal activities, your chances of being killed by a stranger in New York City are small.”

“You’re well versed in the statistics,” Karp said. He realized that the long preamble was leading to something, putting him on his guard. “So what’s your point?”

“I’m thinking more about the sort of unsolved cases that don’t fit the statistical pattern,” Stupenagel said. “Those are the ones that the public remembers.”

“Are you talking about any case in particular?” Karp asked, knowing that she was going there.

“Well, yeah,” Stupenagel admitted. “I’m thinking about the Yancy-Jenkins double homicide-the so-called Columbia University Slasher case-from last July. Somehow a killer got into the apartment of Olivia Yancy, killed and raped her, and also killed her mother, Beth Jenkins.”

“I’m well aware of the case,” Karp replied warily. “However, this is one of those ongoing investigations that are off-limits in this conversation.”

“Is it true your office has an ADA assigned to the case? One Raymond ‘Formerly Known as the Italian Stallion’ Guma?”

“Couldn’t tell ya,” Karp replied. “And why ‘formerly’? He’d resent that.”

“Couldn’t or won’t?” Stupenagel shot back. “And ‘formerly’ because that bout with cancer a few years back turned him into a gelding from what I hear.”

Karp rolled his eyes and said, “That’s out of bounds, even for you, Stupe. I thought you and Guma were old friends.”

“Hey, Guma dishes it out as much as he takes it,” Stupenagel said. “He as much as told Gilbert that he boinked me back when we were both young and dumb. Now he’s just old and dumb, and he’s messing with my love life, so if I want to spread rumors about him, I will.”

Karp shook his head and said, “Let’s stick to the subject. As I said, the Yancy-Jenkins homicides are part of an ongoing investigation, and I’m not answering those questions. What else you got?”

“Are you familiar with the Dolores Atkins murder in the Bronx about a week ago?” Stupenagel said, and then shrugged.

“Only what I read in the newspaper, why?” Karp asked.

“Because the killer was another slasher/rapist, which I know are a dime a dozen in these parts. But just like in the Yancy-Jenkins killings, this guy also struck in broad daylight, and it appears that Atkins had just returned from grocery shopping, like Yancy. And the killer didn’t just cut her up and rape her; he tortured her and then took the time to clean himself up before leaving.”

“So, Ariadne,” Marlene said, interrupting, “what’s your angle here?”

“Well, I’ve been doing some digging and I think whoever killed Olivia Yancy and Beth Jenkins also killed Dolores Atkins,” Stupenagel said. “I think he already escalated, and I don’t think he’s going to stop.”