Robert Tanenbaum - Justice Denied

“Okay, right, but what if Roland is really convinced the guy did it?”

Karp thought about that for a moment, and then said, “Well, look: this case is two days old. Two days. They’ve made terrific progress, and Roland is hyped up about it. I would be too. Now if, after however many months, Roland brings this case to trial, then he’ll really believe the guy did it, and moreover, if he does, then the guy really did it. Roland is good.”

“You’re going to leave it at that, huh?”

“What do you want me to do, babe? Second-guess him? Conduct a parallel investigation? You know I can’t do that. Meanwhile, Roland’ll do the right thing when the time comes.”

“Well,” said Marlene, “you have touching faith, but faith is as nothing without works. You might think about an ancillary investigation.”

“How do you mean?”

“Where’s the girl? The alibi? She’s missing, a missing person. Her family will be concerned.”

“What are you suggesting, Marlene? That I pump up the cops to find a girl who just happens to be a possible material witness in Roland’s case? What do I tell Roland? Gee, Roland, there are fifty thousand missing persons every year in Manhattan, and I thought I’d pick one and put the max on it, just for laughs, and guess who it is-”

“Okay, okay, it’s a lame idea. Why are we talking about this goddamn case anyway? It’s not like I don’t have my own problems. And speaking of which, since we’re talking shop in the sanctity of our home, I think I can get Harry Bello to come over to the D.A. squad.”

“You can? That’s great,” said Karp, genuinely impressed. Bello was a detective of uncanny skill, whose eccentricity, alcoholism, and general mulishness had caused him to be banished to a backwater in Queens, which had not prevented him from solving, in concert with the Karps, a case that the criminal justice hierarchy in Queens had not wanted solved. Bello had become, as a direct result of this, both dry and Lucy Karp’s godfather, as well as persona non grata from one end of Queens to the other.

“Yes,” Marlene continued, “the borough assistant chief was delighted to help. In fact, he gave out that if Harry never sets foot on his turf again, it’ll be a day too soon. He’ll start next Monday.”

“I presume you’ll monopolize him,” said Karp.

“It’s not a choice. I doubt he’ll work for anybody else. You know Harry.”

“Very clever, Marlene. Your own private investigator, and I bet it’s a permanent steal. Harry’s not going to show up on the D.A. squad’s budget, is he? He’ll be on the Queens detective chart until the day he hands in his tin.”

She giggled. “How well you know me, my love. And I learned how to run that scam from you, if you recall.”

“So you did,” responded Karp, happy now that both the unpleasantness about Roland’s case and the agony in his knee had abated. “And I believe it’s time for us to stand clutching each other at our baby’s doorway, watching her sleeping and making stupid noises, after which, if you’ll help me climb that fucking ladder, I intend to take to my bed.”

It took Denny Maher two and a half hours to finish the flattened Jane Doe. As he had feared, the teeth were all over the place, from the windpipe to the base of the brain. He gathered them carefully and placed them in a plastic bag. There was evidence of careful dental work; she had not been raised in poverty. Death had been instantaneous, of course, from massive brain damage, but the woman had at least been alive when she hit the ground. The hyoid and trachea were intact, and there was no sign that the woman had been strangled, stabbed, or shot. He examined the hands, which had been placed in plastic bags. He took samples from under the fingernails for later microscopic examination, and as he handled the cold fingers he noticed that there was extensive bruising around the wrists. That was an odd note, although nearly any mark could be explained by a falling-body death. Still, you got marks like that when someone’s wrists were tightly held.

He examined the woman’s vagina, a difficult and tedious procedure, for the organ was badly torn by bone fragments from the disintegrated pelvis. He took samples and put them aside for later microscopic and chemical analysis. Ordinarily he would have taken samples also from the rectum and oral cavity, but these were so badly damaged and contaminated by the explosive eversion of the viscera and by direct impact that such samples would have had little forensic value. What did have value was something he discovered on the inside of the woman’s thigh, high up near the crotch and protected by that location from the general ruin: the clear and unmistakable marks of human teeth. He rolled the body, first to one side, then to the other. More teeth. He got out the Polaroid rig and took photographs.

Maher secured and labeled his samples and covered and refrigerated what was left of the Jane Doe. Before going home, he stopped by his office and wrote a note to himself to call the police officers in charge of the case and, if what he now strongly suspected was borne out by the lab, the rape bureau of the D.A.’s office as well.

“Does that hurt?” asked the orthoped.

Karp, who had turned pale and nearly cracked a molar gritting his teeth, gasped, “Yeah, that hurts.”

“How about this?” said Dr. Hudson, twisting. Karp let out a shrill yelp.

“I’ll assume that’s affirmative,” said the doctor. Then he allowed Karp’s knee to relax back on the examining table. Dr. Hudson rolled a little distance on his stool and examined a chart. He was a squat, muscular man with a gray crew cut and a squared-off face that seemed accustomed to issuing bad news.

“I saw you what? Four years ago?” the doctor asked, reading from his chart. “I told you to come back every six months and you didn’t bother. So. What’ve you been doing with that thing?” He indicated the reddened lump that was Karp’s left knee.

“What do you mean, what’ve I been doing? I use it when I walk,” said Karp.

“No unusual strains? Falls?”

“Well, a little basketball.”

The doctor’s eyes widened. “Basketball? What, on asphalt? In the playground?”

“Yeah, that, and, um, I was on a pro team for a couple of months last winter as part of a murder investigation.”

“You’re joking! No, wait, you’re that guy! D.A. Karp, they called you-played for the Hustlers, right?”

“Right,” said Karp, an appeasing smile creasing his lips.

“Get the hell out of my office!” said Dr. Hudson.

“So did he really throw you out?” asked Marlene. It was lunchtime later the same day; they were seated in Karp’s office, and she had brought him a sausage sandwich and a root beer from one of the cancer wagons that plied Foley Square. She herself sipped coffee. She had a lunch date later.

“No, worse,” replied Karp, shoving bits of onion back into his mouth with his fingers. “He gave me a lecture. Apparently I’ve totaled the joint. He said he’ll need to do an arthroscopy to be sure, but he thinks I’m going to need another operation, maybe a complete arthroplasty.”

“That sounds pretty grim.”

“It’s grim, all right. I’ll be on crutches for six weeks at least after the operation, not to mention the fact of how we’re going to pay for it.”

“But you’ve got medical-”

“No, I don’t, not for this. It’s a prior existing condition. I checked already; they won’t pay.”

Marlene’s heart sank. “How much?”

“Um, we won’t get much change from a ten thousand dollar bill.”

Marlene finished her coffee and tossed the cup in the trash. She rose. “You mean, there goes our exclusive condo in the heart of one of New York’s most desirable neighborhoods? Maybe, but I can’t think about it today. I have to see this woman about our kid.”