C. Lawrence: Silent Stalker

A handful of crime scene techs in blue jumpsuits were dusting for prints and examining the cramped foyer for trace evidence. The door to the apartment at the far end of the hall was open a crack, and the lined face of an aged Asian woman peered through the slit. When she saw Lee, she closed the door abruptly, and he heard the sound of a dead bolt sliding into place. The smell of pork fat and rice vinegar drifted from the apartment into the hallway.

“The victim is Mindy Lewis,” Butts said, handing Lee a pair of latex gloves. “Struggling actress, lives upstairs, waits tables at a local restaurant.”

Lee slipped on the gloves and looked down at Mindy. She was young, uncommonly pretty, with curly black hair, wearing a red wool coat over leggings. She lay in a congealed pool of blood, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling with an expression of astonishment. A leather knapsack lay beside her, and next to her gloved right hand was a set of keys.

“Well?” said Butts. “Whaddya think?”

“Blitz attack,” Lee said. “He must have been waiting for her. Any defensive wounds?”

“Nope. I’m thinkin’ either she knew him and let him inside or he was already waiting for her, like you said. And robbery was not a motive.”

Lee glanced at the backpack, which was securely fastened. “Right. This was no mugging.”

“There’s more.” Butts motioned to one of the crime scene techs, a handsome young African American with wire-rimmed spectacles who appeared to be in charge. “Okorie, can I see that mask for a moment?”

Okorie nodded and produced a plastic evidence bag containing a white theatrical mask. It was one of the standard Greek tragedy/comedy masks Lee had seen a hundred times-oddly, it was the laughing comedy mask. A shiver slid up Lee’s neck as he gazed at the empty eye sockets and grinning mouth.

“It was on her face,” Butts said. “So you see why I called you.”

“Yeah.”

“Ever seen anything like this?”

“Not exactly, no. Do you have COD yet?” he asked Okorie.

“A single stab wound to the solar plexus,” he replied. “She would have bled out within minutes.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any trace of the murder weapon?” Lee said.

“No, but it went clean through her, and was quite slender, so my best guess is a sword of some kind. We’ll know more after the autopsy.”

“How long has she been dead?”

“Five to six hours, judging by the amount of rigor.”

Butts ran a hand through his meager hair. “The Chinese couple in 1-A say she often comes home late from rehearsal. ”

Lee looked at the mask, then back down at poor Mindy. “Looks like her killer has a connection to the theatre as well.”

“A groupie, maybe? A lovesick fan?”

“That’s a possibility.”

Butts stretched himself and looked at the head crime scene tech. “You gonna be a while yet, Okorie?”

“A few more minutes, yeah,” the young man replied as he dusted the stair banister for prints.

“I need some air,” said Butts. “Let’s step outside.”

They pushed open the greasy front door with its decades-old layers of paint. Outside, a pale dawn was doing battle with a thick cloud cover that had settled over the West Side. The result was an eerie greenish light that seemed to have no source, as though the air had been sprinkled with phosphorus.

“So why did you get this case?” Lee said as they descended the steps to the street.

Butts spit on the sidewalk. Startled, a pair of pigeons took flight, flapping up to settle on a second-story window sill.

“Connors,” he said. “He took one for me when I had that root canal that got infected. Remember?”

“Oh, right.”

Butts had spent much of January dealing with tooth problems. Though he was delighted to have dropped nearly ten pounds, he had missed a fair number of work days.

“I owed him one, and he’s dealin’ with a sick mom right now, so I took this call. Whaddya think, Doc? Pretty weird, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Is she his only vic, you think?”

“She could be, but I wouldn’t put odds on it.”

“That’s what I was thinkin’.”

As the neighborhood stirred into life, the two men fell silent, contemplating the presence of a murderer among them in the city that never sleeps.

The tenant in apartment 1-A, Mrs. Chen, turned out to have a husband, Louie, though she did most of the talking. Together they ran a laundry business out of the ground-floor apartment across the hall, which meant that they were the only tenants on the floor. Butts had already interviewed Mrs. Chen briefly, but she seemed eager to talk to Lee as well, so he and Butts accepted an invitation to share a pot of tea and moon cakes.

Louie Chen was a slight, wiry man with a long face and thick black hair. His wife was even smaller, with pale skin and large eyes behind thick glasses. Her graying hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she wore a pink flowered dress. They both appeared to be in their seventies, but moved with a quick, youthful grace. Their apartment was shabby but comfortable, and very clean. A large golden statue of a smiling Buddha dominated the bookshelf across from the couch Lee and Butts sat on. The shrine was surrounded by tea candles and plates of fruit, nuts, and other food offerings.

“Very good moon cakes,” Louie Chen announced loudly as his wife passed them around on a blue willow china plate. “Good, right?” he prodded as Butts took a bite.

“Yes, very good,” the detective replied, though the look on his face suggested otherwise.

Louie beamed. “My wife make. Excellent cook!” he declared proudly.

Mrs. Chen-whose first name Lee hadn’t caught-gave her husband a disapproving look, but couldn’t hide her obvious pleasure.

Louie thrust the plate in front of Lee. “You try! Very good-you try.”

Lee complied, taking a large bite. It wasn’t bad-kind of dry, and not very sweet, but with a lemony flavor. He glanced at Butts, who was washing his down with gulps of tea.

“Now then, Mrs. Chen,” the detective said. “You told me that Miss, uh-Lewis often came home late.”

She nodded vigorously. “Yes. She works in restaurant, also as actress, so she come home late.”

“But you didn’t hear her come in last night?”

“No, we go to bed early, hear nothing.”

“That means the attack was probably over quickly,” Lee remarked.

“Yeah,” Butts said. “If they didn’t hear anything, I doubt anyone else in the building did.”

“We find her this morning,” said Louie.

“When you left your apartment to go to work across the hall?” Butts said.

“Yes.” He looked as if he was about to cry. “She very nice lady, always friendly.”

“You ever see anyone in the building who looked suspicious in any way, like they didn’t belong here?” the detective asked.

Louie perched on the edge of a tattered brown armchair and stroked his chin. “I don’t think so… Wait!” He looked at his wife. “You know Mrs. Mingelone, live upstairs? ”

“Yes!” she said, clapping her hands together. “Mrs. Mingelone, she nice lady but old, you know?” She said this with sympathetic superiority, as if it were an unfortunate affliction.

“Yes?” Lee said, being careful not to smile at elderly Mrs. Chen calling her neighbor “old.” He was reminded of his mother, who refused to join a local bridge club because “it was full of old ladies.”

“Mrs. Mingelone sometimes forget to close door behind her,” Mrs. Chen continued. “We talk to her-everyone remind her-but she forgetful.” Mrs. Chen shook her head with gentle disapproval.

Butts glanced at his watch. “It’s seven-thirty. You think Mrs. Mingelone will be awake yet?”