William Diehl - Seven ways to die

“Calvin Bergman. Newest member of the squad, active liaison with the rest of NYPD. Rich kid who quit med school and joined the force. His family disowned him. Next to Hue, the highest IQ on the team and loves RR. Also speaks French and Swedish. He made the catch this morning and I made the entry with him.

“Vinnie Hue you know, but there’s a lot you don’t know.

“The black guy with the dreadlocks is Sgt. Jonee Ansa. Ex-vice, homicide, bunko. Name it, he’s done it. He knows this town better than anyone on the crew but Larry Simon.

“Wow DeMarco is Hispanic and an ex-Crip. That was a long time ago. I don’t know where he picked up the nickname Wow. He’s never said. I think his first name is Horatio but he’s never mentioned that either.

“Butch Ryan is a one-time Westie. Brother’s a NY Fireman, straightened him out. Been a cop for twenty years. Incidentally Butch is his given name. I think his mother had the hots for Paul Newman. He’s also deaf in one ear.”

She looked stunned. “How does he pass the physical?”

Cody grinned. “We have a compassionate doctor,” he said and went on. “And finally there’s Larry Simon. A very special little man. I’ll tell you more about him later.

“And there’s you,” she said.

“Yup. Your desk is right there.”

He pointed to the empty desk closest to his office. There was a headset and a cell phone on it and a briefcase sitting beside it.

“Bring your own lamp and chair. Phil took hers with her. The briefcase has all your goodies in it. The. 38 is registered to you but I hope you never have to take it out. The headset is on intercom so you just press the button when you have a question or something to say.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “you all know Kate Winters. She was crazy enough to accept our invitation to become the new ADA. Get sociable later. Hue, it’s yours.”

Winters was immediately entranced by the briefing itself and a format that was as swift and detailed as Cody’s introduction to the TAZ.

Hue started by zooming into the brownstone scene pointing out that there was a ten-foot alley between it and the apartment west of it. A narrow fire escape led from the kitchen door of Handley’s apartment to the ground with a short landing at the back door of the vacant apartment.

The big screen dissolved to a couple of shots of the labeled footprints on the carpeting, and Cody’s analysis that someone else had entered the apartment between the time Wilma had straightened it up in the afternoon and Handley’s entrance later that night. He held up the baggie containing the mask.

“This was also in his briefcase,” Cody said, “We’ll get to it later.” He nodded to Hue.

Finally: The shot of Handley’s naked corpse, handcuffed to the chair, his mouth agape with the handball stuffed in it, eyes half-opened and terrified, the deadly gash in his throat. No blood.

Somebody in the room muttered, “Holy Christ!” Otherwise there was no response.

Cody paused at that point leaving the photo on the board. “I’m sure Wolf will have an interesting explanation of that enigma,” he said.

Then he promptly did a flashback: a shot copied from a photograph of Handley in the bedroom showing a handsome man in suit and tie smiling into the camera.

“This is our victim in better days,” he said. “You will each get a copy of the shot in your package.”

Bergman followed with background on Handley: thirty-five years old, parents both deceased; father killed in a skiing accident when Handley was a tike; raised with his sister as a ward of the State; scored a full scholarship to Princeton where he was a whiz kid; a Phi Beta Kappa hired the day he graduated by Marx, Stembler and Trexler; his steady rise to vice president of the brokerage firm and his pending marriage to Victor Stembler’s daughter, Linda.

Bergman held up the black book, which he pointed out, was a literal biography of the dead man.

“So much for the skin and bones,” Cody said. “Now let’s get to the heart of the matter.”

He described Amelie Cluett, the fact that she was in bed a scant twenty yards across the hall from where someone was butchering Handley, and played parts of his interview with her, including her sudden and voluntary autobiographical outburst, which earned a few chuckles from the crew.

Cluett: “Well, he also…uh…maybe I shouldn’t be telling some of this. You know, it’s very personal.” Cody: “Raymond’s dead, Amelie. You can’t hurt his feelings.” Cluett: “No, but there are others. Like his fiancee, Linda. She’s really sweet. I bumped into them in the hall once or twice. He’d talk about her.” Cody: “Intimate things?” Cluett: “Yes.” Cody: “Such as?” Cluett: “She wasn’t very…sexually oriented, I guess you could put it. She wasn’t into sex. Raymond was very much into sex. Raymond was a power player. Power players are always sexual people. Men and women. It’s an attitude. You can tell. I remember once he said, ‘Jesus, you’re a twice a week girl and I’m a twice a day guy.’ But he wasn’t talking to me. It was like he was having a dialogue with her. Then there were the weekends when they weren’t together and he’d talk about the clubs.” Cody: “What clubs?” Cluett: “Weird stuff.” Cody: “Weird stuff?” Cluett: “Sex clubs.” Cody: “Did he mention them by name?” Cluett: “Only once. It was really a disgusting name.” Cody: “I’m a big boy, Amelie, I’ve heard it all.” Cluett: “The Tit for Twat Club was one. I remember that because it really upset me. But he had no idea. It was like he was confessing and I wasn’t there.” Cody: “Did he ever bring people home with him?” Cluett: “Not that I know about. I’m in bed at eleven and I’m asleep before the news ends. If I start to doze? The ear plugs go in and I’m out for the night. Sometimes I TiVo Letterman and watch it the next night when there’s nothing good on.” Cody: “Did he mention anyone by name?” Cluett: “Made-up names. Wonder Woman. Bat Lady. Trapeze Girl.” Cody: “Trapeze girl?” Cluett: “That was another club he mentioned. The Sex Circus.” Cody: “Did he ever say where these clubs were?” Cluett: “No. But he calls one girl the Staten Island Fairy. Said she’d come if he put a hundred dollar bill under her pillow, whatever that means. Sounds like a mixed metaphor to me.” Cody: “Was he a switch hitter?” Cluett: “No. No. It was always about girls. And not all the time. I mean, maybe once a month he’d go off on one of his tantrums.”

Cody stopped the tape.

“The Staten Island Fairy?” Butch Rogers said and there were a few chuckles in the room.

Kate Winters cautiously raised her hand.

“Yes, Kate?”

“Did she know you were taping her?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” she said.

Cody smiled. “Back to the business at hand. Once everybody gets past the freak factor here let’s face the implications. We’ve got a high profile victim, V.P. of a prestigious brokerage firm with offices across the street from the Stock Exchange and engaged to the boss’s daughter. He had a sex jones and was murdered in what looks like an S amp;M game that was set up for the purpose of smoking him. This case is going to be on front pages and will resonate all over this squad when it does break. What you just heard stays in this room. I know the stuff about the Staten Island Fairy is juicy gossip over a drink but we have to handle this one very tenderly. Kabish?”

“Is the Cluett woman a suspect?” Larry Simon asked.

“I don’t think so. Whoever killed Handley knew what the hell they were doing. This was a very clean homicide scene, including the absence of blood. I doubt that she would have been as frank as she was if she was implicated in any way. But…she was the closest person to him when he was killed so she’s on the list. Witness, not a suspect.”