Christopher Smith - Running of the bulls

Though the story in the Times didn’t say so, Marty assumed from his conversations with Maggie and Jennifer that Wood had been murdered. “Did she kill herself?”

“Maybe. But if she did, she probably didn’t do so intentionally. See these marks on her arm? And these here on her left ankle? She’s been shooting up something for the past year and a half. Had quite a little habit too. It’s a wonder she didn’t die sooner.”

“What was she was using?”

“Not sure yet, but probably heroin.”

Heroin-the ultimate cure for someone with low self-esteem. Just one shot could make you feel invulnerable, beautiful, godlike. But why would someone in Wood’s position need it? She had looks, power, celebrity. She was respected, even feared. Marty thought of the few times they had met and remembered a confident woman, comfortable and serious. Had she been high then? Worse, had she been high while handing out sentences on the bench?

“There’s more,” Skeen said, reaching for the box of latex gloves on the table beside him. He removed a pair, slipped them on and said while glancing at Marty: “I’ll apologize for this now.”

His hands went between Wood’s legs to the freshly shaved area of unyielding flesh above her vagina. His fingers fanned out and parted her labia, exposing the gray, sunken clitoris between the drained web of waxy flesh.

“Come closer,” he said to Marty.

Marty hesitated, then took a step forward and leaned into the light shining above them. The smell of death and rot and formaldehyde were stronger here, only slightly masked by the citrus scent of Skeen’s cologne, which made it somehow worse. Marty held his breath and watched Skeen press the clitoris down and to the left, exposing a deep green tattoo half the size of a dime.

“It’s an animal of some sort,” Skeen said. “Here. Take a look.”

He lowered the lighted magnifying glass above them and positioned it so Marty could view the tattoo, which looked like a blob with two points on top of it. He was about to step back when he noticed the tiny puncture wound in the tattoo’s center. “What’s that?”

Skeen moved the magnifying glass aside. “Her clitoris was pierced,” he said. “Earlier, I removed a tiny gold hoop from it. That’s when I noticed the tattoo.” He looked at Marty. “The hole and the tattoo are at least ten years old. She had her nipples pierced around the same time, but she let them heal.” He paused. “And it gets worse. Her rectum was torn. Ripped. Last night, after Judge Kendra Wood had been lying dead in bed for nine hours, somebody had anal intercourse with her.”

It was too much. Marty had to leave. Skeen saw it and followed him to the door. “Why don’t we have coffee,” he said. “My office.”

“I have a better idea,” Marty said, stepping into the hallway. “Why don’t we get out of here? I need some air.”

When they left the building, a band of clouds-thick, dark and as high as the buildings in Midtown-had stretched across Manhattan, swallowing the sun and giving needed relief from the heat. Carlo looked at Marty, moved to speak, but hesitated. “There’s more on Wood,” he said. “Want to hear it?”

Marty nodded.

“Her PERK was a disappointment,” Carlo said, referring to her Physical Evidence Recovery Kit. “I swabbed, but found nothing, no residue of semen. Whoever had intercourse with her used a lubricated condom.”

“Wouldn’t you on a corpse?”

“Bad joke.”

“What about hair?”

Carlo shook his head. “We found only a few that were consistent with hers. My guess is that we’re dealing with someone who’s familiar with the system, somebody who shaved himself beforehand, knowing that any stray hairs could lead to a positive DNA match.”

“What about the tattoo and the piercing? Have you done a search?”

“NCIC’s computers are down,” Carlo said. “They’ll be up soon. But Jimmy contacted VICAP this morning. We should be hearing from them by tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

He looked at Marty. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up, though. Body piercing is bigger than ever. I can’t tell you how many young men and women I’ve come across in the past few months with rings through their nipples and gold rods through their genitalia.”

“I get the twentysomethings,” Marty said. “But on an adult judge? And the tattoo on her clitoris? It sets her apart from the rest.”

“Not really. You don’t see what I see on a daily basis. The poorest person can be wheeled in and they have none of that shit. The wealthiest person can be wheeled in and they have all of that shit. Kink doesn’t differentiate between social boundaries, Marty. People lead secret lives, which you likely see in each case you take. Until we know what that tattoo is supposed to be, you’re out of luck. We’ve sent photos to VICAP hoping they can match it to something in their files. But if they can’t, I don’t know what to tell you.”

“You were there last night, weren’t you?”

“I was.”

“What did you see?”

It began to sprinkle, the light breeze driving the rain against their backs, the cars parked at the curbside, the trees dotting the sidewalk. “I could tell you, but I won’t because it wouldn’t do you any good. I was there for three hours last night. If you can swing it, this one you need to see for yourself.”

At first glance, the townhouse on East 75th Street was as elegant as its counterparts-narrow casement windows shielded by heavy lace curtains, leaded glass windows in the carved mahogany door, a gleaming brass knocker above the brass nameplate, which read, rather simply, K. Wood.

But upon closer examination, cracks could be seen in the bricks and the foundation, the black iron bars that protected the windows from possible intruders were beginning to rust, and high above on the roof, birds were nesting in the white eaves.

Marty stood in front of the house and wondered about the secret lives of Judge Kendra Wood. She’d been a respected judge, she’d amassed enough power and wealth to live just off Central Park, and she had risked it all for a world darker than most could comprehend.

He looked up at the birds circling above him, watched them hover and peck insects from the side of Wood’s house, and wondered when it was that she let them roost on the roof. When had she ceased to care?

A door clicked shut behind him.

Marty turned and saw a woman leaving the house opposite Wood’s. She looked at him, then at Wood’s house, then slowly back at him, her eyes narrowing.

Marty nodded at her. The woman’s lips formed a tight line that dropped the temperature in Midtown fifty degrees as she walked away. Tall and diet-slim, her silver hair framing an oval face that would defy age as long as medically possible, she moved with all the grace and cool aloofness of a woman who only had known privilege.

She was everything his ex-wife wanted to become.

A car horn sounded beside him. Marty turned just as a black Dodge Charger pulled to the curb, music pumping, bass thumping, low fans of water rising at the wheels as the driver parked in a Tow Away Zone. Earlier, it had stopped raining. Detective Mike Hines, his angular face chiseled and tanned, looked through the open passenger window.

“Jesus, Spellman. Don’t you eat?”

He shut off the engine, threw open the door and stepped out of the car. Mike Hines clearly ate enough for two. At six feet eight and pushing three hundred pounds, he was one of the tallest, most physically fit men Marty knew.

“Thanks for coming,” he said.

Hines shrugged. “Provided the deal’s the same, it’s my pleasure.”

It hadn’t always been so easy. Eight years ago, when Marty first approached Hines for help, the man insisted on knowing who hired Marty and why, sensing that the person might somehow be connected to the victim’s death. But Marty refused to tell, claiming client confidentiality. Hines only acquiesced after Marty agreed to divulge everything he learned in a report, given exclusively to Hines, and from which Hines ultimately solved the case. It was the beginning of their friendship.