Lou Manfredo - Rizzo's Fire

He sighed. A major drawback of having partnered so successfully with Jennifer to raise three strong-willed, self-assured daughters now confronted Rizzo. He would attempt to push one of them along a path she herself did not wish to take. Even though it was a path that Rizzo knew to be an infinitely better one for her.

As he noticed Priscilla enter the squad room, it occurred to him that in many ways, Priscilla, allowing for cultural and environmental differences, closely mirrored his daughters. She wasn’t much older than Marie, his oldest, and she was just as confident and focused as his girls. Rizzo was not unaware of the ironic pride he took in watching his new partner navigate the unforgiving ways of the job. Priscilla seemed to confirm, in a bizarre sort of way, the hopes he harbored for his daughters, hopes unshackled or defined by traditional gender roles and antiquated societal prejudices.

But Rizzo believed the matter at hand to be entirely different. This was his Carol, sweet, innocent Carol, sheltered in so many ways from the harsh realities of the world in general, and certainly from the murky, often morally ambivalent world of police work.

With another sigh, Rizzo reached for a case folder on his desk, flipping it open, preparing to make his morning phone calls. For now, he would ease Carol from his thoughts.

He still had twelve days. Time enough, he thought. Time enough.

Later on that morning, Rizzo headed to Priscilla’s desk to discuss a case involving a series of forged medical prescriptions which had been turning up in local pharmacies. A female suspect, utilizing stolen prescription pads, was obtaining narcotics, presumably for resale on the streets. But before he could begin, Rizzo looked up to see detective squad commander Vince D’Antonio beckoning from the door of his office.

“Joe,” D’Antonio called out, “can I see you in my office, please? You, too, Priscilla.” The lieutenant turned back to his office, leaving the door open behind him.

“Looks like the principal wants us,” Rizzo said. “Get your excuses ready.”

Priscilla stood, pushing her chair back and shaking out her short hair. “Excuses for what? I’m clean, Partner. You’re probably the one needs excuses.”

Once inside, the door closed behind them, Rizzo and Jackson took seats in front of D’Antonio’s desk. The lieutenant looked across at them, his deep blue eyes twinkling under the harsh fluorescent lighting. “Ready for me to ruin your day?”

Rizzo grunted. “Hey, Vince, isn’t that what they pay you for?” he said.

D’Antonio nodded, looking from one detective to the other. “I guess so.”

“What’s up, boss?” Priscilla asked.

D’Antonio’s expression grew somber. “We got a murder to look at, guys. Over on Bay Twentieth Street.”

“What kinda murder, Vince?” Rizzo asked.

D’Antonio sighed. “The kinda murder Brooklyn South is gonna take a pass on. I just got off the phone with Jimmy Santori, the boss over there. All his guys have full dance cards, so he’s delegating this to precinct level.” He shrugged. “I can’t bitch too much, either. This’ll be our first homicide investigation in over two years. I think you handled that one, too, Joe.”

Rizzo nodded. “Yeah. Me and Morelli.”

“Yes,” D’Antonio said, his tone neutral, “Morelli.”

Rizzo shifted in his seat. “What’s the story on this one, Vince?”

“Well,” D’Antonio replied, sitting back in his chair. “From what I’ve been told, male white, forty-seven, killed in his apartment. Name was Robert Lauria. Looks like a forced entry. Probably happened over a week ago. Last night, the landlord smelled the dead body and called it in.”

“Gunshot?” Rizzo asked.

D’Antonio shook his head. “Strangled. Guy’s neck was badly lacerated, a lot of bleeding. What ever was used to kill him, it was thin, like a wire or cord.”

“You really wanna give me a case that’s already a week cold, Vince?” Rizzo asked. “I think Rossi would be better suited for wasting time on this.”

“Joe, this is a homicide, not some divorcee got her IUD stolen. Leave Rossi out of it. It’s you and Cil on this.”

“The price of greatness,” Rizzo commented to his partner. “No good deed goes unpunished.”

“Hell,” she said. “homicide sounds good to me. The real big leagues.”

“Yeah, right.” Rizzo turned to D’Antonio. “Shall we get over there now?”

D’Antonio nodded. “Yes. I’m gonna ride on it, too. Just to make sure the Brooklyn South prima donnas at the scene show you both a little respect. Let’s go.”

RIZZO SWUNG the gray Impala to the curb, blocking a fire hydrant. D’Antonio, driving his dark blue Impala, pulled in behind. Three blue-and-white radio cars stood randomly scattered in front of the detached, two-story brick home where the murder had taken place. Another police department vehicle sat parked in the driveway of the house, its front bumper nosed against the plain wooden door of the detached garage.

Rizzo, Jackson, and D’Antonio left their vehicles and climbed the porch steps. The front door stood open, guarded by a uniformed Six-Two patrol officer. The entrance to the basement apartment to the right of the front porch and down six steep, concrete steps was cordoned off with bright yellow police tape, the area secure, awaiting the arrival of the forensics team. They entered the house.

A second uniformed officer led the three Six-Two detectives to an interior staircase to the basement floor. Once there, they met with the detective from Brooklyn South homicide.

After introductions, Rizzo got straight to the point.

“Tell me,” Rizzo said.

Detective Sergeant Art Rosen glanced to his note pad, then began his narrative.

“Body was found by the patrol supervisor. The basement apartment has two entryways: the street-side front door outside-the one sealed off with the tape-leads directly into the victim’s kitchen. Then there’s the staircase you just came down. This door”-he tilted his head to his left-“leads into the bedroom of the vic’s apartment and it was deadbolt locked from the inside. Landlord only comes down the basement to get to the burner room, storage area, stuff like that. Last night, ’bout eleven, he came down here to check the oil level in the tank. He smells something, same thing you’re smellin’ now. So he knocks on the apartment door. No answer. Then it occurs to the landlord he hasn’t seen or heard his tenant in a while. The guy paid his rent in cash on October twenty-eighth, thirteen days ago. That’s the last time he was seen by the landlord or the landlord’s wife.”

“How many people live in the building?” Rizzo asked.

Rosen checked his notes. “Three, counting the vic. The two owners and the vic.”

Rizzo nodded. “Okay, go on.”

“Well, the landlord smells this, puts two and two together, calls the cops. Radio car rolls up at 2320 hours, checks things out, then calls for a supervisor. Six-Two sergeant rolls up 2350. He gets a master from the landlord, they go in through the kitchen entrance on Bay Twentieth. Body is on the kitchen floor. I been here since 0040.” He frowned. “Fuckin’ stink worked into my nose hairs. I gotta wash it out soon as I leave.”

“Well,” D’Antonio said, “according to your boss, it’s our stink now.”

Rosen nodded. “Yeah, we’re booked solid, Lieutenant, and I’m takin’ some time off. My son’s bar mitzvah’s coming up next week.”

“The M.E. here yet?” Rizzo asked.

“Yeah, he’s been with the body over an hour. Want the preliminaries?”

Rizzo shrugged. “Sure.”

Rosen read from his notes. “Body in the flaccid stage, maxed out fixed lividity. Advance putrefaction, larval stage finalized, pupae present, no adult flies emerging yet. Ballpark time of death less than twelve days ago, probably eight to ten. From the landlord, we know the guy was breathin’ on October twenty-eighth, so it checks out with the physical markers.”