Lou Manfredo - Rizzo's Fire

Rizzo nodded. “Okay, thanks.”

“I’m gonna go out to the car, finish up these notes, then I’m going back to Brooklyn South.” Rosen turned to D’Antonio. “You got a card, boss?”

D’Antonio pulled a card from his pocket, handed it to Rosen and said, “Fax me all the notes. And your personal contact info in case we need to talk to you. You got a partner here?”

Rosen shook his head. “No, just me. Like I said, we’re stretched thin.”

“I thought homicides were down,” Priscilla said to Rosen. “Citywide in general, but I heard Brooklyn in particular.”

Rosen nodded. “Way down. So what happens? The brass cuts the overtime, doesn’t replace the attrition, and expands our caseload to include attempts, not just done murders. Go figure. We’re busier now than when the borough was doin’ four hundred a year.”

Rosen shook hands all around, then turned and climbed the stairs to the ground floor and relief from the permeating smell of death wafting into the basement from the rear door of the apartment. Rizzo turned to Priscilla.

“Point of information, Cil,” he said. “From what Rosen just told us, we know the body cycled completely through rigor mortis, going to flaccid with fixed lividity indicating the body’s been in one position since death. Lividity is maxed out, that only takes about twelve hours. It’s the advanced maggot activity that puts the approximate date of the murder around ten, twelve days ago.”

Priscilla nodded. “Will the M.E. be able to narrow that any?”

Rizzo shrugged. “Doubtful. He’ll do the autopsy for cause of death, but exact date will be tough. It ain’t a precise science, like on that television bullshit everybody watches. Maggots showing as early pupae make death around ten days, dependin’ on other environmental factors.”

“Well,” Priscilla said, her voice businesslike. “Shall we go take a look?”

Rizzo pulled two pairs of latex gloves from the pocket of his outer coat. D’Antonio produced his own. “I guess so, kiddo. Here, put these on.”

The three Six-Two cops went into the bedroom, then carefully crossed the room and entered a small foyer. From that vantage point, they could see directly into the kitchen. The body was covered, the medical examiner standing above it, a blue surgical mask covering the lower half of his ebony face. He was writing on a legal-size yellow pad, his brow furrowed.

“Hey, Doc,” Rizzo said cheerfully. “How you doin’ this morning?”

The man looked up from his notes, turning his eyes to the three detectives.

“As well as can be expected,” he said, a West Indies accent tugging at his tones. “And a damn sight better than this poor bastard.” With a dip of his head, he indicated the corpse.

“Was it definitely strangulation, Doc?” D’Antonio asked.

The man nodded, again turning to his pad and continuing his notemaking. “Most probably from behind, and with a garrote capable of deep cutting. The neck is badly lacerated. There was considerable bleeding while the heart was beating. Even afterward, some leakage continued.” He glanced from above the mask to Priscilla, then to Rizzo.

“ ’Tis quite a sight,” he said.

Rizzo stepped forward and pulled back the blue plastic morgue sheet covering the victim, dropping it away from the corpse.

The body lay facedown, its head twisted to the right, the profile swollen, eyes and tongue protruding. Decomposition fluids had drained from the nose and mouth, the skin of the distorted, bloated face was marbled in a greenish-black weblike pattern, a few plump maggots moving slowly across the surface.

Rizzo bent to the body, peering carefully at the open right eye, which stared in sightless horror at the base of the kitchen sink. The cornea appeared darkly clouded and opaque. Rizzo stood, turning to the examiner.

“Date of murder may turn out to be important here, Doc.” He added casually, “You notice that eye?”

Behind the man’s mask, it was evident he was smiling. “Relax, Detective,” he said. “I may just be a simple coconut island doctor, but I do know dead bodies. I assure you I will check the potassium levels in both eyes. Though it may not help much, other than to bolster my preliminary estimate of ten days.”

“No offense, Doc,” Rizzo said. “I’m just askin’, that’s all.”

The man nodded. “Yes, of course,” he said, glancing toward Priscilla. “I understand, and I’m sure your young colleague also understands your presumed need to ask.” He clicked his pen closed, returning it to the breast pocket of his blue Windbreaker. “And now,” he said, “I am finished here. When you are finished, release the body and I will next see it at the morgue. My initial report will be ready in a few days.”

“And the autopsy?” D’Antonio asked.

The man shrugged. “I cannot say. As soon as possible. I will have some lab results by Wednesday or Thursday that may or may not help with the date of death. But the autopsy, I cannot say.”

After they exchanged cards, the doctor left, passing a young Hispanic female morgue attendant, who stuck her head into the kitchen from the foyer.

“I’m here with the meat wagon, guys,” she said. “I’ll be outside, let me know when you’re done.”

Priscilla turned to her. “Okay,” she said with a nod.

“She’s got a long wait,” Rizzo said. “Crime Scene ain’t even here yet. We need photos, measurements, prints-all that shit.” He ran a hand through his hair and turned to D’Antonio. “Vince, you sure you can’t sell this back to Brooklyn South? Me and Cil are close to clearing a few of our cases. This homicide is gonna jam us up, time-wise. My stats are already down from workin’ without a steady partner. This is gonna kill me.”

“Sorry, Joe. Already tried. I don’t like this any more than you do, these homicide hotshots takin’ a fast look, seeing this is just some schnook nobody’s gonna be writin’ headlines about, and dumpin’ it on us. But it’s their call. You know that.”

“Yeah,” Rizzo said. “I know that.”

“Aren’t you on good terms with the boss over at Brooklyn South? Isn’t he always tryin’ to steal you outta the Six-Two?”

Rizzo understood. “Yeah, I know Santori, and no, I ain’t reachin’ out. Sometimes I feel like I owe more people than owe me, and I’m not addin’ any more to the list. If you can’t square it, fuck it, we’ll just do it.” He turned to Priscilla, who was now looking down at the putrid corpse. “Right, Cil?” he said.

Priscilla raised her eyes to meet his. “Right, we’ll just do it.” She turned back to the corpse. “Guy’s wearin’ pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, no shoes or socks.” She pointed at the countertop next to the stove. “Teapot and a box of Lipton. Looks like it was either morning or maybe late night. Guy was just gonna have some tea.”

She lowered her eyes once again to the corpse.

“Didn’t work out too good for the poor bastard, did it?”

SERGEANT BRIAN MALLOY WAS A FIFTEEN-YEAR veteran assigned as a supervisor of patrol at the Sixty-second Precinct. He and Rizzo were well known to each other.

Malloy, Rizzo, Jackson, and D’Antonio stood in a tight semicircle at the rear of the apartment in the small, ransacked bedroom. The room’s two casement windows on the back wall were separated by a long, worn dresser. The four cops stood in front of the window closest to the single bed. Broken glass from a shattered pane lay at their feet.

“So, Brian,” Rizzo said. “This is where you figure the perp came in?”

Malloy nodded. “Looks like it. When my patrol guys called and told me about the smell, I came here expectin’ to find some old man dead in bed. I got the key to the front door from the landlord and let myself in. We found the body where it is now. We looked around, saw this broken window. Looks like somebody broke in, came across the victim, and wound up strangling him in the kitchen. You can see the bedroom was ransacked. Probably some fucked-up junkie lookin’ for a quick score and not thinkin’ too clear.”