stopped into Sylvia’s for some ribs?” the sergeant asked, referring to the legendary soul food restaurant. “Looks like the limos full of ladies who lunch got lost on their way to tea at the Plaza.”
Mercer’s jurisdiction was countywide, like mine. He knew about the cross-dressing victim who had been bludgeoned to death in the Ramble by a guy he’d picked up on the street. The gay man who got his signals mixed was black. His fingertips had been mutilated, probably in an attempt by his killer to slow down the identification process. His penis had also been cut. The NYPD had classified the unsolved murder as a hate crime, though it was safe to say that most assaults that occurred within the thirty-six-acre enclave of Central Park’s densely foliated Ramble were assumed to have an element of bias.
“We’re on this, Sarge,” Mike said. “Thanks for your help.”
“She staying?” he asked, pointing at me.
“I am.”
“Coop’s useful sometimes, Sarge. You ever give that a try?”
It wasn’t unusual for a Manhattan prosecutor to come to a crime scene. Smart detectives called us into cases early on, to work as a team so that the most important evidence could be preserved and presented in the courtroom if the investigation was solved and the case went to trial. Matching seemingly unrelated crimes, overseeing forensic testing, and giving legal guidance for search warrants, lineups, and confessions had proved invaluable teamwork in seeking justice for those victimized.
“I’ll hang around, too, then,” Grayson said.
Mercer rose to survey the rest of the scene. “That gate was locked when you arrived?” he asked Mike.
“Yeah.”
“So, you’re saying the murderer got over the gate carrying a dead body, Doc? You’re not thinking he killed her on this portico?”
“Most likely the former,” Bixby said. “She’s rather petite, easy to move around. Lighter without, you know—”
We all knew. Lighter without her head.
“Or he had a key,” the sergeant said, trying to make himself relevant. “Or maybe he came out of the church with her. It’s possible he killed her inside there.”
“A regular Quasimodo,” Mike said. “Hunchback of Mount Neboh. Why don’t you go check the bell tower, Sarge?”
I had noticed two towers on the church as I approached it earlier. Its neo-Gothic design looked squarely out of a London landscape. The cops would obviously have to sweep the entire building before any determination could be made about whether this distinguished house of worship had harbored a killer.
“Where’s the preacher man?” Grayson asked. “He’s a good guy. He’ll help.”
“Lieutenant Peterson reached him on his cell. He’s in Atlanta, at a church retreat. The custodian is supposed to be coming over to let us in.”
A red-and-white station wagon was guided around the parked vehicles by one of the cops. Two men got out and were admitted through the gates, quickly mounting the steps to introduce themselves as fire marshals, Dan Daniels and Frank Russo. Both of them knew Mike.
“Who’s the deceased?” Russo asked.
“Don’t know,” Mike said.
“Any kind of ID?”
Bixby tore his eyes away from his BlackBerry and introduced himself. “I didn’t do a full exam. Didn’t want to turn her over until you gentlemen arrived. Have you got a camera?”
Daniels put his heavy case on the ground and opened it to get his equipment out. A camera and large flash attachment were on top. As he set up, I checked the progress of the uniformed cops, who were hanging yellow crime-scene tape to establish a wider perimeter on the sidewalk in front of the church, pushing back the ever-growing group of gawkers.
“Looks like they used straight-stream to put out the fire,” Russo said.
Mike had talked to the men on the truck that had first responded to the 911 calls of a blaze at Mount Neboh. “Said they had no choice. They didn’t know when they got here if whoever was under that blanket was dead or alive.”
The straight-stream nozzle was effective in dousing the flames quickly, but more destructive in dispersing the evidence.
“She must have been decapitated first, don’t you think?” I asked Bixby while Daniels finished dressing himself to move in and work on the body.
“I assume so.”
Something more interesting than my questions caught Bixby’s attention as his BlackBerry vibrated in his hand. His lack of focus was annoying.
Mike caught it too. “Hey, Doc, you with us, or do you plan to tweet your way through the autopsy?”
“Sorry. Trying to advise one of my colleagues.”
“She appears to be badly burned,” I said. “Can you tell how long the fire was going?”