"Definitely."
"So I didn't come up with anything helpful, but it's encouraging that I got three calls, don't you think? And there'll probably be more tomorrow."
There was one call Thursday, and it had seemed promising early on. A woman in her early thirties taking graduate courses at St. John's University, abducted at knifepoint by three men as she was unlocking her parked car in one of the campus parking lots. They piled into the car with her and drove to Cunningham Park, where they had oral and vaginal sex with her, menaced her throughout with one or more knives, threatened various forms of mutilation, and did in fact cut her on one arm, although the wound may have been inflicted accidentally. When they were done with her they left her there and escaped in her car, which had still not been recovered almost seven months after the incident.
"But it can't be them," Elaine said, "because the guys were black. The ones on Atlantic Avenue were white, weren't they?"
"Yeah, that's one thing everybody agrees on."
"Well, these men were black. I kept, you know, returning to that point, and she must have thought I was racist or something, or that I suspected her of being a racist, or I don't know what. Because why should I keep pounding away at the color of the rapists? But of course it was all-important from my point of view, because it means that she's out of the picture for our purposes. Unless sometime between now and last August they figured out how to change color."
"If they worked that out," I said, "it'd be worth a lot more than four hundred thousand to them."
"Nice. Anyway, I felt like an idiot, but I took her name and number and said we'd call her if we got a green light on the project. You want to hear something funny? She said whether it leads to anything or not she's glad she called, because it did her good to talk about it. She talked about it a lot right after it happened and she had some counseling but she hasn't talked about it lately, and it helped."
"That must have made you feel good."
"It did, because up to then I'd been feeling guilty for putting her through it under false pretenses. She said I was very easy to talk to."
"Well, that comes as no surprise to this reporter."
"She thought I was a counselor. I think she was leading up to asking if she could come in once a week for therapy. I told her I was an assistant to a producer, and that you needed pretty much the same skills."
THAT same day, I finally managed to get hold of Detective John Kelly of Brooklyn Homicide. He remembered that Leila Alvarez case and said it was a terrible thing. She'd been a pretty girl and, according to everyone who knew her, a nice kid and a serious student.
I said I was doing a piece on bodies abandoned in unusual locations, and I asked if there had been anything unusual about the condition of the body when it was found. He said there'd been some mutilation and I asked if he could give me a little more detail and he said he thought he'd better not. Partly because they were keeping certain aspects of the case confidential, and partly to spare the feelings of the girl's family.
"I'm sure you can understand," he said.
I tried a couple of other approaches and kept running up against the same wall. I thanked him and I was going to hang up, but something made me ask him if he'd ever worked out of the Seven-eight. He asked why I wanted to know.
"Because I knew a John Kelly who did," I said, "except I don't see how you could be the same man, because he would have to be well past retirement age by now."
"That was my dad," he said. "You say your name's Scudder? What were you, a reporter?"
"No, I was on the job myself. I was at the Seven-eight for a while, and then I was at the Six in Manhattan when I made detective."
"Oh, you made detective? And now you're a writer? My dad talked about writing a book, but that's all it ever was, talk. He retired, oh, it must be eight years now, he's down in Florida growing grapefruit in his backyard. Lot of cops I know are working on a book, or say they are. Or say they're thinking about it, but you're actually doing it, huh?"
It was time to shift gears. "No," I said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"That was crap," I admitted. "I'm working private, it's what I've been doing since I left the department."
"So what do you want to know about Alvarez?"
"I want to know the nature of the mutilation."
"Why?"
"I want to know if it involved amputation."
There was a pause, long enough for me to regret the whole line of questioning. Then he said, "You know what I want to know, mister? I want to know just where the fuck you're coming from."
"There was a case in Queens a little over a year ago," I said. "Three men took a woman off Jamaica Avenue in Woodhaven and left her on a golf course in Forest Park. Along with a lot of other brutality, they cut off two of her fingers and stuck them in, uh, bodily openings."
"You got a reason to think it was the same people did both women?"
"No, but I have reason to believe that whoever did Gotteskind didn't stop at one."
"That was her name in Queens? Gotteskind?"
"Marie Gotteskind, yes. I've been trying to match her killers to other cases, and Alvarez looked possible, but all I know about it is what wound up in the papers."
"Alvarez had a finger up her ass."
"Same with Gotteskind. She also had one in front."
"In her-"
"Yeah."
"You're like me, you don't like to use the words when it's a dead person. I don't know, you hang around the MEs, they're the most irreverent bastards on earth. I guess it's to insulate themselves from feeling it."
"Probably."
"But it seems disrespectful to me. These poor people, what else can they hope for but a little respect after they're dead? They didn't get any from the person who took their life."
"No."