Obsessed, p.2
Obsessed, page 2
“Me and Fotomat promise to develop photos in less than an hour.”
“Jesus, Walter, Fotomat? You’re not that old. How do you even remember them?”
“You’re not much older than me and you remember them.” He looked at the photo. “I got lucky. The ME’s office picked up immediately. They have a fingerprint scanner connected directly to the FBI. Turns out the girl had once applied to work at a preschool in SoHo. We were able to match her fingerprints to that application.
“Her name is Estella Abreu. Nursing student at Pace. Lived in East Harlem with her family on 116th Street.” He bent his head for a silent prayer. Walter did that any time he talked about a recent homicide victim. A common practice around people who deal with tragedy every day.
“Good work, Walter.”
“Autopsy is scheduled for tonight. Aurora Jones is the assistant medical examiner on duty.”
I was glad to hear it. Aurora was a hell of a coroner. I nodded and looked at Walter. “That’s outstanding. Can you see if there’re any connections between this victim and the one from the Bronx? When you have more information, we’ll compare them.”
Walter didn’t waste a second. “The girl in the Bronx, Emma Schrade, was a student at Juilliard. There is one connection right there. Both were students. Emma was a soprano.” He tossed an envelope onto my desk.
I opened it to see a bright-eyed blonde with a spectacular smile. “Where did these come from?”
“I just pulled them off the internet. I printed them so you could take them on interviews. I saved the original photo in ECMS.”
“Walter, just when I think you’re out of surprises, you pull one more out of the hat. This is impressive for just a few minutes.”
“I’ve got two daughters. You think I’m not motivated when I see a photo of a girl who’s been murdered? I don’t understand how you guys ever sleep at night. I’d be consumed with all the leads that come into a case like this. How do you handle it with your ten kids?”
“It’s definitely a balancing act. Between sports, homework, and just trying to spend some time with them, this is a tough job.”
Walter shook his head. “I don’t know how you do it, Mike. With your crazy-ass cases and all those kids, how do you find time in the day?”
“It’s all about being efficient and keeping moving like a shark. I’m afraid if I ever stand still, it’ll kill me. Believe it or not, I also start coaching my daughter Fiona’s basketball team this week.”
“All school officials see when they look at me is a potential football coach,” Walter said. “No one can believe it when I tell them I’ve never even seen a football game all the way from beginning to end.” He sighed. “I don’t know that I’d give up my steady daytime hours and comfortable desk for your job. I’d already be burned out and barely able to talk to my family.”
“Walter, I know your family. It doesn’t matter if you talk to them or not, they’d be talking to you.” We both laughed because we both understood what it meant to be true family men.
“I know what you mean. Questions at work, questions at home. Sometimes you want someone to answer your damn questions.”
I nodded. “Elementary school math and science can baffle me.”
Walter paused. “You mean like what weighs more, a gallon of water or a gallon of liquefied butane?”
“They weigh the same, right?”
Walter grinned. “No, butane is lighter fluid.”
I groaned and said, “You owe your daughter another dollar.”
“Totally worth it.”
Chapter 5
I STUDIED THE information Walter Jackson had come up with on both victims. It was during times like this, slouched at my desk, that I appreciated the padded chair I’d bought for myself. The city didn’t care if hours at my desk hurt my back.
As usual, Walter Jackson’s packet on my homicide victim was outstanding. The right criminal intelligence analyst makes any case easier. Walter always sticks in little bits of information other analysts might ignore, putting in data on siblings and old addresses, giving investigators more options to pursue when starting out on a case.
Sometimes, as a homicide detective, you’ve got to re-create the victim’s world in your head. You’ve got to be able to live their life and see the world through their eyes, at least briefly.
I was deep into Emma’s and Estella’s worlds and was startled when my phone rang. The kids had installed a new ringtone, the start of the piano solo from Eric Clapton’s original “Layla.” As soon as I heard it, I remembered that my wife, Mary Catherine, was going to call me after her doctor’s appointment.
The first words out of my mouth were “How’d it go?”
Instead of a concise answer, I heard a series of shrieks and laughing in the background.
Using my razor-sharp detective skills, I made an assessment and said, “You have the kids with you?”
“Only sixty percent of them. We’re on our way to buy some school clothes.”
“I thought you were going to call as soon as you were done at the doctor’s office.”
“Things got crazy and I was running late.”
I heard my youngest child, Chrissy, whine that she wanted to talk to me. That started her sisters Fiona and Shawna doing the same thing. I could barely hear Mary Catherine as she tried to explain things in code.
“Michael, I know I said I wanted to go to this first appointment on my own, but there was a lot to absorb. It was almost like the…” She searched for another word. “The cashier was trying to talk me out of any purchase.”
I was careful with my reply. I said, “To be clear, the doctor tried to talk you out of fertility treatment.”
“I have no idea why crime is rising with brilliant detectives like you running around.”
I snorted a laugh. I didn’t want her to think I was trying to influence her one way or the other about her efforts to get pregnant. Finally, I came up with “How do you feel about it?”
“I really don’t know. I think I’d like you…to come next time.”
I knew her pause was a last-second change from I’d like you at the next doctor’s appointment.
All I said was “Anything you want.”
“I think about how great our life is now in a home filled with children.” Mary Catherine paused to yell at the kids. “Everyone quiet for two minutes!”
I heard Trent sneak in an “Or what?”
The silence over the phone was terrifying. I knew those kids were facing the toughest of Irish glares. I felt sorry for them.
She came back on the line and her voice betrayed no hint of anger. Mary Catherine said, “I look at it two different ways. I think how happy another”—there was a pause—“visitor would be in our house. I also think we have the perfect balance now.”
“No matter what, we can’t lose. We have a great life, and a baby would make it better.”
Mary Catherine said, “I thought irrepressible optimism was supposed to be my thing.”
We both laughed as she broke the tension. We chatted for a few moments about the rest of our day. Then I built up the nerve to tell her, “Listen, I caught a homicide earlier today. I’ll probably be home late.” A homicide detective’s spouse hears this phrase dozens of times a year. But it felt harder to say, knowing she was having a rough day.
There was silence for a few moments on the other end of the line. Then Mary Catherine haltingly asked, “I know you’ve been looking for Juliana’s missing friend, Suzanne…”
“No, it wasn’t Suzanne. Suzanne’s father left another message for me this morning. I’ve been over to Missing Persons at One Police Plaza several times, hoping to find out something. So far there’s nothing on her. But Suzanne wasn’t the girl we fished out of the Hudson.”
“Oh, my Lord. Someone dumped a body in the river? That’s horrible.”
I try not to bring home the terrible things I see on my job. I guess I have achieved my goal because Mary Catherine was still reeling from the few details I had told her. I never want my family to become numb to the horrors that happen. Just like I don’t want to lose sight of what each homicide means, especially when the victim is young. Somewhere a family had lost a child. Every homicide victim means potential that won’t be reached. I know in my heart someone feels the loss every time a person is murdered.
Mary Catherine said, “Don’t worry about a thing, Michael. I have a plan for the afternoon that includes helping the twins with a project, then showing Ricky how I make my Irish stew.”
Her kind understanding—especially when she said things with that light Irish accent—made me want to rush home that much faster.
Chapter 6
TERRI HERNANDEZ MET me in East Harlem near where Estella Abreu, the young woman we’d pulled out of the Hudson, had lived. I caught Terri up on everything I’d learned about our victim.
“The only address listed for her is this one, with her parents, on 116th Street. A patrol sergeant made notification almost as soon as we knew who she was.”
We were about to do one of the most challenging things all homicide detectives do: interview the family of a homicide victim. You never know what you’re going to find. A family in denial. A family grieving so deeply they can’t focus. A family so shattered by the loss of the child they don’t know how to cope. There’s a wide array of responses to losing a family member to homicide, and none of them are positive.
“You know I did some work not too far from here. Did a year in Narcotics that, for a time, had me coordinating with officers at the Two-Three,” Terri said.
“Is the neighborhood better or worse than back then?”
“Same. Still tough. Right over there is where a convenience-store robber shot at me.”
“What happened to the shooter?”
“He ran and ended up shooting a cabdriver. Then he took the cab and went on a high-speed chase. The New Rochelle cops finally got him with Stop Sticks. He was booked, but since he didn’t hit me and the cabdriver survived, he got time served and two years’ probation.”
I said, “If the shooter had hit you, the judge would’ve given him another month or two for sure.”
“I don’t think people realize how close most cops are to just stepping away.”
“I hear ya. All we can do in the meantime is our best. Maybe if we did a better job, this neighborhood wouldn’t be so rough.”
Terri pointed down the street. “Over where those guys are selling dope was the site of my biggest fistfight. Place looks about the same. For a girl to get out of here and go to nursing school is really something. Her parents have to be special.” She shook her head and added, “And this is their reward? Makes you wonder why we all try so hard. Shit happens no matter what.”
All I could do was nod. I’d been thinking about this most of the afternoon. This beautiful young woman, studying to be a nurse at Pace University, and suddenly everything was taken from her. It made me sad, but it also made me angry.
Chapter 7
WE PAUSED OUTSIDE the building, a five-story apartment complex a few blocks from the East River. It was quiet on the street this time in the early evening. A few people were coming home from work. There were no kids playing outside. That said all that needed to be said about the neighborhood.
A man standing by the steps saw us pull up and immediately called someone to let them know the cops were here.
Terri said, “Relax, we’re not here for you or any of your petty crimes.”
The man looked insulted and relieved at the same time.
We climbed up two flights of stairs to the Abreu family’s three-bedroom apartment.
As we walked, Terri asked, “Any indication why Estella was so dressed up, or where she was going? Some kind of university function?”
“No. Nothing like that. Still checking.”
I took a deep breath to prepare myself for what we were about to do. The apartment door was open, and we could hear people talking inside. I knocked lightly, hoping someone would notice me at the open door. I’d seen scenes like this play out too many times. Still, there was something positive in seeing people here, comforting grieving parents.
I spotted a couple I assumed to be the Abreus together on a small love seat: a short, pudgy man wearing a work shirt with the name RAUL stenciled across his left breast, sitting with his arm around a small woman dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. She had the same long dark hair as Estella, and I could see a strong resemblance.
One wall looked like a shrine to Estella, with photos from her First Communion and soccer trophies all set up on a library table in the corner of the room. An elderly woman who I thought might be Estella’s grandmother silently arranged more photos on the table.
A young man came to the open door and said, “May I help you?”
I leaned in close and told him who we were and why we were here. He appreciated the quiet introduction. He motioned us inside, then said to the couple on the love seat, “Tio, I think you need to talk to these people.”
A few minutes later, we were in a bedroom with Mr. and Mrs. Abreu, sitting on a bed covered by a thick, vibrantly colored comforter printed with birds nesting in trees. We’d waited for Mrs. Abreu to compose herself in the bathroom. It looked like she could’ve used a couple more minutes.
We started slowly. Grieving parents don’t usually come up with the details that can really help in an investigation right away. We chatted about their daughter’s life. That is always the best route to information.
Mrs. Abreu spoke with a thick Spanish accent. “My Estella was not just pretty, she was beautiful. Since the day she came into this world. Smart as a whip too. She was also nearsighted, and she started wearing glasses at six. She always chose stylish frames, but she tried to not wear them for pictures. Without them she was almost blind. She could wear contacts for a short while.”
Mr. Abreu kept nodding. “Estella is sweet too.” He froze. Then eked out, “I mean she was.” Then he started to cry.
We went back to short questions about friends, interests, and relationships.
After a few minutes of simple questions, Terri Hernandez asked Mrs. Abreu, “Do you have any idea where Estella was going last night? She was dressed up like she was going out on the town.”
The grieving woman shook her head. After blowing her nose into the handkerchief, she looked up and said, “When Estella went out yesterday evening, she was dressed in casual clothes. I don’t know anything about being dressed up.”
Terri politely asked if she could see Estella’s bedroom and closet. I followed along as Mrs. Abreu led us to the third bedroom. All eyes followed us as we walked through the crowded living room. There was no question who we were or why we were here. These people expected results.
I watched silently as Mrs. Abreu showed Terri Hernandez her daughter’s room and closet.
After rooting around for a minute, Terri pulled a shopping bag out of the closet. She looked to Mrs. Abreu for approval. The middle-aged woman nodded, and Terri opened the bag. Inside was another bag, which held a long, flowing designer gown. She stood up and held the dress almost to her chin so it just barely cleared the floor. It was a dark green and looked like what someone would wear on a red carpet at the Oscars. It would make anyone look elegant. Especially someone like Estella.
Terri said, “When did Estella wear this?”
Mrs. Abreu took a tentative step forward. She reached out and felt the material between her thumb and forefinger. She focused on the dress for several seconds, then turned to Terri. “I have never seen this.”
Terri took some photos of the dress, then carefully folded it and put it back in the bag. She left it in the corner of the closet.
Estella’s mother had a vacant stare. It was like we weren’t even in the room with her. Without hesitation, Terri wrapped her arms around Mrs. Abreu. The woman started to sob.
We stood in silence for minutes while Mrs. Abreu let out the emotion of the worst day she was ever going to have. Terri continued to hug her. When Mrs. Abreu recovered, we headed back into the main room, where her family had gathered. Everyone looked at us to make an announcement. Instead, I awkwardly eased toward the front door. Mr. Abreu acted as my escort as people parted to let us exit.
I left my card and told them we might have more questions and let them know it was okay to call me anytime.
Mr. Abreu stepped out, grabbed my arm. He said in a low, shaky voice, “Tell me, Detective. Who could do something like this to a beautiful girl like Estella?”
“I don’t know, sir. But you can bet I’ll do my best to find out.”
Chapter 8
IT HAD BEEN a long day, and I was still going. I threw down two Butterfinger Minis just to give me some energy. The quart of coffee I’d downed since midafternoon sloshed around in my belly as I pulled my city-issued Chevy into an official parking spot in front of the NYC Health Department building on the corner of First Avenue and 30th Street, a block from the East River. This was one of three forensic pathology centers run by the New York City medical examiner. The other two were in Queens and Brooklyn.
No one is ever happy to go to the medical examiner’s office. But we’d caught a break. The assistant medical examiner on duty, Aurora Jones, could turn around a long, shitty day. With her charming Jamaican accent and sparkling smile, Aurora always lifted spirits, especially if people were looking tired or depressed. Maybe it was her job. Maybe she was around those kinds of people too often. Whatever the reason, I was looking forward to seeing her.
I met Aurora at her office on the third floor. I always smiled at her sense of humor, like how she decorated the cluttered cave with posters of Night of the Living Dead and The Walking Dead opposite one for Shaun of the Dead.
At just over five feet tall, she sprang from her chair and hugged me. It felt like I was hugging one of my kids.
Aurora stepped back. “You look like shit, Bennett.”
“Wish I didn’t feel like it too.”
