Cold Hit (19 page)

“Anything further?” Caxton asked. “I’m sure you’ll excuse me. I’ve got a condolence call to pay this morning. One of the most respected figures in our business, and a dear friend both to me and to Deni, passed away yesterday.” He stood up, walked to his desk to retrieve a pair of sunglasses. “I’ve really got to be going.”

“They’re dropping like flies around you, Mr. Caxton. Hope it isn’t contagious,” Mike cracked. “Anyone I knew?”

“I sincerely doubt it, Mr. Chapman.” Caxton lifted the
Times
off his desk and passed it to Mike. “A lovely gentleman. A very distinguished art restorer called Marco Varelli. Read the obituary page if you think I’m deceiving you yet again.”

“Marco Varelli?” My lips moved as Mercer said the name aloud with disbelief.

“How’d he die?”

“A heart attack, in his studio. Eighty-four years old. I’m off to console his widow.”

Battaglia was drinking apple cider and puffing on a cigar as he waved me into his office an hour after I left Lowell Caxton on Wednesday morning. I could tell there was no urgency to the district attorney’s questioning of me by the fact that he removed neither the cigar from the corner of his mouth nor his feet from the edge of the desk.

“Any progress in this art dealer’s murder?”

“Developments, yes. Progress, no.”

“I’ve got to give a speech at the Department of Justice next week on the significance of the drop in the crime rate in New York. Rose is typing it up today. Any figures you can give me to throw in on sex crimes?”

“Nothing that will help you. Rape is the only crime in which the rate of reporting has increased in the last three years. Stay away from those numbers, unless you think Justice will give us more money if we can show how the volume has gone up.”

“Suppose they ask me why it hasn’t dropped like the other violent crime categories?”

“Not complicated at all. A lot of the credit for the reduction goes to aggressive community-policing policies, right? Most people don’t realize that almost
eighty percent
of reported rapes occur between people who know each other. The stranger rapist — the guy who jumps out from behind trees in the park or breaks into homes — he’s only responsible for about twenty percent of the cases. But he’s the guy most women fear.

“So, while violent street crime is way down, the acquaintance-rape victims aren’t at all affected by the presence of the cop on the beat. They trust their assailant — so they walk right past the officer into the apartment or dorm or hotel room of the man they’re with — and then the attack occurs.”

Battaglia went back to the report he was reading. “Get me a memo on that before the end of the day, will you? Flush it out a bit so I can use it in Washington.”

I was almost out the door. “Hey,” he called after me, “what’s with you and this news guy, Jacob Tyler? I’d like to meet him. Maybe we could get him to do a story on the new Welfare Fraud Unit we’re setting up.”

It was impossible to keep a secret from Paul Battaglia. He never even had to leave his spacious office on the eighth floor of the building to get the most complete intelligence — professional and personal — from a cadre of loyal and talented men and women who served him in his distinguished career in public service.

“I’ll be sure to let him know, Paul. May I ask how—”

The cigar was parked squarely in the middle of his gritted teeth now. “Tell him I said I never divulge my sources. He’ll appreciate that, as a good reporter.”

I stopped at Rose’s desk, knowing that I could learn from her what Battaglia had been told about the status of my new romance, but she had stepped away, so I went back to my office.

“Mike’s on hold. I tried to transfer him over to Battaglia’s wing but they said you were on your way back,” Laura said.

I went into my room and picked up the phone.

“Just checked with the morgue,” he said. “No autopsy done on Marco Varelli. Didn’t have to. He was eighty-four, with a serious heart condition, and under a doctor’s care. Once his own physician signed off on the death certificate, that’s it. By the end of the day he’ll be resting at a funeral parlor down on Sullivan Street. We’ll go over for tonight’s visiting hours and see if we can turn up some employees or friends.

“Also,” he continued, “spoke to the Feds on the auction-bid-rigging investigation. Can you meet us at Kim McFadden’s office at five? They’ll fill us in on that, and update us on the Gardner Museum heist, too.”

The United States Attorney’s Office for the Southern District was a four-block walk from my office, set back behind the old federal courthouse, near Police Headquarters, and the New York City offices of the F.B.I. “Fine, that gives me the rest of the day to catch up on the things I need to do. See you at five.”

“Is this a bad time?” Carol Rizer asked as she stood in the doorway. She was new to the unit, and although her skills were good, it was important that she be supervised on complicated matters.

“If I told you to wait for a good time, your witness is likely to die of old age. What do you need?”

“I’m having a lot of trouble with a victim in a case I picked up last night. The defendant’s got a really bad record — three felony convictions — but there’s something wrong with the victim’s story and I just can’t break her on it. Can I bring her in for you to talk to?”

“Yes. Give me the background.”

“Her name is Ruth Harwind, and she’s nineteen years old. Lives in Queens with her mother. Has a boyfriend named Wakim Wakefield — he’s waiting up in my office. The defendant is Wakim’s roommate, and his name is Bruce Johnson. Ruth claims that she stayed in their apartment one day after Wakim left for work. She says Bruce forced her bedroom door open with a knife and dragged her into his room. That’s where she says he raped her.”

Carol knew how I handled these interviews. She had written out a list for me identifying all the inconsistencies in the story Ruth had told, first to the police and then to her. She had also highlighted for me the facts that didn’t make much sense.

“What do you find troubling?”

“Start with the point that in the middle of the rape, the boyfriend came back to the apartment, knocked on Bruce’s bedroom door, and asked where Ruth was. Bruce said he didn’t know, and Wakim left. My first problem is why she just didn’t scream out for help when Wakim was right there in the next room.

“Now, if she’d told me it was because he’d threatened her again with the knife, it might have been credible. But all she says is that it didn’t occur to her.”

“What else?”

“The cop examined the door that she claims was pried open with a knife. There’s no sign of any disturbance on the paint or to the wood. Also, there’s no immediate outcry. When she left the apartment and went outside on the street, she ran into Wakim. She went back upstairs with him, showered, and made love. Nobody mentioned the word ‘rape’ until Bruce’s girlfriend came home and told Wakim that Ruth had been cheating on him. He’s the one who challenged her to go to the police if the story was true.”

Frequently the motive in a false report can be gleaned from the circumstances of how and why a sexual assault gets related to the police. In many cases like this, an angry boyfriend dares the victim to prosecute if the crime really happened.

“Did Bruce make any statements?”

One of my favorite bureau chiefs, Warren Murtagh, had a list of training rules, and Murtagh’s Rule # 3 was a good one. “No defendant ever says absolutely nothing.” Everyone arrested makes some comments to the cops, spontaneously or in response to questioning, which is usually useful in sorting out the facts.

Often the perp’s remarks can be discarded as self-serving and of no value, but just as often there are kernels of truth that can be used to shed light on the victim’s version of events. Every now and then, the real story lies somewhere right in between.

Carol answered, “Johnson says it was consensual. Says he gave her ten dollars to come in his bedroom and have sex with him. Even told us they watched a porno movie together. And that he used a condom, ’cause she asked him to.

“Also, Alex, she’s lied about some of the basic stuff. Said she worked at the Victoria’s Secret store in the World Trade Center for six months. I called over there and got the woman who’s been the manager for two years. She’s never heard of Ruth.”

“Bring her in.” Once a witness has lied about facts that are
not
essential to the case and that can be easily verified or disproved, there is reason to be suspicious about the underlying allegations in the criminal complaint. Until caught in a direct lie, every witness who walked in the door was presumed to be telling us the truth.

Ruth Harwind was not happy to be ushered into my office. At five foot eleven she was a couple of inches taller than I, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and directing her defiant pout toward the floor.

I began with a series of pedigree questions to get as much background knowledge about the young woman as I could. “Why you need to know all this business about me?” she asked, balking at the personal information for which I was probing.

“Because I need to know as much about
you
as Bruce Johnson knows, as much about you as he’s going to tell his lawyer to use against you. It may be the only way that Carol and I can protect you when you go to court.

“Who do you live with in Queens?”

“My mother.”

“What’s her name?”

Ruth’s annoyance level was growing. “What’s that got to do with me being raped?”

“Like everyone else who’s been the victim of a crime, you walk through my door and tell a story that could keep Bruce Johnson in jail for the next twenty-five years of his life. That’s longer than you’ve been alive. And that’s what he deserves, if everything you told the police about him is true.

“But Carol doesn’t know you and I don’t know you, so I’m going to ask you a series of questions that are really simple to answer and that are a very easy way for us to be able to prove that things you tell us are true. So, let’s start over. Would you please tell me your mother’s name?”

“No, I won’t.” Ruth had dug her heels in. Slouched down in the chair, she stared at a small vase of flowers on my desk, refusing to make eye contact with me.

“Why won’t you tell me?” I asked. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you, please.”

“ ’Cause I don’t want my mother to know I’m here, that’s why.”

“That’s fair. I can accept that.” Since Ruth was nineteen, there was no legal requirement that her parents be notified. “Why don’t you tell me what you do? Do you go to school? Do you have a job?”

“Like I told her,” Ruth said, jerking her head in Carol’s direction, “that’s nobody’s business but mines. This is about me and Bruce. Why don’t y’all ask me questions about that, huh?”

“You’re not going to be able to give the answers you’re giving me to the judge, when he asks the same things in the courtroom. He’s going to insist on a little respect and make you respond to whatever he needs to know.”

“Well, let’s just drop the whole thing and lemme outta here.” Ruth slammed her hand on my desk and stood up. “Wakim can take care of Bruce.”

“Sit down, Ruth. You’re not going anywhere. There’s a man who’s been held in jail since last night, and based on what you tell me today, the judge is going to decide whether to keep him in on high bail any longer.”

We glared at each other for a couple of seconds before she took her seat again. The questioning continued at the same pace and with similar results. When we got to the part at which Bruce forced Ruth into his bedroom, I asked whether he had turned on the television or a movie.

“Yeah, he put on the VCR, but I wasn’t watching.”

“That’s not what he says.”

“Well, who you gonna believe, him or me? Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“What kind of movie was it?” I asked, ignoring her questions to me.

“I seen it before, at Wakim’s. Some kind of dirty movie with two girls sucking on each other. I only looked at it from time to time.”

Great. Already Bruce’s version was making more sense than Ruth’s.

My intercom buzzer went off and Laura asked me to step out to her desk. “If there’s anything else about your story that you remember now that’s different than what you told the police, this is the time to tell Carol. Once we put you under oath and you swear to the judge about something, if it turns out not to be true, then it will be too late for Carol and me to help you.” I excused myself and said I’d be right back.

“Alex, this is Mrs. Harwind, Ruth’s mother. One of Ruth’s friends told Mrs. Harwind that her daughter was coming down here today, and she’s asked to talk to you.”

The middle-aged woman in the hallway outside Laura’s cubicle was agitated and tearful. I introduced myself and took her into the conference room to explain what was going on. Since Ruth had asked me not to tell her mother about the case, I was avoiding the fact that her daughter was fifteen feet away, inside my office.

“Miss Cooper, you’ve got to help me find my child. I’ve got a warrant for her in Queens Family Court, ’cause she ran away from the group home they put her in.”

“How long ago was that?” I was confused, since Ruth was too old to be a candidate for court placement in a group home.

“Just back two weeks. This guy Wakim, he’s got her hid in his apartment. My girl
looks
big, but she’s only fifteen.”

“Fifteen?”

I sat Mrs. Harwind down and explained that Ruth was with me. Since there was a warrant issued in her case, I was legally obliged to return her to court.

“Laura, call the D.A.’s Squad. Ask for Sergeant Maron, and tell him I need a detective down here immediately. Get two, and tell him to make sure that one is a female.”

This would not go down easily, and I expected that the girl would get confrontational. With Ruth and Carol in my office, and Mrs. Harwind in the conference room, I waited at the foot of the staircase for the detectives from the squad to come downstairs. Before they appeared, a man who seemed to be forty years old got off the elevator holding two cans of soda and headed straight for Laura’s door. I heard him ask for Ruth.