Manhattan Serenade: A Novel - Joseph Sinopoli Steven

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tossed what remained of the cigar into the river. “Because despite my pleas to do so, DA Schilling maintained there was nothing new that warranted re-opening the case. But now that’s changed with Myer’s murder. I spoke with Shilling and he’s very much on board. As Police Commissioner, I’m ordering you to do so, forthwith.”

      Moran narrowed his eyebrows and peered at Newbury. “But why top priority?” he asked. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that Shilling might make a run for the governorship next year, would it?”

      Newbury, who stood at Moran’s height, poked the cop in the chest with a forefinger. “Spare me your political insight,” Newbury said. He lowered his voice. “I’m going to level with you. Lacy Wooden, was my wife’s niece, her sister’s only child and—”

      “I didn’t know that,” Moran said while Hernandez stared at the Commish with a dumbfounded look in his blue eyes.

      “To tell the truth, we weren’t exactly close. I’d just been made commander of Manhattan South when Lacy moved down here from Rochester in search of a Broadway dance career. That was about two years ago. My wife, Margaret, didn’t approve of her topless dancing to help pay for her dance classes at Carnegie Hall and, well, just say there were other matters that we didn’t see eye-to-eye on.” He raised his glance and looked at Moran with saddened eyes. “I’m asking as a personal favor. Give this top priority.”

      Hernandez took his hands out of the pockets of his three-piece blue suit and stepped forward. “But, what about the cases we—”

      “We’ll do what can, sir,” Moran quickly interjected and exchanged glances with his sergeant.

      Newbury’s face muscles relaxed and he smiled—a small, tight smile. “With your clearance rate I have all the confidence in the world in you.” The commissioner checked his watch. “Gotta go, I’m late for a meeting with the mayor,” he added and started back to his limo.

      “Hi, Moran. How’s your wife coming along?” A familiar voice boomed from behind. Moran whirled around and gazed into Milos Chang’s round, tan, ageless face. Assistant Chief Medical Examiner for as long as anyone in the department could remember, Milos Chang’s actual age was a source of endless speculation— some swore he had been around since Manhattan was bought by Peter Minuit.

      “Coping,” Moran said. “Got anything you want to share with me?”

      “Nope.”

      Moran gestured toward the corpse. “I meant about the body.”

      “Oh, yeah. The photo boys finished a little while ago. Let me show you what we got.” Chang started to lead the two cops to the end of the pier. When they reached Myer’s body, one of Chang’s assistants lifted the sheet. Paul Myer was wearing an open-collar checkered shirt over gray pants. He lay face up on the wooden planks. Moran slipped on a pair of latex gloves and knelt next to the bloated body.

      The lieutenant crouched next to the corpse and gingerly turned the dead man’s head. As he brushed long wisps of auburn hair from the face, he winced—what had once been a ruggedly handsome square face with a firm jaw was severely chewed. Myer’s left eye was missing and strands of algae hung from the empty socket with the left cheekbone exposed. His other eye, a light shade of blue, stared out in lifeless wonder.

      The lieutenant’s gaze slowly drifted over the body and then stopped. He examined the deep gash on Myer’s left temple. “He was bludgeoned on the side of the head,” he said. “I’d say it was something with a sharp edge that caused that amount of damage.” The detective noticed the gold Rolex on the left wrist. “Seems he was doing pretty well after leaving Attica.”

      Chang crouched next to Moran, flipped back his ponytail and passed the flat of his hand over his glistening bald head. “Not much left of him, though.”

      “At least the fish and crabs ate well,” Hernandez, quipped from behind them.

      Moran nodded. “A regular smorgasbord,” he said.

      Chang adjusted his rimless glasses and jammed his hands inside his black parka’s pockets. “Two shots to the base of the skull,” he said, and nodded to the two holes behind the right ear. “You can see from the powder burns that he was shot at close range.”

      Moran leaned in and peered at the wounds. “Looks like the gun was right up against the skin.”

      “Any sign of a struggle?” Hernandez said.

      Chang gazed up and gave the sergeant an impatient stare. “Sometimes I wonder about you, Frank. We’re lucky the fish left anything for me to examine,” Chang shifted his eyes back to Moran and asked the lieutenant to help him turn the body. “Take a look at this,” Chang continued, and pointed to several faded red stains on the back of Myer’s shirt.

      “Blood?” Moran asked.

      Chang nodded. “I’d bet my ponytail on it.”

      Moran gazed at the AME, smiled tightly and nodded.

      “It tells me,” Chang said, “that the body was placed in the water several hours after the murder, thus allowing the blood to permeate the fabric. Otherwise, the water would’ve washed it all away. In my opinion, this is not Myer’s blood. There was a struggle and the victim inflicted damage on his assailant who bled onto the back of Myer’s shirt.”

      Moran peered at the faded stains. “Or the killer turned the body over and stained the shirt with the victim’s blood.”

      Chang nodded. “If the bloodstain wasn’t so washed out I could probably be more certain from the size of the blood drops and their angle, but under the circumstances you could be right.”

      “From the wounds I’d say small caliber… possibly a .22, a 9mm or .38 were the weapons of choice.” Moran said and stood up.

      “Two shooters?” Hernandez muttered.

      Moran shrugged. “Maybe.” He then turned to Chang. “How long has he been in the water?”

      “Hard to tell with the currents in this part of the river, but from the deteriorated condition of the body and the bloating, I’d say three to five days. I’ll know for sure after the autopsy.”

      When Hernandez chuckled, Chang turned and glared at the sergeant.

      “Something on your mind?”

      Hernandez shook his head. “Haven’t said a word, Milos.”

      Chang grunted. His penchant for performing an autopsy on every corpse, including the decapitated ones, was a running argument between him and Hernandez. The sergeant stepped forward, reached into his topcoat’s pocket, and drew out a plastic evidence bag containing a black lizard-skin wallet. “This was on him. Over five hundred dollars in it.”

      Moran eyed the wallet and nodded. “That and his Rolex rules out robbery as a motive,” he said, and turned to AME. “Okay, Milos, he’s all yours.”

      While Myer’s body was being loaded onto a waiting gurney, Moran walked to the other side of the pier and gazed out at the turbulent dark green water. The squawking of seagulls flying alongside a garbage-laden barge being towed upriver drew Moran’s attention.

      “Garbage collectors… that’s what we are, Frank; nothing but garbage collectors,” he murmured. His eyes followed the barge.

      Hernandez joined him and looked at the passing barge. “It’s times like these that make me want to quit the department, switch to day classes, and get my law degree faster.”

      Moran looked at his partner with feigned surprise. “What, and give up the chance to serve and protect? C’mon, let’s move it. You heard the Commish—top priority.”

      The color slide of a nude ash-blonde young woman filled the screen.

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