CHAPTER ONE #2
“Ammonia is an alkaline,” Larkin replied in an almost absent manner. He’d accepted Millett’s PPE and was adjusting the mask on his face.
“Anyone ever tell you that you’ve got a nasty habit of always getting in the last word?”
“Frequently.”
Another snort. “Good luck.”
“Thank you.”
Millett watched O’Halloran cross the pier and make for the cordoned-off street before saying offhandedly, “That asshole was practically pleasant tonight.”
Larkin didn’t comment as he put on the safety glasses, approached the fridge, and peered inside.
The contents didn’t look any better than they smelled: a murky brown, almost black water—the Hudson’s natural, sediment-heavy color—mixed with the internal fluids from a melting body.
The shelves had been removed and the victim, entirely nude, first appeared to have been placed into a cramped sitting position, but upon closer inspection, Larkin realized it was actually a pile of dismembered body parts.
The victim’s forehead rested against a pair of raised knees, short blond hair plastered to the sides of their face.
The back of the neck showed off where they’d been decapitated—the tool brutal, violent, with serrated teeth.
All over the skin that wasn’t submerged in the sludgy water was a waxy gray substance.
“Sure hope they were dead before the hacking began,” Millett muttered, seemingly to himself, before he raised his camera and started taking pictures.
Baxter said to Larkin matter-of-factly, “That smell is the by-product of anaerobic bacterial hydrolysis of body fat. Ever hear of adipocere?”
Larkin glanced up from the decomposing mess. “Corpse wax.”
“The body underwent saponification?” Millett interrupted.
“Sure did,” Baxter answered. “That’s what this gray substance is.
If left alone, its texture will eventually harden and can preserve the identification of a body.
It’s not mummification, although it displays similar attributes.
The Soap Lady in Philadelphia is an incredible example of nineteenth-century saponification and preservation. ”
“I’ve never heard of adipocere developing on a dismembered body,” Larkin said.
“Anything is possible when presented with the ideal conditions.”
“And what would those be,” Larkin asked.
“Hmm… a mild alkaline pH level, moisture, lack of oxygen, and a consistently warm temperature.”
Larkin glanced at the gray, greasy skin a second time. “According to Hudson River Park, the water quality typically measures at just above neutral. And the airtight seal on the fridge would significantly reduce oxygen levels while also preventing blowflies from laying eggs.”
“Summer’s been hot as shit too,” Baxter added.
“Not the technical term I’d use, but yes, this season has been notedly warmer,” Larkin replied.
“Textbook conditions,” Baxter concluded.
“How much time is required for this process.”
“I’ve seen a case where it occurred within three weeks of time of death,” Baxter answered. “But it more often develops after about two or three months.”
“A rough estimate of sometime between April 9 to June 18. What else can you tell me about the victim.”
“Nothing,” Baxter answered. “Adipocere tends to develop more often on female bodies since it requires the breakdown of body fat—of which females have about ten percent more of on average. The victim appears to be a white female, but beyond that, I can’t give you age or cause of death until I do the autopsy.
” Baxter peeled his latex gloves off as he took a step back.
“If you gentlemen don’t mind, I need to speak with my team and figure out how we’re moving the decedent to the morgue. ”
“Sure thing,” Millett answered distractedly, now crouched beside his open kit.
Larkin acknowledged the doctor’s exit by returning his attention to the body parts in the fridge.
He reached into his pocket, removed his phone, and turned on the flashlight app.
Larkin bent his knees and tilted his head, studying what little of the victim’s face was visible from where it was pressed into their raised knees. “She has something in her mouth.”
“What?” Millett dropped his supplies and hastily stood.
Larkin indicated with the light on his phone. “Her tongue is pushing it out.”
Millett got close, angled the camera still strapped around his neck, and took several photos, asking in between the flashes, “How’d you even catch that?”
“I looked for it,” Larkin answered.
Millett shot him an irritated glare.
“Tuesday, May 19, you provided me with a picture reminiscent of nineteenth-century mourning photography with the phrase, ‘Deliver me to Detective Larkin,’ written on the back side,” Larkin explained.
“Then on Wednesday, June 10, after unknowingly recovering fabric that was once used in a period mourning costume, I was supplied a VHS tape with another handwritten note reading, ‘Watch me, Detective Larkin.’
“Now we’re at a scene featuring a much more blatant attempt at communication—from whom I have to presume is the same unknown sender—‘Pin me to Detective Larkin.’ And since at-home electric refrigerators weren’t popularized until after the first World War, and as far as I’m aware, have no connection to outdated mourning practices, I simply suspected there was some other item needing to be found. ”
Millett lowered his camera. “I didn’t know there was a VHS tape on the last case.”
“It was delivered to my home.”
“That’s brazen.” Millett reached into the fridge and carefully tilted the head back to rest face up, revealing a bullet hole in the middle of the woman’s forehead. “Found the cause of death,” he stated.
Larkin’s eyes widened. “I know her,” he said on impulse.
“What?”
Despite the bloating, decomposition, adipocere, and third eye, Larkin would always recognize those pinched features, that Machiavellianism complex. He said, “Matilde Wagner.”
“The Angel of Death?” Millett asked. And when Larkin narrowed his eyes, he protested, “Hey, I didn’t name her. I just read the papers.”
“Wagner was the mastermind behind the deaths of Broadway sex workers. Her husband, Earl, was present—was the bait—and an accomplice to over forty years of killings,” Larkin explained. “But on June 12, Matilde murdered Earl.”
Millett observed with a touch of detachment, “Dead men tell no secrets.”
“The dead always speak. You just have to be willing to listen.”
“I guess that’s why O’Halloran calls you the Grim Reaper,” Millett said before tugging his mask down and shouting toward the street where Baxter stood speaking with OCME staff, “Doc! Come back—we got a probable ID!” He shoved his mask back onto his nose and then reached into Matilde Wagner’s mouth to remove the protruding object.
Larkin said, “She outsourced an attempt on Detective Doyle’s life to her brother, Sal Costa, before going on the lam.”
“Precinct gossip was—shit, hang on, it’s got a pin pierced through her tongue… there we go—the gossip was that Costa almost killed you .”
“That’s correct.”
Millett glanced sideways. “That was stupid.”
“And I’d do it again.”
The item popped free from Wagner’s mouth, and Millett straightened his posture while extending a gloved hand.
Despite the viscous body fluids, Larkin could easily make out a brooch with an antiquated clasp.
It was made of black stone, seed pearls, and cut glass that housed delicate strands of braided human hair.
“You say she’s been on the lam the past month?” Millett asked, shifting the brooch this way and that in the pier light. “Looks like the wrong person found her.”