CHAPTER FOURTEEN #3
So often, his associations were too personal, too conceptual, too tortured to be anything but a disruption and a burden on every second of every day of his life. But every once in a while, those associations were like pins in a tumbler lock finally lining up.
Click .
Larkin leaned over the open second drawer of his desk—hanging files all precisely aligned and organized—and snatched Hell’s Kitchen Billie Donovan out of it.
He’d been unable to dedicate much time to Billie’s murder since adopting the case early in his career, had even considered recommending Porter to take it on instead, as the circumstances screamed gang violence and the senior detective was far more versed in organized crime than Larkin was, but despite the most noble of intentions to see Billie’s case solved, here Billie sat.
Still waiting for justice all these years later.
Larkin next collected Wagner’s crisp new file and, while holding them both up, said, “Porter.”
Porter turned in his chair.
“Was it common for a mob hit to be made to disappear.”
“Depends on the mob, but sure,” Porter said, looking between the two manila folders with mild interest. “The Italian mafia’s buried more than a few bodies along the border of Brooklyn and Queens.
That was one of my first investigations when I came to Cold Cases back in 2004, you know.
Just me, the FBI, and Bonanno crime family vics found at the Hole. ”
Larkin gave Billie’s case a shake. “Gunshot, execution-style. Body dismembered, placed into trash bags, and dumped into the East River.”
“When?”
“1984.”
Porter snorted. “Sounds an awful lot like some of the Irish wackos from back in the day.”
“What do you mean.”
“Used to be, the last Irish mobsters in the city would hack up bodies in a tub, put the pieces in trash bags, and drive ’em to the river for dumping.”
“Are you talking about the Westies?”
Both Larkin and Porter directed their attention to Doyle, who was hanging up the phone.
“You know them?” Porter asked.
“I grew up in Hell’s Kitchen,” Doyle answered, moving around the front of Larkin’s desk to join them in conversation.
“Grandma would sit on the stoop in the evenings with other ladies from the tenement and talk about the good old days—about McGrath and Spillane, the old-school gangsters who used to run the neighborhood. Her generation wasn’t very fond of the Westies. ”
Larkin lowered the folders in his hands. “Your grandmother approved of mob behavior.”
“It’s not that she approved,” Doyle answered. “That’s just… kind of how it was back then.”
“Hell’s Kitchen was under gang influence for well over a hundred years,” Porter explained to Larkin.
“But the violence got real bad after Mickey Spillane was murdered in ’77 and the Westies opened the neighborhood up to working with the Italian mafia.
RICO charges didn’t take the Westies out until the late ’80s, though, which is why that body dump sounds like their MO. ”
Larkin considered for a moment. “Why, when the neighborhood is only a block or two from the Hudson, would they traverse crosstown to dump the body.”
Porter said, “The Irish mob used to control the dockworkers union. The longshoremen were all from Hell’s Kitchen. It wouldn’t look good to toss vics into the same body of water your neighbor works.”
Larkin raised Wagner’s file next. “Gunshot, execution-style. Body dismembered, placed into a refrigerator, and dumped in the Hudson River.”
Porter’s eyebrows crept toward his nonexistent hairline. “Interesting parallels.”
“Larkin?” Doyle asked with noted uncertainty.
To Doyle, Larkin said, “We’ve been focused on the details within Wagner’s death, but not the death itself.
The fridge, the brooch—important, yes—but what about the MO of the murderer.
How someone kills can also tell a story.
Is there a complex psychological urge to do harm, such as the ritualistic serial murders associated with Harry Regmore, Alfred Niederman, and Matilde Wagner, or is it perhaps more indicative of the killer’s associations or past influences.
Do they kill not out of known psychopathic lifestyle behaviors, such as stimulation-seeking, impulsivity, or parasitic orientation, but because it’s their job. ”
“You think we’re dealing with a street thug and not an organized killer this time?” Doyle asked.
“On the contrary, this individual is fairly organized. And patient. It takes a considerable amount of time to butcher an adult human and then dispose of the remains. But the sender has done business with all manner of monsters, from mission-oriented serial killers to necrophiliacs. Why wouldn’t he also do business with, say, a former mobster. ”
“Wagner wasn’t necessarily a ‘mob hit,’ Doyle started. “But is instead reflective of how this individual might have been trained to kill.”
“And the deviation of trash bags to fridge is because it wasn’t ever about making Wagner disappear,” Larkin added.
“Silenced, yes, but her body needed to keep the game going ad nauseam. We know from past cases that the sender is framing her killer, and that Wagner’s murder will also eventually point us toward a seemingly unrelated cold case—”
“Barbara Fuller!” Doyle interjected. Animatedly, he said, “That’s the cold case connection.
Think about it: Last month, we had to identify Esther from old VHS footage in order to find her killer.
But in doing so, we learned her name might’ve actually been Barbara Fuller.
Now her killer is dead and the mourning imagery—jewelry, in this case—is bringing us right back around to the name, Fuller.
There must be something about her, specifically, that the sender wants us to learn. Something more than her legal name.”
“Why she ran away,” Larkin suggested. “What life did Barbara leave, and why was making ends meet as Esther—existing on the fringes of society—the better option.”
“It might’ve been the only option,” Doyle corrected with noted somberness.
“I’ve no idea what the fuck you two are on about,” Porter finally put in, “but I hope I helped.”
Larkin returned his attention to Porter. “Yes, you were of great assistance. Thank you.”
Porter grunted.
Larkin spun on his heel, returned to his desk, and began to hastily store the last of the cases sitting out. “Actually, Porter, I have one last question.”
“I don’t like feeling used.”
Larkin finished storing the folders, closed the desk drawer, and straightened his stooped posture. Porter had turned in his chair and was staring at him. “You may have my cake batter donut.”
“The stale cake batter donut that’s been sitting on the counter since yesterday morning?”
“Yes.”
Porter mulled over the offer. “What’s the question?”
“The Hudson River was once a significant location to Hell’s Kitchen. It employed much of the neighborhood, which then employed the Westies.”
“That’s right.”
“Do toothpicks hold any sort of significance to the Hudson. Something symbolic, or historic, perhaps.”
Porter’s mouth fixed into a shrug before he said, “There’s a story—can’t say how true it might be—that back in the day, prospecting dockworkers would line up at the pier each morning, and if they tucked a toothpick behind one ear, it signaled to the foreman that they were game.”
Doyle asked, “Game for what?”
“That they’d kickback some of their wages in return for the job,” Porter clarified as he got up from his chair. “It perpetuated the system of racketeering and loan-sharking—kept the Irish mob alive a few decades longer than they shoulda been.”
“Thank you,” Larkin said.
“Thanks, Jim.”
Porter gave them a lazy salute before heading toward the breakroom.
Larkin shrugged out of his suit coat and draped it over the back of his chair. “The history of the Hudson is relevant in this case the same way that the subway and Broadway locations were in the past.”
“It’s sounding more and more like Hell’s Kitchen mob activity,” Doyle agreed with a nod. “Last month, Phyllis said that Esther—uh, should we start referring to her as Barbara?”
“I do believe we should consider this an opportunity to give Barbara her identity back.”
“Sure. Phyllis said that Barbara had the quintessential New York accent, making her a local. On top of that, she’s a beautiful young woman possibly from Hell’s Kitchen. What if the reason she turned to a life on Broadway was to get away from someone in the neighborhood?”
“It’s not an unreasonable theory, especially given the extra work she put into changing her identity.
She didn’t buy a fake ID and call it done—she went to considerable lengths to obtain those legal documents we had a brief look at.
” Larkin motioned Doyle to follow him as he started across the bullpen.
“But we need to speak with someone who knew her—knew her as Barbara.”
Doyle switched gears. “Debra’s a little backed up in Public Relations, but she said your composite sketch should be up on Local4Locals sometime today.”
“Good.”
“And Detective Winter in Homicide confirmed what Millett said: Joe was horny for a story. He ran a background check last month—no arrests, no priors. But Winter echoed Millett’s concern: The guy tried speaking with queer officers in Vice, Transit, and Homicide before circling back to you.
” They reached the threshold that led to the breakroom on the right and copy room on the left, and Doyle followed Larkin left.
“Winter’s investigation ended up going in another direction and he lost the opportunity to delve further into Joe, but from all accounts, Joe was pretty pushy with the other officers too. ”