“Call up everybody potentially involved and light a fire under them!” Jack said. He stood. “Meanwhile, I’m going to go up and talk with Sergeant Murphy and Hank Monroe myself. Something needs to be done around here.”
Without waiting for a response, Jack headed over to the elevators. He knew he was being unfair, as ID was not officially in the purview of the MLI. But Jack felt this case was an exception. As far as he was concerned, the whole OCME team should have been on it as a priority right from the start.
Sergeant Murphy, or Murph, as he was known, had been assigned to the OCME seemingly for forever. He was past retirement age but seemed ageless, and no one pressed the issue. He loved his work, and everyone loved him. Previously he had the tiniest office in the entire organization, even smaller than the Toxicology director’s. It was located on the first floor in the old 520 First Avenue building, directly behind Communications, and had been designed to be a small storage closet. But like a lot of OCME staff, Sergeant Murphy had been moved to the new high-rise when it opened and had been given a real office with not only a window but one with a fantastic view. He shared the space with two other PDofficers who were also members of the NYPD Missing Persons Squad. These other officers, in contrast to Murph, were rotated on a three-month schedule.
Since Jack had gotten to know Sergeant Murphy over the years and thought of him as a friend, he sought him out first. The red-faced, silver-haired Irishman was at his new, comparatively large desk, kibitzing with his two youthful officemates. As usual, he had a mug of coffee in his hand. When Jack walked in, his already smiling face lit up further. He introduced Jack to the younger men. All three were in uniform.
“I have to talk to you about a body that came in yesterday,” Jack said, wasting no time with small talk.
“Let me guess,” Murph interrupted. “You want to talk about the Bellevue case that originated from the Twenty-third Street subway station.”
“That’s the one,” Jack said, encouraged. “We have no ID, and making one could be extremely important. Unfortunately, Communications hasn’t gotten any calls about a missing, youthful, well-dressed woman, which is very strange. Do you have any information at all?”
“No ID,” Murph said. “The patrolman at the Bellevue emergency room copied me on his report sent to the Missing Persons Squad at One Police Plaza. It’s standard operating procedure in this kind of case that I get notified. My understanding is that there was no ID when the patient was taken off the R train at the Twenty-third Street subway station. I have the report someplace.” Sergeant Murphy opened a side drawer of his desk and began fumbling through a disorganized bunch of papers.
“Do you know if the Missing Persons Squad has made any headway on making an ID?” Jack asked.
“Not to my knowledge,” Murph said as he pulled a paper free, “or I would have heard.” He quickly read over the paper. “Okay, the case was assigned to a missing-persons case detective at the Thirteenth Precinct by the name of Pauli Cosenza. He’s the one in charge. He also copied me with his report. Do you want his telephone number?”
“Please!” Jack said. “Have you spoken with him?”
“Nope,” Murph said. “There would have been no reason. It’s much too early in the case. It’s not even been twenty-four hours.” Sergeant Murphy took out a Post-it Note, jotted down a number, and handed the note to Jack. “But I have spoken with him in the past. Between you and me, he’s not what I would call a ball of fire.”
Jack took the slip of paper and made sure he could recognize the numbers. Sergeant Murphy’s handwriting was notorious for illegibility. Jack tucked it into his wallet to be sure not to misplace it.
“You know what I find most amazing about this case,” Murph said, “is how similar it is to one that Dr. Montgomery had five or six years ago. That patient had no ID when the body was picked up from the Fifty-ninth Street IND subway platform. It, too, involved a relatively young, well-dressed victim that no one called about. Of course, that one turned out to be very different in that it was a homicide and the victim was a Japanese male. But do you remember the case I’m talking about, Dr. Stapleton?”
“I do,” Jack said. “You’re right. I’d forgotten about that.” Suddenly all the details flooded back into Jack’s consciousness. There were definite similarities. Most interesting of all, thinking about the case reminded Jack of how creative Laurie had been in her investigations, which he’d made fun of at the time, but which now gave him a few ideas he’d not thought about. With such thoughts in mind, he asked Sergeant Murphy if he would do him a favor.
“Of course, Doc,” Murph said. “Name it.”
“I’d like you to find out the name and phone number of the Transit Police Officer involved in having the patient picked up from the Twenty-third Street station. There had to be one involved to coordinate with the EMTs.”
“I’m sure there was,” Murph said. “Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll put one of these young guys on it right away.”
Jack thanked Sergeant Murphy for Pauli Cosenza’s number and for reminding him about Laurie’s case, which he admitted might come inhandy. After they assured each other that if one learned anything significant about the mystery woman’s ID they would let the other know, Jack left the PD Missing Persons office. His destination was the newly expanded Anthropology Department, which happened to be on the same floor. Prior to 9/11, OCME Anthropology had been a single individual. Now it was an entire team and part of the Identification Department that included forensic dentistry. Within minutes, Jack was in the director’s office, standing alongside a long Formica-topped table on which various groupings of human bones were laid out anatomically, each representing a different deceased human being.
“What can I do for you?” Hank Monroe said. He was a heavyset man sporting a long white coat, similar in silhouette to Bart Arnold but with a full head of hair. Also, his facial features were strikingly different. Whereas Bart’s were appropriately rounded, Hank’s were all full of sharp angles. It was as if the body and the face belonged to two different people. Jack had met the man on numerous occasions but didn’t know him well. They hadn’t worked many cases together and had offices in different buildings. The new OCME organization was not as collegial as the old was.
“Have you heard about the subway death case that came in yesterday?” Jack asked. When Hank said he had heard a bit from Rebecca Marshall but not much, Jack gave a rapid synopsis of the case, emphasizing the woman’s youth, expensive clothes, Cartier watch, diamond earrings, tattoos, and the startling fact she’d had a relatively recent heart transplant.
“This is not the kind of case we usually get involved in,” Hank said. He gestured toward the piles of bleached bones. “They’ve usually been dead for some time or are victims of mass disasters like 9/11.”
“I understand,” Jack said. “But we need an ID, and we need it now. I’m concerned it’s a contagion case and possibly an index case of a potential outbreak. If there is a chance to control it, the effort has to start immediately. I need all the help I can get. Strangely enough, I’m having an equally difficult time isolating what I believe is a virus.”
“Sorry to hear about your struggles,” Hank said. “But let me tell you this: It is almost unheard of for a case of this kind to go unreported by a family member, a friend, or a coworker. Invariably it happens within hours, especially in this day and age, with our mobile phones keeping us in constant touch with each other.”
“I’m well aware, but there has been nothing, and it is now approaching the twenty-four-hour limit.”
“That’s phenomenal,” Hank said. He pursed his lips and shook his head. “In this business we all know if someone doesn’t come forward within the first twenty-four-hour period, the chances of making an ID begin to fall precipitously. Not too many people know this fact, but it’s true, even in this era of DNA technology.”
“That doesn’t sound encouraging,” Jack said.
“It’s not,” Hank agreed. “But let’s think positively. Do you think the patient having had a heart transplant might be of assistance?”
“Certainly,” Jack said. “But how much, I don’t know. There are a number of centers here in the metropolitan area that do them, and there must be hundreds of cases done each year. On top of that, there’s no way to know whether she had her procedure here in the city or not.”
“Okay, I understand,” Hank said. “Here’s what I can do. I can get my department actively involved and see if we can help. Meanwhile, the DNA people will be doing their magic, which will allow us to tap into the FBI’s CODIS system and NamUs, the National Missing and Unidentified Persons System. The only other thing I can do is get in touch with my contacts at the NYPD Missing Persons Squad at One Police Plaza and try to goad them into action. Sometimes they need a bit of coaxing.”
