Going door to door on both sides of the street, Giordano had concluded it wasn’t a very friendly neighborhood. None of Jennifer’s neighbors had seen or heard anything unusual, and they’d been more concerned about what her murder might mean about their own safety and property values than they were about the fact that she was dead.
Now Giordano and Hernandez were in the morgue with Rayburn, standing over the victim’s body, and the ME had justtold them there were no traces of semen in her genitals, no pubic hair mixed with hers, no skin cells or saliva except hers, no traces of the man who had raped and strangled her that would allow them to identify him through DNA analysis.
“What other bad news do you have for me?” Giordano asked him.
“No more bad news; just inconclusive,” Rayburn said. With his index finger, he pointed to the bow and arrow that had been gouged into the victim’s left thigh. “These cuts weren’t made with a knife. They were made with some other sharp-pointed instrument. Something like a needle or a nail. I’m not sure what yet.”
“What did he strangle her with?” Hernandez asked.
Rayburn took off his glasses and cleaned them with a handkerchief. “I’m still working on that, too.”
Giordano let out a deep sigh.
Hernandez saw his partner had fallen into one of his funks. He patted him on the shoulder and said, “Don’t worry, Frank. The guy’s not going to get away with it.” As he led Giordano out of the morgue, he added, “Let’s not release details to the media. Nothing about the astrology angle. Meanwhile we’ll check if any other murder reports have come in with similar MOs.”
Giordano let out another sigh. He’d learned that in situations like this one, the only thing you could do was to put one foot in front of the other and assume that maybe one day you would actually get somewhere.
Ten
S ARAH’S PARENTS LIVED IN the Bensonhurst section of Brooklyn in the same house in which she’d been raised. The rehabilitation facility to which her mother, Rose, had been moved from the hospital after her stroke was four miles away. The emotional distance between the two was vast: Sarah’s childhood home was a cozy brown-shingled two-story house with a small garden; the rehabilitation facility was a nondescript box with cinder-block walls that fronted on a decaying sidewalk and was flanked by alleys. Walking toward it, Sarah gripped the handle of her violin case more tightly and moved the bouquet she was carrying closer to her chest in an unconscious effort to stave off the desolate feeling that she had begun to have the moment she’d caught sight of the ugly, sterile building. Her only consolation was that the doctors anticipated that Rose would be able to return home within the next ten days.
Sarah’s father, Sam had been a contractor, but he’d retired two years before. He’d worked in Brooklyn, Queens, and Manhattan and had done everything from home repair to partial renovations to building homes. He’d loved his work, but he loved his wife more, and he’d decided to retire so they could spend the rest of their lives together, enjoying each other’s company and traveling. Sarah had applauded his decision and been thrilled when he and Rose had taken a trip to Italy and then another trip to Greece,Turkey, and Israel. Two months after they’d returned from Israel, Rose had had a stroke. She’d been in the garden, putting mulch in the flower beds to prepare for the autumn and winter weather. Sam may have retired, but Rose, although no longer a nurse, had found things to do from morning until night, and that day she’d been working in the garden for more than five hours.
When Sarah entered her mother’s room in the convalescent home, Sam was sitting beside Rose’s bed, talking to her about the World Series. He and Rose were both baseball fans, and since he had to carry on the conversation himself, he liked picking topics that he could expound on while
Now Giordano and Hernandez were in the morgue with Rayburn, standing over the victim’s body, and the ME had justtold them there were no traces of semen in her genitals, no pubic hair mixed with hers, no skin cells or saliva except hers, no traces of the man who had raped and strangled her that would allow them to identify him through DNA analysis.
“What other bad news do you have for me?” Giordano asked him.
“No more bad news; just inconclusive,” Rayburn said. With his index finger, he pointed to the bow and arrow that had been gouged into the victim’s left thigh. “These cuts weren’t made with a knife. They were made with some other sharp-pointed instrument. Something like a needle or a nail. I’m not sure what yet.”
“What did he strangle her with?” Hernandez asked.
Rayburn took off his glasses and cleaned them with a handkerchief. “I’m still working on that, too.”
Giordano let out a deep sigh.
Hernandez saw his partner had fallen into one of his funks. He patted him on the shoulder and said, “Don’t worry, Frank. The guy’s not going to get away with it.” As he led Giordano out of the morgue, he added, “Let’s not release details to the media. Nothing about the astrology angle. Meanwhile we’ll check if any other murder reports have come in with similar MOs.”
Giordano let out another sigh. He’d learned that in situations like this one, the only thing you could do was to put one foot in front of the other and assume that maybe one day you would actually get somewhere.
Ten
S ARAH’S PARENTS LIVED IN the Bensonhurst section of Brooklyn in the same house in which she’d been raised. The rehabilitation facility to which her mother, Rose, had been moved from the hospital after her stroke was four miles away. The emotional distance between the two was vast: Sarah’s childhood home was a cozy brown-shingled two-story house with a small garden; the rehabilitation facility was a nondescript box with cinder-block walls that fronted on a decaying sidewalk and was flanked by alleys. Walking toward it, Sarah gripped the handle of her violin case more tightly and moved the bouquet she was carrying closer to her chest in an unconscious effort to stave off the desolate feeling that she had begun to have the moment she’d caught sight of the ugly, sterile building. Her only consolation was that the doctors anticipated that Rose would be able to return home within the next ten days.
Sarah’s father, Sam had been a contractor, but he’d retired two years before. He’d worked in Brooklyn, Queens, and Manhattan and had done everything from home repair to partial renovations to building homes. He’d loved his work, but he loved his wife more, and he’d decided to retire so they could spend the rest of their lives together, enjoying each other’s company and traveling. Sarah had applauded his decision and been thrilled when he and Rose had taken a trip to Italy and then another trip to Greece,Turkey, and Israel. Two months after they’d returned from Israel, Rose had had a stroke. She’d been in the garden, putting mulch in the flower beds to prepare for the autumn and winter weather. Sam may have retired, but Rose, although no longer a nurse, had found things to do from morning until night, and that day she’d been working in the garden for more than five hours.
When Sarah entered her mother’s room in the convalescent home, Sam was sitting beside Rose’s bed, talking to her about the World Series. He and Rose were both baseball fans, and since he had to carry on the conversation himself, he liked picking topics that he could expound on while
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