Chapter 1
I looked at the pool of dried blood that covered the third-
floor landing of a brownstone on one of the safest
residential blocks in Manhattan and wondered how the young
woman who'd been left here to die yesterday, her chest
pierced by a steak knife, could still be alive this
afternoon.
Mercer Wallace crouched beside the stained flooring,
pointing out for me the smaller areas of
discoloration. "These smudges, I figure, are partial
imprints of the perp's shoe. He must have lost his footing
over there."
The blood streaked away from the door of the victim's
apartment, as though her attacker had slid in the slippery
fluid and stumbled to the top of the staircase.
"So there's likely to be some of this on his clothing?"
"Pants leg and shoes for certain, until he cleans them.
Look here," he said, and my eyes followed the tip of the
pen he was using as a pointer. Outlined on the light gray
paint of the door to 3B was another bloody design. "That's
hers, Alex. She must have braced herself with one foot
against that panel to push the guy off. She put up a
fierce struggle."
I could make out the V-shaped tip of a woman's shoe sole,
and inches lower the circular mark that confirmed it was a
pump rather than a flat.
"High heels and all, she did prettywell for herself. Just
lucky." The uniformed cop who had been assigned to
safeguard the crime scene for the past twenty-four hours
spoke to Mercer as he straightened up.
"That's what we're calling it now when someone resists a
rapist and ends up in the intensive care unit with a few
holes in her chest and a collapsed lung?"
"Sorry, Ms. Cooper. I mean the girl is fortunate to be
alive. You know she went DOA when they pulled up to the
docking bay at the emergency room?"
Mercer had told me that. Annika Jelt had stopped breathing
on the short ride to New York Hospital. The cops who were
dispatched to a neighbor's 911 call reporting screams in
the stairwell knew there was no time to wait for an
ambulance. The young officer who carried the victim down
to the patrol car had served in the army reserves as a
medic during the war in Iraq. Annika owed her life to the
fact that he revived her in the backseat of the RMP, on
the way to the ER, before she was rushed into surgery to
inflate her lung and stanch the bleeding.
Mercer led the way down the staircase. The traces of black
fingerprint dust on the banister and walls reminded me
that the Crime Scene Unit had done a thorough workup of
the building when they were summoned by Mercer, shortly
after the 3 a.m. attack on a frigid morning in late
January.
"He never got her inside the apartment?"
"Nope. She fought like hell to keep him out."
"Did he take anything?" I asked.
"Keys. He took the ring with the keys to both the
vestibule door and the apartment. The super's changed both
locks already."
"But money? Jewelry?"
"Her pocketbook was lying on the ground next to her. Cash
and credit cards were inside and she still had on her
earrings and bracelet. He wasn't there for the money."
Mercer had double-parked outside the five-story walk-up on
East Sixty-sixth Street. He had awakened me yesterday at
six o'clock to tell me about the case. We had worked
together for the better part of the decade that I had run
the sex crimes prosecution unit of the Manhattan District
Attorney's Office, while he had been assigned to the
police department's Special Victims Squad. He knew I'd
want the first heads-up about the crime, before it was
reported on the local network news and before the DA, Paul
Battaglia, hunted me down to get enough details so that he
could answer the flood of calls from local politicians,
concerned citizens, and the ever-curious media. Violent
crime, especially sexual assault, was always fodder for
headlines when it happened in the high-rent district of
the Upper East Side.
I left my desk in the criminal courthouse this afternoon
to join Mercer at the victim's apartment. It always helped
me begin to frame an investigation and prosecution if I
could see exactly where the attack had occurred and what
evidence there was of a struggle, or any clues to the
perpetrator's method of operation. What the lighting
conditions were, the size of the area involved and
distances between the beginning of the attack and its
conclusion, as well as potential evidence that might be
cleaned up or altered in the days to follow -- I liked to
see those things with my own eyes. The cops had still been
too busy processing the scene themselves to allow me
access when Mercer called me yesterday morning, but now
they had given the green light to let him walk me through
it.
In addition, my years of work on these cases often added
another experienced perspective to that of the police
team -- and sometimes it resulted in recalling a
distinctive detail or trait that would lead the
investigators to a repeat offender in this category of
crimes in which the recidivist rate was so extraordinarily
high.
Mercer started the engine and turned up the heat in the
old department Crown Vic that had responded to more sexual
assaults than most officers ever would in a lifetime. "So,
did anything there speak to you?" Mercer said, smiling at
me.
I rubbed my gloved hands together against the harsh winter
chill that had seeped through the cracks around the car
windows. Lots of veteran cops got vibes at crime scenes,
claiming to be able to figure out something about the
assailant by being in the same space. I shook my
head. "Nothing you don't already know. Yet one more sick
puppy who was somehow aroused by forcing a woman he'd
never seen before to engage in a sexual act."
"There are buildings with doormen on both corners of the
block. This is a fully occupied brownstone on a well-
lighted street. He's a cool case, this guy. He got her at
the front door on top of the stoop, as she was unlocking
it -- "
"She told you that?"
Mercer had been waiting at the hospital when the young
woman emerged from the anesthetic late last evening. "Too
many tubes coming out of the kid to speak, and the docs
only gave me fifteen minutes with her. I asked some basics
until she ran out of steam. She squeezed my hand like I
told her for some yes-and-no kind of questions."
We were driving to the hospital, just a few blocks away on
York Avenue at Sixty-eighth Street. Mercer stopped in to
check on his victim on the way to his office this morning,
and insisted on seeing her again, as he would every day
until she recovered. He wanted to tell the young exchange
student that he had telephoned her parents, in Sweden, and
that they were flying here tomorrow. Until they arrived,
he would be the closest thing to family she would have at
her side.
"Did Annika know he had the knife when he accosted her?"
"She never even heard him coming. I figure the first thing
she felt was his arm yoking her neck and the blade of the
knife scratching the side of her throat."
"Not a particularly distinctive MO," I said.
"You looking for creative, too, Alex?"
I shook my head.
"It's all in the details, as you know. Exactly what words
he said, how he touched her, what he smelled like. It may
be a couple of days until we can get all that from her."
"And hope in the meantime that he doesn't feel it
necessary to finish the job with another victim tonight or
tomorrow."
Mercer flashed his badge at the security guard in front of
the hospital driveway, who motioned him to leave the car
right at the curb.
Sophisticated monitors beeped their familiar noises as we
pushed open the doors into the surgical ICU. Nurses were
engaged in every one of the eight cubicles, tending to
patients in the most critical phase of care.
Mercer walked to the glass-enclosed area where Annika Jelt
lay in bed.
"She's awake, Detective. You can come in," the nurse said.
I remained in the doorway as Mercer took a step to the
bedside. He reached out his large hand and placed it on
Annika's arm, above the intravenous needle that carried
fluids back into her slim body. As she felt his touch, the
young woman turned her head toward us and tried to smile,
recognizing her new friend and protector.
"Hello," she whispered, barely able to move her mouth
because of the tubes coming out of her nostrils.
Mercer leaned his six-foot-six-inch frame over the bed
railing and gently stroked Annika's forehead. "Don't try
to talk. I just came back to check on you. Make sure
they're treating you right."
The nurse walked to the far side of the bed and adjusted
the pillows behind her head. "Detective Wallace told me
he'd haul me off to the clink if we don't get you up and
out of here as soon as possible."
She twisted her head back toward the nurse and forced
another smile.
"I spoke with your mother, Annika. It's okay. She and your
dad will be here tomorrow."
At the mention of her parents, the girl's eyes filled with
tears and a guttural cry escaped from her mouth. She
wanted to speak but couldn't find the strength, or the
right words.
"They know you're going to be fine. They want to come over
here and be with you."
I couldn't understand what she was mumbling. Her head was
moving back and forth, causing all the monitors to go into
high gear. It was something about what she wanted.
"I know you want to go home," Mercer said. Her hand was
clasped in his and he continued to try to calm her by
stroking her hair.
I bit my lip and thought of how isolated and frightened
she must be. Alone in a foreign country, victim of a crime
that almost took her life, and not even able to speak on
the telephone to assure her family that she would survive.
"Remember the lady I told you about, my friend Alex? I've
brought her here to meet you," Mercer said, stepping back
from the bed that was surrounded with medical equipment so
that Annika could see me.
I came in closer and she dropped his hand, gesturing
toward mine. I took his place by her side, covering her
cold fingers with my own, and let Mercer finish
speaking. "Alex and I are going to find this man, Annika.
All you have to do is get strong again. That's your only
assignment."
"Mercer's right. You need to get all the rest you can.
We'll be back to see you every day. We'll get you
everything you need."
"Home?" This time I could hear her clearly.
"Of course you can go home as soon as you're well enough
to travel," I said.
"She's almost due for her pain medication," the nurse
said. "She gets agitated whenever anyone mentions her
family. She doesn't want them to see her this way and she
worries about how upset they must be. They never wanted
her to come to New York for school."
We waited until she had composed herself, and the
MorphiDex that the nurse added to the drip began to take
effect.
Annika's watery brown eyes blinked repeatedly, like she
was fighting sleep, determined to make sure that Mercer
stayed by her side. She closed them at last, her small
head barely making a dent in the firm pillows behind her,
looking pale and sallow against the crisp white hospital
linens. The lifesaving machinery that surrounded her
outweighed her twofold. Its blinking lights and beeping
noises wouldn't disturb her medicated slumber, and I hoped
as well that nightmare visions of her attacker couldn't
penetrate the veil drawn around her by the strong
painkillers.
It was not even five o'clock when we got back into the car
for the ride downtown to my office, but it was already
pitch-black and the windchill factor had dropped several
notches.
Mercer's cell phone vibrated and he unhitched it from his
belt to flip it open as he pulled out of the driveway onto
York Avenue.
"Sure, Bob. I'll take a preliminary," he said, looking
over at me.
It was Bob Thaler, the chief serologist at the medical
examiner's office, who had worked up a quick analysis,
less than twenty-four hours after getting the evidence
found at the scene of Annika's assault. These tentative
findings would later be validated with further testing.
This first run wouldn't hold up in court, but it would
give us an immediate idea if there was evidence of value.
"Yeah, we picked up those four cigarette butts from the
stoop in front of the building. You find something?"
Thaler gave him an answer, which caused Mercer to turn and
wink at me. Good news, I assumed.
But their conversation went on, and as he listened,
Mercer's smile faded to a serious expression, almost an
angry one. He hung up the phone, dropped it on the seat
between us, and accelerated onto the FDR Drive.
"There's that word 'lucky' again. I was afraid we were
hopeless on the serology because there was no semen.
Thaler's got Annika's blood on one of the cigarette stubs.
That's why he wanted to know where we found them. Looks
like the guy stepped on it on his way out of the building,
with wet fluid still in the creases of his shoes from
where he dropped her on the landing."
"You heard something else you didn't like."
"They were able to work up a profile from the saliva on
the same butt, too. I'd say it's our man, without a
doubt."
It would be a stretch for Mercer to get excited about a
random item that wasn't even found inside the apartment
hallway, where the crime occurred. He knew better.
"Didn't you just say there were four -- "
"I'm not talking about a foreign profile, Alex. It's a
very familiar one. Three of the cigarettes are useless.
The butt with both blood and saliva on it was dropped
there -- maybe on his way up the steps when he spotted his
prey -- by someone you and I haven't seen in a very long
time."
"We know him?" Someone we sent away who got out of jail, I
expected Mercer to tell me. Someone we'd put away who was
back to haunt us. A paroled convict who would be easy to
track down through new sex offender monitoring laws. The
surprise chance of something breaking in our favor so
early shot through me like a burst of adrenaline.
"If I knew who he was, if I could tell you his name, then
I wouldn't be cruising you downtown right now. I'd be
knocking on his door and throwing the cuffs on him
tonight," he said. "The bastard beat us cold four years
ago then disappeared long enough for me to begin to
believe he'd come to his own violent end. Now here he is
again, obviously more dangerous than before."
"You think you know -- ?"
"I do know, Alex. Thaler just confirmed it for me. The
Silk Stocking Rapist is back in business."
Copyright © 2005 by Linda Fairstein