Dark Matter: D.S. Eli Ross, #1

By hugh macnab

Eli Ross, a veteran NYPD homicide detective, Shelley, a former sex worker, and Ollie, the twelve-year-old autistic son of Eli's late sister, share an apartment. As Eli and his team hunt not one but two serial killers, Ollie is revealed as a savant with extraordinary capabilities only matched by his lack of emotional intelligence. As the pressure at work ramps up, FBI agent Sally Cope joins the hunt, and when she discovers Ollie's amazing abilities, she risks her career by offering him an FBI consultancy contract. While Ross and Cope focus on finding two killers, along with Shelley, they must also help Ollie navigate a world in which he is ill-equipped to survive. But guiding a teenage  savant is a formidable challenge, especially when he feels invulnerable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: hugh macnab
• Release date: Dec 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9798449663375

hugh macnab

If you need an underground cable pulled in, a cocktail mixed, a Global technology plan developed, or maybe you suffer from one of many Mental Health concerns - I'm your man. Within my career, I have worked with and helped so many people with such varied and interesting backgrounds that this more than compensates for the lack of specific crime, police procedure and political experience when writing my books. Of course I should also mention that I have read thousands of books since the age of four - and am now ancient - so that's a lot of books. Along with my long-term suffering parter, we have five middle-aged children and ten grandchildren between us. For those who have not yet experienced the joy of grandchildren - yes, it is true - you can give them back after their stay! If I am not writing, you may find me on the tennis court when the aches and pains allow, or walking the golf course pretending I know what I'm doing, or putting my partner in trouble with my erratic bidding while playing Bridge. As for my guitars - they look good, although the dust is gathering.

Book preview

Monday early AM

Five-thirty in the morning, and I’m in a massive railway yard north of the Belt Parkway looking at the dead body of a twenty-something young woman laying across hot-rolled steel tracks that have been there for over a hundred and forty years. I doubt they’ve ever carried a heavier burden.

Avenue X is to the east, with the metro running to 145 Street in Manhattan. To the west is the line from Coney Island up to Stillwater. This district is Gravesend, which at this precise moment, I guess, is appropriate.

It’s typical February weather, a few degrees below freezing, with that drizzly rain that soaks you through without you noticing, like a silent assassin.

Kenny Allens is the detective who has disturbed my night’s sleep. He was on duty when a patrol found the body on a routine walk-through checking for drug-related problems. Looking around, there’s drug paraphernalia littered everywhere. Used needles, spoons, rolling papers, tin foil, lollipop sticks, and pacifiers for those who grind their teeth when they’re high. I can see why they check the place regularly.

Kenny’s a good cop. He’s coming up for twenty-two years of service in a couple of months, and I know he’s thinking of handing in his badge and pulling his pension. I can’t say I blame him. Twenty-two years on the job is enough for anyone. Well, not quite anyone. I passed through that point a few years back, but I can’t afford retirement. A sergeant’s salary isn’t bad, but since the pandemic and the Ukraine invasion, costs have gone sky-high. Everyday expenses like food and gas. The politicians keep telling us it’ll be temporary, but I’ll believe it when I see it. As for why gas has gone up so much when we’re now allegedly oil-independent, I’ve no idea. Besides, I like my work. The Medical Examiner tells me she works for justice for the dead. But me, I work for resolution for those left behind. Peace of mind for a homicide victim’s family is impossible, but I can at least let them know someone will pay.

Looking at the lifeless body sprawled on the ground, I could tell this young woman was a looker. Still, death does horrible things to a body, especially after a week or more, which is what I expect the Medical Examiner to report when she’s finished.

Initially, I might have thought this was a sexual assault that went wrong, but the bullet hole in her forehead says otherwise.

I guess the cause of death is going to be pretty straightforward.

Unfortunately, finding the perp is likely not so easy.

I can’t tell if this is a working girl I’m looking at or just someone who hooked up with the wrong guy on the wrong night. She’s dressed to attract, for sure. Legs on display, and not much skirt to cover them up. Why do young women dress like this in February? If they’re trying to attract a man, they might appear brighter if wrapped up against the cold. Maybe intelligence isn’t high on young men’s shopping lists. Perhaps she was successful and met someone at a nightclub? There again, maybe she wasn’t so successful.

Long red hair, high cheekbones, with bright red lipstick. Four piercings in her left ear with fake diamond studs in each. Another piercing in the lower lip with a small gold ring through it. No wedding band. Other than the fake diamonds and the lip ring, there’s no other visible jewelry. Seems unusual to me. Experience tells me that when a young woman dresses up to go out for the night, there’s some sort of adornment: rings, bangles, necklaces, anklets, something. But not here. Nada.

The entire area has been taped off and was brightly lit with arc lamps before I got here. Forensics have already highlighted areas or articles of interest. I don’t see a bag or cell phone anywhere. Again, unusual.

I’m thinking of theft when Allens shakes me out of my thoughts.

‘I reckon two perps, Eli.’

Focussing on one of the key members of my team for the first time, it seems he didn’t hear it was to be so cold this particular morning. He’s wearing a coat that’s too thin, and his face has a tinge of blue to it.

’Why two?’

‘One for the shot to the head, and the other comes along afterward and strips the possessions.’

‘Good thought, Kenny. I was puzzling that for myself. I don’t suppose we have any witnesses or surveillance in here?’

’Squat to go on. These rails and wagons stand still and empty ninety-nine percent of the time. The building behind you is the Coney Island Electric Motor Museum. There’s some neat stuff in there if you’re into old engines.’

‘Not me, Kenny. I’ll take a pass. Has the ME spoken with you yet?’

‘You know her. Not a word until she’s finished her preliminary. She should be finished soon, though.’

‘Okay. You’ve got the lead on this case, Kenny. Who are you choosing for second?’

‘I roped Marta in. She should be here in the next ten minutes. She was staying the night with her sister downtown.’

‘Good. If you need anything, let me know. I’m heading home. I’ve got to get Ollie ready for school.’

‘Sure. I got this covered.’

‘Anything else come in overnight?’

‘There’s been a fatal stabbing over in Bensonhurst. The victim was walking home late last night when the perp stabbed her from behind. She died in the wagon on the way to the hospital.’

‘Who caught that case?’

‘Cassie.’

Amelia Cassandra. Another member of our team. A bright, up-and-coming detective. Very perceptive when interviewing perps or talking with victim’s family members, and smart as a whip. If I stick around another five years, she may be the one to replace me.

‘Anything else?’

‘Not yet, Eli. But there’s always the rush-hour madness to get through.’

‘How about you borrow a coat from one of the patrol guys before you freeze to death?’

‘Good idea. I’ll do that now before the Examiner’s finished.’

I grin and tell him I’ll check with him later in the morning. But, for now, I’ve got my own madness ahead of me.

Monday AM

Back at the apartment, it’s six-thirty, and I’m just in time to start the daily ritual of getting Ollie ready for school. Ollie’s a great kid, but he’s not easy. Over the past couple of years, he’s been given so many tags. I honestly can’t believe anyone can have so many conditions.

When I first learned he was autistic, I knew little about autism. Now, a couple of years later, I understand it’s not a single condition but a broad spectrum of different conditions which give rise to all kinds of symptoms. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve tried to figure out which behaviors are associated with which of the different conditions he supposedly suffers from.

Two schools, multiple psychologists, psychiatrists, and behavioral therapists later, I’m no wiser about the challenges Ollie faces and why he behaves the way he does.

I’m told he can live a relatively normal and fulfilling life, but I struggle to see how. These experts don’t have to get him out of bed, dressed, and into school on time. Or deal with the phone call in the middle of the day when you’re told to come and get him because he’s raging at the other kids and scaring them, or hold him down as he throws himself around and tries to bite you or sit with him in the middle of the night as he cries when you don’t understand why.

They don’t get any of that.

They define him with labels. Autistic, ADHD, Anxiety Disorder, Depression, Anger issues, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder….the list goes on. They’re wonderful at creating these labels but not so good at helping me deal with them.

That’s not true for everyone. Most of the teachers and support staff are great. It seems to be the Doctors and Counsellors who are all hung up on their jargon. They see Ollie not as a human being but as some professional challenge. Maybe I’m just talking with the wrong professionals. But they’re affiliated with the schools; to change them, I have to change schools, and Ollie hates change. He likes routine, so I have to start waking him on time.

This process will take me forty-eight minutes. Not forty-seven or forty-nine. Ollie will make sure of that. At least we’ve reached the point where I know what needs to be done, the order these things need to be done, and precisely how to do them. It’s taken me two years. But I’m there until something goes wrong, like now.

I open the door to Ollie’s bedroom and can tell I’m in trouble immediately. There’s a smell I’m more than familiar with, and it tells me Ollie has wet his bed during the night. Unfortunately, this is not good news. He hates doing this, and he reacts badly. I don’t know exactly what he feels because he can’t explain it, but I imagine it would be a mix of embarrassment and anger at his loss of control. His OCD also kicks in, and it takes him sixteen minutes in the shower to decide he’s clean enough to come out and get dressed. When I say sixteen, I mean sixteen minutes precisely, not the usual eight. He uses a timer for everything. I gave him an Amazon Echo at Christmas; as best as I can tell, it’s his favorite thing except for his books.

But Alexa’s a mixed blessing. When I’m in charge of it, it’s great because I can stay in control of what’s going on. But when Ollie takes over, as is happening right now, I’ve lost control, and I have to fight to keep myself calm because my day is beginning to slip, and there’s nothing I can do about it, which is probably how Ollie feels much of the time.

While he’s in the shower, I strip the bed, throw the sheets, duvet cover, and plastic sheet into the washer, and get that started.

Shelley’s making coffee and preparing Ollie’s breakfast in the kitchen area. Although she’s only just awake, she’s aware of the crisis but takes it much more in her stride than I do.

Three years ago, we locked up Shelley’s pimp, and I found her in a back alley with a band pulled tight around her upper arm, just about to shoot up. She was staring at the needle in her hand, her expression conveying confusion I could only guess at. Desperation and need, shame, disgust, anger, and hopelessness. My heart broke as I knelt beside her, gently taking the hypodermic, and she looked me in the eye for the first time. Everything I already guessed was there to see.

Physically, her eyes were dilated and glassy. Her cheeks were sunken, and her arms were covered with track marks and open scabs.

I tried telling her that we had locked up her pimp, but to her, the man we’d locked up was her main man. Her support, her protector, and strength. He cared for her and looked after her on the streets, so she exploded in a futile attack that she couldn’t sustain, and I could easily control until she fell back into her listless state, now with a new problem to worry about.

It didn’t matter how much I tried to explain that this guy was using her. She couldn’t see it.

I could almost see her beginning to fall apart right in front of my eyes. So, instead of charging her, I took her to an all-night diner and fed her. Probably the first proper meal she’d had in a long time. It took all my patience before I could get her to tell me about herself, but eventually, it was as if a dam broke, and everything just came flooding out. We talked most of the night before I offered to see if I could get her into a residential rehab program through my contacts. It took some persuading, but she eventually signed up. I volunteered to be her companion.

Six months later, she had no one when she left rehab. No family, no friends, at least none that weren’t users, pushers, or pimps. So, I offered her one of my spare rooms until she got on her feet. Some of the do-gooders at the rehab center were less than pleased with me offering to take her in, but I didn’t care. They didn’t provide any alternative. Maybe it doesn’t make sense for her to live with her sponsor, but I couldn’t come up with a better solution.

As it happened, they did nothing and moved on to their next case.

She’s been living with me for three years and has been a Godsend. Frankly, if it hadn’t been for her, I wouldn’t have been able to cope with Ollie alone. He doesn’t seem to communicate better with her, but she calms him down without doing much. I’ve tried to learn this, but I can’t. I assume it’s to do with her being a woman. Maybe she’s a mother surrogate. I don’t know.

In the end, all I know is how to battle through. And that’s sometimes how it feels. Like a battle. I work homicides during the day, and when I come home, there’s Ollie. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not all bad. But I can’t always count on home being less stressful.

I’ve learned to take one day at a time like I’m doing now.

I hear the shower go off and know that Ollie will be at the breakfast bar in twelve minutes. That gives me time to get myself ready. Once I drop Ollie at school, I’ll be in the much more comfortable world of dead bodies and catching killers.

Ollie’s school is at the south end of Prospect Park, maybe a twenty-minute drive from the apartment. When we arrive, I can park out front and take Ollie into the school and straight to his class, where I hand him directly to his teacher. That’s another thing with Ollie - he can’t be left alone. He must be supervised at all times unless he’s asleep.

The Principal, Ms. Winscome, is always pleased to see Ollie, making handing him over a little easier for me. However, this is something I don’t like doing. I feel I’m letting him down, or I’m letting his mother down. I know that’s irrational, but it’s still how I think.

Several psychiatrists have spoken to me about this but haven’t helped. He’s my responsibility, and that’s all there is to it!

This morning, Ms. Winscome leaves another teacher, known to Ollie, in the class and asks if she can speak with me before I go. We step outside.

‘Mr. Ross. I’ve been working very closely with your nephew since he joined us, and I believe I know someone who can help him. I’m wondering if I can have your permission to invite that person to spend a day with us?’

‘What sort of person is this? Ollie’s seen too many so-called professionals, and I don’t want him to be upset by someone else telling him how he needs to behave or giving him their preferred medication. It’s taken me months to get him off everything they’ve tried.’

‘No need to worry, Mr. Ross. This isn’t a medical professional. She’s a teacher like me. Only she works with particular children who have special needs. And I think Ollie is such a child.’

I stop for a moment to consider before checking that Ms. Winscome will be present all the time this other person is there. Given that reassurance, I ask for the other teacher’s name and some contact details, then promise to give her an answer when I drop Ollie off the following day. There’s no way I’ll let just anyone have access to Ollie. Routine and stability are what he needs, and I owe him that.

As I drive south, heading to the Precinct, the one thing that Ms. Winscome said, which I’m taking favorably, is that this other teacher works with children with special needs. That’s how I think of Ollie. He undoubtedly has problems, but I don’t see him as a problem. I wish other people could see him the same way. I try not to get annoyed when I see people react to Ollie’s behavior when we’re out and about, but it’s a challenge. He might steal a toy from another child or kick someone without provocation, so I get why people react, but they’re so quick to judge. I don’t care. They obviously consider me a poor parent, but what they say to Ollie upsets me, and I have to rein myself in, remembering I wasn’t so different before I got to know him.

Now, I see him not as having special needs but as being special. He’s my late sister’s kid, and over the past couple of years, I’ve come to love him like he’s my own. I can no longer imagine life without him. Every problem he creates for me, he pays back tenfold in ways I can only wonder about. When he’s not kicking off, he radiates such an air of peacefulness and innocence. It fills me with joy, which is not something a homicide detective in Brooklyn gets to experience every day.

As Ollie slips to the back of my mind, I park at the rear of the Precinct building. Pull my collar up against the driving rain and cross to the entrance.

I’ve no idea how the powers that be decide where to spend their facility budgets, but it sure as hell isn’t on this place. Two stories of concrete held together with Duct tape and adhesive. Draughty windows, central heating that breaks down virtually every day, office furniture a charity shop would refuse. I guess it fits into the neighborhood comfortably. Maybe that’s the plan. Disguise?

I pass my entry card through the reader and climb the rear stairs to the top floor, where the Homicide Department sits in the far left corner. We share this building with the Brooklyn South Borough Command and the Sixty-Second Precinct. Lots of people and not much space, but we get by.

As a Department, we operate with a reasonable degree of autonomy and get a lot of support from centralized services, primarily down at Police Plaza in Manhattan. It’s a relatively efficient way of operating, and the bureaucrats up top don’t tend to interfere in day-to-day operations too often. Or at least they didn’t until our new Borough Chief took over. All he worries about are his stats, and he hates homicides.

The good news for me is that my Lieutenant runs interference for me. The bad news is he still suffers from long-covid symptoms and misses more days than he should. I suspect he’ll be forced to hand in his badge sometime soon. It’s a real shame. Not only is he a good Lieutenant, but he’s a damn good detective and friend to all of us in the department.

Given the sensitive nature of our investigations, we’re the only unit to operate within closed office walls, which helps tighten communications within our team. Although, besides Cass, who joined a few years back, we already communicate well. We’ve also got each other’s backs.

I’m the longest serving at twenty-five years. Then there’s Kenny Allens coming up on twenty-two, and the rest with too many years till retirement to be thinking about quitting. Marta Umbugo, Stefan Krycek and Rudy Corleone.

The Six Musketeers.

Everyone’s already at their desks by the time I get there. Of course, they all know I take Ollie to school before coming in, but they don’t know how challenging that can be.

Some things I don’t share. If I did, I know I would feel like I’m talking about Ollie behind his back, and I don’t want to do that. It’s not his fault he’s….challenging. It’s just how he is. No point carping about it. All I have to do is cope with it. He has to live with being the way he is, and that’s a damned sight harder. So I suck it up.

I can always tell who provides the morning snacks. But, judging from the incredibly rich and delicious Sicilian Cannoli stuffed with hazelnut, cappuccino, or lemon-flavored creams, this morning, it’s Rudy, our Italian Stallion.

Being last in, I pour myself a strong black coffee and take what’s left, white chocolate. There’s no wrong choice.

I wander over, sit beside Cass, and ask her about the previous night’s stabbing.

She sweeps her hair back behind her ears and smiles.

‘Morning to you too, Eli.’

‘Sorry, Cass. Good morning,’ I smile back. ‘Now, how about last night’s stabbing?’

‘It’s a strange one, Eli. The Vic is a twenty-five-year-old black girl, Charlotte Deans. I met with her family late last night, but they were too upset to tell me anything.

I’m going back this afternoon.’

‘So what’s the strange bit?’

‘The weapon was a kebab skewer.’

‘What?’

‘That’s what I thought when the Medical Examiner told me at the scene. The perp thrust a skewer into the victim’s back, straight through the heart and out the front of the chest wall.’

‘I thought I’d just about seen everything, but that’s a new one on me.’

‘It’s a new one for everyone. I already contacted the Real-Time Crime Center in 1PP and asked if there was any previous on this.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing on file. They said they will try the FBI national database but aren’t hopeful.’

‘A one-off revenge killing?’

‘I don’t know, Eli. The thing is, this wouldn’t be easy to pull off. If you think about it, there’s the scapula at the back connected to the shoulder. It protects the heart and lungs from this type of injury.’

‘So, surely he didn’t puncture bone?’

‘No, he didn’t. But he managed to strike between the scapula and the spine at just the right height and angle to pierce the heart.’

‘Luck?’

‘Or medical knowledge, I’m thinking. Maybe we’ll know more after the autopsy later this morning.’

‘Sounds like an interesting case. Who do you have working it with you?’

‘I decided to run with whoever brought the munchies today.’

‘Rudy?’

‘The very one.’

‘Okay. We’ll talk later. Let me know if you need anything from me.’

With that, the next stop is to talk with Kenny Allens, but with him having been at the scene down in the railway yard most of the time since I saw him last, he’s nothing much to tell me I don’t already know. He has ID’d the victim as Tracy Lee, who lived with her parents. The moment we finish, he’s heading there to deliver the news we all hate giving. It’s not only a necessary part of the job, but given how often family members are involved, we need to be there the moment they first hear the news. If one of the relatives is responsible, it’s unlikely they’ll have prepared for that moment, whereas we’ve been in the situation many times, and a good detective can read the response straight off.

Kenny confirms Marta as his second. He says he’ll appreciate the female take on everything. She’s an intelligent cop. I wish there were more female detectives on the force. They can be much more intuitive and better at observing reactions than most men. But wishing doesn’t cut it, and the NYPD is more focused on hiring blacks and other minority groups than women. It seems like the women’s rights movement has died off. There’s more discussion now about trans-detectives on the force than about women. At times I think the world is so fucked up.

Given that I know Kenny has four kids at home and plenty of his own domestic issues, I remind him to go straight home after he’s spoken with the family. Marta can cover for him.

Last but by no means least, I check in with Stefan. He’ll be my first choice if I ever need someone to go undercover on the streets. Comfortable in jeans and T-shirts from the nineties with long flowing hair that I swear serves as a local community center for God knows how many tiny creatures he would fit straight in. I’m not sure Pearl Jam and Nirvana would appreciate the free publicity.

I can’t help but smile when I contrast his appearance with Rudy, our suave Italian, with his tailor-made three-piece suits and silk ties.

Still, he’s a damn fine detective, and his Russian background has made a real difference, particularly in the southernmost Precincts of our borough controlled by the Russian Mob.

They seem to be more involved in trafficking, drugs, and prostitution and not so much homicide. When they need to get rid of someone, they usually bring in an assassin from outside the area.

Following the Russian connection, Stefan has built strong relations with other Agencies, including the FBI, which has also proven helpful on several non-Russian-Mob-related cases.

He updates me on one such investigation he’s been involved with for over a year, where a local counselor was shot to death on the front doorstep of his home in front of his children. He was taking them to school. The investigation has turned up some highly suspicious activities where the counselor appears to have misappropriated State and County funds. Still, the connection to the Russian Mob is not yet clear.

Today’s news is that the FBI may have identified the shooter. So this could be the break he’s been waiting for.

As soon as I’m caught up, I refresh my coffee and head to my desk. It was initially in a separate office, but I had the Facilities Department remove the partition. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve created a new lead after overhearing something during a phone conversation. I always think that what one of us knows, everyone can. No secrets.

I first log on and check the overnight summary I get for all the precincts in our Borough to keep up with what’s happening in the area.

There’s nothing unusual. The most significant categories are always Larceny and Assault, followed by Felony Assault and Burglary. Homicides usually come way down the bottom of the list. So two in one night sticks out like a flashing neon light, and I know the Borough Chief will already be asking the Lieutenant questions. The Lu will fob him off for a couple of days before coming to ask me for an update. It’s a good plan. There’s no point asking on day one or even day two. But if we haven’t gotten somewhere on day three, he needs to know because the chances of us closing the case diminish fast after that.

When caught up, I turn my attention to a case waiting for me for a few weeks. It’s not a homicide, but it was flagged to me by one of the officers in the Traffic Division as suspicious.

The victim is a Security Consultant by the name of John Webb. He checks the company’s security needs and then fits them with alarm systems.

He suffered a near hit-and-run. Luckily, he saw the vehicle coming just in time and jumped out of the way before impact.

A Traffic Officer was canvassing locally for witnesses to a previous accident and witnessed the whole event. That’s where the suspicious part comes in.

The officer immediately called in the registration plate, but the car had been stolen and found abandoned in an empty lot later that day.

The TO swears it was no accident but a deliberate attempt to run down the consultant.

I’ve been trying to decide what to do about this.

The Security Consultant told the officer that he didn’t believe him. It was clearly an accident, and he was lucky the vehicle had missed him.

So, I’ve got a case of one person saying accident, and another attempted hit and run, or as I would call it, an attempted homicide. And I need to choose.

First, I decided to look into the Security Consultant a little. If it were a deliberate attempt to kill him, there would have to be a motive. If I can find one, maybe it’s worth some follow-up.

As I research my Consultant, I’m vaguely aware of the others heading out, leaving Stefan and me to hold the fort.

First, I check John Webb for a criminal record, but he’s clean. According to other databases, he’s forty-six, widowed with two teenage children. Both deceased parents lived in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where he was born. While attaining a vocational education qualification at a local college, he met and married his wife, who came from Queens. They moved to live in Brooklyn twenty years ago.

Both the children are at Brooklyn School. However, the elder kid, the son, is in High School, whereas his daughter is still in Middle School.

He started his own company three years ago after working for several local security firms. I guess that’s probably what happens in the industry. Learn from others, then set yourself up.

I’ve looked at the company, and the website is pretty professional, as is the range of services it offers. It’s much broader than I thought, offering burglar, fire, and chemical alarms, video surveillance, and access control to restricted areas. They also have an alarm monitoring facility offering a ten-minute response within a local area by a security team.

So, as interesting as all this is, I’m still not seeing anything that would motivate someone to target him. I suppose it’s possible he screwed up one of his installations, and someone lost out because of it, but this doesn’t seem like the type of homicide motive I would generally be considering.

I honestly think I’ll let this one go by, but at least as a courtesy, I’ll call the TO and tell him personally. I remember what it was like from my days on the street when you pass something up the chain of command, and it disappears into a black hole. I’m not going to be that kind of person for him.

I look up his contact details and arrange to meet him when he comes off shift at two in the afternoon.

Between now and then, I’ve got some spare time, so I’ll see what I can find out about the name Ollie’s teacher has given me.

Monday PM

Stefan and I walk to the local Mexican Deli called El Bigotes, which is popular and always busy. We both order Carne Burritos to go. Ideal busy-detective food.

Back in the office, Stef has work to get on with, but I’m keen to find out how Cass got on at the autopsy of her stabbing Vic, so after eating, join her at her desk for an update.

‘There’s not much the examiner could tell us we don’t already know. The skewer penetrated the back between T7 and T8 in the spine’s thoracic region on the Vic’s left-hand side. A gap barely two inches wide.’

‘Pretty accurate for an amateur.’

‘Yes. It could be dumb luck; at this point, I’m keeping my options open. Anyway, the skewer penetrated the heart’s left ventricle through and through before exiting the chest wall between the sixth and seventh ribs.’

‘Severe bleeding?’

‘Yeah. Massive internal bleeding from the get-go. The Vic never stood a chance.’

‘Anything else useful from the ME?’

‘I don’t know about useful, but the weapon of choice was a 17-inch stainless steel Brazilian style skewer with a half-inch rectangular blade and a pointed tip, honed to be extra sharp by the perp.’

‘Will you be able to trace where it was bought?’

’The ME was able to help me with that. She has a set herself. Bought them at Walmart for eight ninety-nine.’

‘Not much help then?’

Cass shrugs her shoulders.

‘So, what’s the plan?’

‘I already have officers from the Sixty-Second Precinct doing a walk-through around the area canvassing for witnesses. I’ve requisitioned street-cam recordings and await approval from a Judge to obtain private security cam recordings in the area. All I can do is wait and see if something turns up.’

‘Sounds good. You’re off to meet with the family again?’

‘Heading there now.’

‘Good luck. I’ll catch up with you in the morning.’

Feeling there’s nothing else I can do in the office, I head out for my meeting with the TO, who witnessed my possible deliberate hit-and-run. He works from the Sixty-First Precinct down Coney Island Avenue, twenty minutes south.

Every time I’ve been to the Sixty-First in the past, I’ve struggled to find a parking space, and knowing that I’ll be meeting there at shift change-over, the chances today will be next to zero. So, I park in the Brooklyn Library lot and walk the last few blocks.

If anything, the weather is even colder than it was yesterday. Light snow flurries are beginning to fall, and I’m glad of my North Face Zaneck jacket. It cost an arm and a leg, but it’s worth it on a day like this.

Whenever I feel down about how basic our Precinct is, I come down to the Sixty-First. At first sight, you would think it might be a crack joint or an underfunded homeless refuge. Meshed wire covers all the lower-story windows, and a trash can outside the front door is overflowing with cigarette stubs and trash. I know budgets are tight, but a little discipline and a few cans of paint would go a long way to improve the appearance.

When I push through the front door, I’m greeted by the wide grin of a man I’ve known since I started in the Force. A sergeant like myself, but committed to the uniform and happy to train and develop others. This particular day, he’s on desk duty.

We fist-pump and go through the familiar routine of swapping old stories before he asks me why I’ve dragged my sorry ass into his Precinct.

I tell him the name of the officer I’m there to meet, and he immediately tells me he’s one good cop. Then admits to being his Training Officer and laughs before telling me he really is a good cop.

I’m told he’s in the rest area waiting for me, so I head on in.

The rest area consists of two parallel rows of bench-table combos, vending machines selling chips and chocolate, the staple diet for cops, and a couple of Cona coffee jugs on a hot plate. I’ve never understood why we eat and drink such crap or why the Station Commanders choose to make it available. Where’s the fresh fruit and a coffee machine with a choice of Latté or Cappuccino? At least we have a decent coffee maker back at our place. I wouldn’t make it through the day on this stuff.

There’s only one officer there when I arrive, and he stands to wait for me as I cross toward him.

‘Officer McGuire?’

‘That’s me.’

‘Hi, I’m Eli Ross. We spoke on the phone.’

‘Sure, Detective. I’ve been waiting for you. You want to grab a coffee, and we can talk?’

I inwardly grimace but accept the suggestion. I decide not to tell him about our coffee maker.

As he pours, I do a quick assessment and am impressed with what I see. His uniform is immaculate even though he’s coming off shift. He’s clean-shaven with a short hairstyle and smooth complexion. The only unusual feature is the miniature camera fitted to one side of his glasses.

He sees me noticing and explains.

‘It’s called an OrCam My-eye. I have reduced short-range vision, and this allows me to read and write reports more efficiently.’

‘It’s pretty discrete. I hardly noticed it.’

‘Sure. And it’s voice-activated, so it can prompt me with identifying objects, and it even IDs people I know long before I get to them.’

‘So it talks to you?’

‘In one ear. Before I learned about it, I was about to be taken off the streets and stuck in a desk job. But now I can do everything the others can do.’

After his explanation and we have our coffees, we’re sitting opposite each other, with him telling me what happened in the potential hit and run I’m considering.

‘I was canvassing for witnesses to a traffic incident in the area, had just picked up lunch, and was sitting at the junction of Voorhies and Sheepshead Bay when I noticed a white Mercedes SUV with smoked glass, double parked on the other side. I was just about to look closer when it started moving, so I stopped. I assumed he was moving on.’

’So, Sheepshead Bay Road. That’s where the Vic has his Security Business, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah. About a hundred yards from where I was sitting.’

‘And he came out to climb in his vehicle?’

‘Yes. I didn’t notice him at first. It was only when the SUV accelerated I saw him. I’ll tell you. That was some jump he pulled off.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He must have spotted the SUV at the very last moment and managed to throw himself backward over the hood of his vehicle. I still don’t know how he did it. It was incredible. The SUV didn’t even clip him.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I pulled beside him to check he wasn’t injured and put a BOLO on the SUV.’

‘Did you talk to him about what happened?’

‘Sure. But he thought the driver wasn’t paying attention. That it was just an accident.’

‘But you don’t buy it?’

‘No, I don’t. Not for a second.’

‘What makes you so convinced it was deliberate?’

‘First, the coincidence in timing. The SUV waited until the guy appeared. Then, it didn’t just draw away. It accelerated hard and fast. Finally, the driver made no attempt to swerve out of the way. If anything, he pulled closer to the Vic’s car, clipping a couple of wing mirrors on the way past.’

‘So, no doubt in your mind?’

‘None. And of course, as you know, the SUV was stolen the previous night and discovered a few blocks away in a disused lot.’

‘Did you get Forensics involved?’

‘I put in a requisition, Detective. But a possible doesn’t compete with a backlog of actual crimes. The SUV’s still in the compound, though. So maybe you could still get some priority on it?’

‘Anything else you can add?’

‘Only that I checked for cam footage around the intersection, but nothing caught the incident. If I were the Vic, I’d keep my eyes peeled.’

After thanking Officer McGuire for his time, I have plenty to think about on the way back to the apartment. I found McGuire’s version of what happened more than credible. I think he’s a solid cop: with good observation skills and attention to detail. I also have to consider that he was in a much better position than Vic to say what happened. John Webb only caught a glimpse of the SUV at the very last moment and, by the sound of it, spent the next few seconds performing acrobatics. I doubt he saw much after that. So, I reckon it was an attempted homicide. But why? To answer that, I need to talk with the man himself. John Webb.

As I drive, I turn my mind to the teacher I’ve been asked to let spend some time with Ollie. She runs a State-funded private school with only a handful of children and four teaching staff. The