Page 23 of NYPD Red 7: The Murder Sorority

“Anyway, Lloyd passed in February. He didn’t have a lot of money, but I was happy with room, board, and whatever he paid me. Problem is, when he died, I didn’t have enough put away to get a place of my own, and with all due respect to Mayor Sykes, the city’s men’s shelters are not for me. So now I’m on my own, but I know in my heart that God has more information than I do, and there must be a reason why I’m out there on the streets. I’m hoping that maybe if I can help you find the person who killed Mr. Curtis Hellman, then I’ll understand what the Good Lord was planning for me.”

“Thank you,” Kylie said. “Why don’t you tell us what you saw.”

“There’s a pedestrian tunnel in the park near where the murder took place. I was about twenty feet away, lying down on the grass. It’s one of the perks of my new lifestyle—stretch out whenever and wherever you can. I was looking up at the heavens when this man came into the tunnel. I heard him before I saw him, because his footsteps reverberated against the walls. And then he stopped. He didn’t come out the other side. Now I’m curious, so I sit up and take a look, and I see that he’s covered in blood.”

“You’re sure it was blood?” Kylie said.

“He’s wearing a black shirt and shorts, so it’s hard to spot it on his clothes, but he’s a white dude, and his face, his arms, his legs are smeared with red. I figure it’s either blood or my grandma Leola’s raspberry preserves.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry if I sound irreverent, but Lloyd and I always used to crack wise when things got real serious. It takes the edge off things.”

Kylie rewarded him with a dazzling smile. “It’s your story, Ike,” she said. “You tell it your way.”

“Thanks. Anyway, this fellow, he’s shorter than me, maybefive-nine. He’s got a backpack, and he takes this envelope out of it. It’s black with alight-bluelogo on it, which is too far away to read. He rips open the envelope and pulls out something I’ve never seen before. You know those disposable moist towelettes that come in little packages? You open them up, and they’re saturated with some kind of cleaner. They give them to you in Chinese restaurants so you can wipe down your hands and face after you finish eating spare ribs.”

“Wet Wipes,” I said.

“Exactly. Only this isn’t one of thoselittle-bittythings. He unfolded it. It’s big as a beach towel, and he starts wiping himself down. My first thought is, I want to ask him where I can get me some of those. It’s not a hot shower, but it’s doing a darn good job of getting him clean. My second thought is, it’s not too bright to start asking questions of a stranger who’s washing blood off himself.”

“Was your third thought to call the police?” Kylie asked.

“And say what? ‘I just saw a fellow in the park wiping blood off him’? It’s not a crime. No, ma’am, I couldn’t go to the cops, so I did the next best thing. I studied his face. I figured if he is a troublemaker, the cops will come looking for anyone who could describe him. And sure enough, they did.”

“Detective Henry told us you’re an artist and you were making a sketch of him for us,” I said.

He laughed. “Van Gogh was an artist. Michelangelo was an artist. My countryman Albert Huie was an artist. I’m just a guy with a pad and some pencils who can cobble together a reasonable likeness of someone if I put my mind to it.”

“Can we see what you’ve done?” Kylie asked.

His pad was on the table. He turned it over to reveal a portrait that was as detailed and nuanced as the best police sketch I’d ever seen. But it wasn’t the artistry that blew me away. It was the suspect—deep wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, sagging jowls, a disappearing jawline, and a pronounced turkey neck.

“Ike,” I said without taking my eyes off the drawing. “Howoldis this guy?”

“Late sixties,” he said. “Pretty close to seventy.”

“Are you sure he’sthisold?” I said.

“I know what you’re thinking, Detective,” Ike said. “He looks more like somebody’s grandfather than a madman who stabs joggers in the park. But I saw this fellow up close. He can move like an athlete, but he can’t hide the age of his face.”

“This is excellent, Ike,” Kylie said. “You certainly did put your mind to it.”

“It’s not exactly ready to hang in the Met, but this is your guy,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”

We thanked him and went back out to talk to Henry and Cardona.

“We’ve sealed off the tunnel, and our guys are spraying it with luminol,” Cardona said. “If we find any blood, we’ll see if we can get a match with the victim.”

“How’d our witness do with the sketch?” Henry asked.

I handed it to him.

“Damn,” he said. “Don’t these hit men have a mandatory retirement age?”

“He looks a lot like Father Dominick at my church,” Cardona said. “Or maybe Mr. Porzuczek from the butcher shop. He’s really handy with a knife.”

“At least, he looks like a real person,” Henry said. “I’ve seen police sketches that look like they were drawn by afirst-grader. All they need is a refrigerator magnet.”

“I’ve never made a single arrest based on a sketch,” Kylie said. “But this is a big help. We knew both of our killers were pros. Now we know that at least one of them is anoldpro.”

“Yeah, but it puts us in a real bind,” Cardona said.

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