BLACK AND WHITE
Monday, June 7th, 7:30 A.M. New York City
John Cocchi and Kathy Rynn had worked together for six years doing day
tours in the 34th Precinct's Sector Eddie. Like most partners, they had
developed a routine that made casual conversation unnecessary. Each
usually knew what the other was thinking.
They made their arrests, gave their summonses, and handled all the radio
runs assigned to them with few words passing between them. They had a
stoic attitude about their job, but that didn't slow them down. In a
tough precinct they were known as good cops who weren't afraid to
And work they did, most of the time. The
34th Precinct covered Washington Heights, a poor neighborhood at the
northern tip of Manhattan where the vast majority of the residents were
immigrants from the Dominican Republic, many of them illegal aliens.
It was a tough life for the new arrivals. Most had learned to live by
their wits, but there were always those prepared to prey on their
neighbors. Consequently, crime was a sad daily fact of life for the good
people and a livelihood for the bad.
As usual, Rynn and Cocchi expected that they
would spend the day "tied to the radio," going from one call to
the next if they didn't run into an arrest. However, like most radio car
teams throughout the the city, they tried to reserve to themselves the
first half hour of the tour. They bought their coffee and bagels and
headed for their spot in Fort Tryon Park, under the Cloisters. Although
it wasn't in their sector, they had used the spot for years and considered
it their own secret preserve.
Rynn drove into the park, up the steep road
leading to the Cloisters, the medieval castle perched overlooking the
Hudson River. A quarter mile before the Cloisters, Rynn left the road and
drove across a small meadow and into the woods on a narrow dirt track.
Their spot was a hundred yards into the woods, where the road ended at a
steeply pitched hill that ran straight down to the New York Central Rail
Road tracks paralleling the Hudson. There was another car in their spot,
a late model two-door red BMW. The passenger door was open, but they
didn't see anybody sitting in the car. What immediately caught their
attention was the rear license plate, NYC-9. Cocchi and Rynn naturally
assumed that the politically important occupants of the BMW were
trespassing and otherwise engaged in the backseat, using their spot as a
lovers lane. That wasn't allowed.
"Let's be nice to the big shot when we
break up his session," Cocchi said as he got out of the radio
"Let's," Rynn said. She
approached the car from the driver side and Cocchi headed for the
passenger side. Then Rynn stopped and motioned for Cocchi to do the
"Problem?" he asked softly.
"Maybe," she answered, pointing to
the driver's door. "Window's shattered and there's glass on the
ground. Be careful."
Both cops unholstered their guns and reached
their positions at the sides of the BMW, nerves on edge and ready for
anything. They relaxed a bit when they saw the body.
He had been behind the wheel, but the force of the bullet fired into his
head through the closed window had knocked his upper torso across the
front seat. He was white, about thirty years old, and dressed casually in
tan slacks and a green shirt. Death had caught him in an embarrassing
position. His pants were pulled down to his knees and his eyes were wide
open in shock. Hours before, a small puddle of blood had flowed onto the
seat from his head wound. The blood had congealed and hardened.
"He looks Irish. Unusual for this
neighborhood," Cocchi observed.
"Probably grew up around here in the
old days, when the Irish were still in charge in the Heights. That's how
he knew about this place," Rynn surmised.
"Probably," Cocchi agreed.
"Let's go find the other body, if there is another one."
"Okay. But remember crime scene
protocol. No need to give ourselves more problems than we already
She didn't have to say more. Both had been
around long enough to know that many crime scenes were damaged and
evidence inadvertently destroyed by the first officers on the scene. They
prided themselves on doing the job right. Their problem would be
explaining how they had stumbled on the BMW, deep in the woods and out of
Both knew that they were headed for some grief from their cranky old
sergeant, but what bothered them more was that their wonderful spot would
no longer be a secret.
It took them only a minute to find the
woman's ripped and bloody clothes at the edge of the hill and another
minute to sight her body. They couldn't get to her. The killer had
thrown her down the almost-vertical incline and the body had tumbled down
until hitting a large rock protruding from the hill.
Even from a distance, Cocchi and Rynn could
see that she was dead. She had come to rest face up, she had deep slashes
all over her torso, her face was battered, and they were sure that her
neck was broken.
"That poor girl surely suffered before
she died," Rynn observed.
"You got that right. There's a real
sick bastard responsible for this mess," Cocchi answered. "You
ready yet for our own dose of misery?"
"Not really, but let's get the ball
rolling and get this over with. I feel a fit of depression coming