Eye Wit (4 page)

“Mrs. Fellini, this is Detective Zeissing, Detective Riley’s partner, and our Civilian Consultant, Dr. Kamimura,” Mark Sanders said by way of introduction.

“Yes, I know Dr. Kamimura,” Sophia Fellini said. “We’re on a first-name basis.” She smiled, a brief smile empty of warmth.

Chief of Detectives Sanders rose from his chair, tucked his spectacles carefully into the inside vest pocket of his herringbone sport coat, and bowed slightly to his hostess. “Then I’ll leave you in the hands of our top detectives, Mrs. Fellini. If anyone can bring closure to this terrible tragedy, they will. I’ll speak briefly to the reporters gathered outside. I’m sure I can persuade them to disperse. Please, if you have any questions, do call me any time, night or day. Again, my deepest sympathies for your loss.”

He shook the widow’s hand gently, turned and left the room. But not before meeting the eyes of each of his “top detectives,” the message in his determined expression as clear as the gleam on his highly polished lenses: you
will
find Marco Fellini’s killer. Quickly.

6

Hans Reiniger’s past was akin to a book open on his lap, a
story told by Gypsy forebears, told
so often he had committed it to memory. The tale gripped him. Its characters and plot formed his own character, drove his own plot. Except that the book wasn’t really written, yet. Up to now, it was oral history passed on by his mother, his adopted grandparents and Gypsy story-tellers, as it had been for the Romani for eight hundred or more years.

H
e would write it down.
His story—his
history—needed to be told. His lawyer would make it
public. That was all he could do
now. The die was cast.
Hans opened Word on his MacBook and drafted a cover letter.

Rechtsanwalt Herr Félix Tolliver

Denkmaschinenstrasse 555

4096 Zürich,
Schweiz

Herr Tolliver:

As I discussed with you last week, the enclosed envelope is to remain sealed until my death, or the death of Mr. Marco Fellini of Gramercy Park South, New York, NY 10003. When either of those events occur, you are to
open the envelope and convey its contents to appropriate legal authorities and to the media.

Sincerely yours,

Hans Reiniger
,
L
ü
zern,
Schweiz

7

“Before I ask you any questions, Mrs. Fellini, I would like to see the murder scene with Lieutenant Riley and Dr. Kamimura,” Zoran said.

“Murder? You’re calling it murder? Already?” the widow said. “Why would anyone kill Marco? He was generous to a fault. He was respected in the art world and widely admired for his support to charities.” Her voice turned defiant. “You know what George Bernard Shaw said? ‘Is it wise to give a man a pecuniary interest in sawing off your leg?’”

Zoran winced at the thought of someone sawing off a leg, any leg, particularly his.

Lieutenant Riley came to Zoran’s rescue. “I understand what you’re saying, Mrs. Fellini, but believe me, we’ve enough murders to solve without adding your husband’s to our list. We don’t have to go looking for crimes to solve. They find us.”

Sophia Fellini looked at Yoko, shaking her head. “What’s going on, Yoko?”

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Fellini,” Yoko said. “What a terrible shock this must be.”

“Please, it’s Sophia, don’t make me feel we’re strangers. Can you stay and talk with me?” The widow’s voice was not even close to its usual commanding decibel.

Out of the corner of her eye, Yoko saw Zoran stray to a side table and start to neaten the magazines piled haphazardly on it. If they didn’t get him focused on the crime, he’d be straightening the art lining the walls, so strong was his compulsion to make things orderly. Before she could say anything, Dan spoke.

“Mrs. Fellini, right now, I need to take Dr. Kamimura and Lieutenant Zeissing up to the site of…er…to the roof, where you found your husband.”

Sophia Fellini gave a tired nod. “Duty calls you, Yoko. Perhaps we can talk later.”

Dan led Yoko and Zoran out of the room and into the hallway. As they progressed up the two flights of stairs, Dan rapidly outlined what he knew of the situation.

“Sophia Fellini found Marco Fellini dead on the roof almost two hours ago. He’d been shot in the back by a hunting arrow, which hit his renal arteries. He bled to death in minutes.”

“You have seen the report from the coroner already?” Zoran asked.

“No, but I heard about it. Dante Nicosian, our best ME, did a fast post-mortem at the Chief’s insistence. Having Dante give up his Sunday…guess that shows how well-connected Marco Fellini is…ah, was. At least with our department.”

“Anyway, the widow Fellini saw her husband go up to the roof at seven and when he didn’t return on schedule––apparently he was a creature of habit and never varied his schedule––she went up to the roof around eight, found him dead, came back downstairs and called 9-1-1.”

“A hunting arrow? Another arrow and this one identified as a hunting arrow.” Zoran said. “What would someone be hunting in New York City? Further, why on earth would Marco Fellini be up on the roof?”

“It’s a flat roof, huge. Two roofs really, the house is a double brownstone,” Dan said. “Fellini built an enclosed run on the roof for archery target practice. He had to get a special permit, probably cost him a bundle and used up a few favors.”

Dan opened the door to the roof. “That’s the archery run.” He pointed to the west corner of the roof. “It’s thirty-five yards long. That heavy wire mesh covers it completely so arrows don’t go astray.”

“This is amazing,” Yoko said, staring around at the garden, which was filled with fragrant masses of flowers and decorative shrubs. The garden sprawled to the edge of the archery enclosure and completely covered the rest of the rooftop. The brownstone’s roof was slightly higher than some of the nearby buildings, and the bird’s-eye view of Manhattan was impressive. She had a clear view of the spire of the iconic Empire State Building piercing the sky at 34th and Fifth Avenue and the nearby row of Gothic Revival buildings that included the Players Club and her old workplace, the National Arts Club, a block or so away at 15 Gramercy Park South.

“I can’t resist,” Yoko said, and walked quickly along one of the pebble paths winding through the garden. She stood admiring the uptown skyline from the north edge of the roof. To her surprise, Zoran followed close behind, cautiously halting a foot or two away from the low parapet that framed all sides of the roof. The two stood in silence, admiring the glittering Chrysler skyscraper, a sleek Art Deco beauty with its not so subtle homage to man’s love affair with the automobile. Years before, Yoko’s father had taken her to the observation deck in the Empire State Building and explained what they could see of Manhattan from their vantage point

“See those eagles?” he pointed to the proud birds gracing the corners of the Chrysler Building’s 61
^st
floor. “They’re the same as the 1929 Chrysler hood ornaments.”

At the age of eight, Yoko had been far more excited at seeing the place where Kong had roared in angry defiance, a weeping Fay Wray clutched in one arm. Now, Yoko’s childhood fascination with the Empire State Building had morphed into an adult fondness for movies like “An Affair to Remember” and “Sleepless in Seattle.” Cary Grant was deliciously easy on the eye and Tom Hanks, while not exactly cheesecake, had a certain rustic appeal.

“Can you see that the corners on the 31st floor of the Chrysler Building are different from those on the other floors?” Zoran asked.

“A B-25 bomber plane crashed into your favorite building in 1945. Fourteen people were killed. One elevator operator survived a 75-story fall inside an elevator. That is a Guinness World Record,” Zoran said, quoting from his encyclopedic store of esoterica. He never abbreviated or contracted his words. Obviously one of his obsessions, Yoko thought. A shame, but he functions well. The meds he takes help and he must be very determined to resist his obsessive-compulsive inclinations.

Neither Yoko nor Zoran heard Dan come up behind them and they both were startled at the sound of his voice.

“Fellini didn’t do anything by half,” Dan said, “but he can’t claim credit for this amazing view. Zoran, do you want to look at the photos of the victim now or walk around a bit more, get a feel for the place?”

“Let me examine the run first, and then I will go over the photos,” Zoran said, talking as the three of them walked. “I did not know about this roof run, although I did know Fellini was a champion archer and coached state archery teams for years. You said he was hit with a hunting arrow. Those are very different from target arrows. They are much more deadly.”

“That’s why it looks premeditated,” Dan said. “The coroner’s report established the time of death, it fits with the widow’s statement. After his morning target practice, which apparently never lasted long, Fellini always came down for a light breakfast with Sophia Fellini then joined his two assistants in the office. They usually arrive about eight. Unfortunately, we don’t have an eye wit to the murder. All we’ve got is what folks are telling us.”

“Yes,” Zoran said. “That is probably true. We have not yet located an eye witness. There is at least one eye witness, of course: the murderer himself—or herself.”

Dan broke into a grin. “And that guy—or gal—probably won’t come forward and confess.”

Zoran didn’t see the humor. “Indeed. You were saying that the widow went alone to the roof and found the body? No one else went with her?”

“Correct. She says she always did her yoga routines while he practiced his archery. Insists they both were religious about their schedule, said it was for their mental health because the rest of the day and night was usually booked full, all work, work, work.”

Yoko followed Dan to a picnic table under a green and white canopy. A slender file lay on the table. Dan opened the file and fanned out the photos so that each was easy to see. Yoko watched as Zoran walked slowly around the outside of the run, then along the inside length of it, pausing every now and then to stare around. He was about to exit the archery run when he stopped and bent to pick up something. It was too small for Yoko to see what it was. Zoran pulled a small package of Purell sanitized wipes out of his pocket and meticulously wiped each finger on both hands. The grapevine had it that he bought the wipes by the carton.

“I wonder what he found,” Yoko said to Dan. “A clue, do you think?”

“No point asking, we’ll find out when Zoran’s ready.”

Eventually, Zoran came over to the picnic table to see the photos, examining them without comment as Dan flipped through the selection.

Finally, Zoran and Dan began to talk. Yoko listened carefully, not wanting to interrupt their thought process.

“The victim was almost at the end of the 35-yard run, near the target,” Zoran said. “He—or someone—shot ten arrows into the target. They landed in a perfectly spaced line from the outside ring to the center circle, the bull’s eye. Let us say, for the sake of argument, that Marco Fellini was the archer who shot the ten so elegantly.

“Then, perhaps as he walked to retrieve the arrows, one more arrow, a hunting arrow, not a target arrow, was fired. That one landed in his lower back, in the kidney area. It is surprising that he did not hear the sibilance of that arrow in flight. Perhaps he knew this person and either he or the assailant was talking. But it is obvious that Fellini did not expect to be attacked.”

“Makes sense,” Dan said. “I wonder…could someone have sneaked on to the roof and fired at Fellini without Fellini knowing? Traffic noise might have covered the sounds.”

“Yes,” Zoran said. “That is possible. But one thing is certain. Most definitely, this is premeditated murder. He did not shoot himself, and if whoever shot him had done so accidentally, the shooter would have called 9-1-1 for help and death could have been avoided.

“The killer was cold-blooded,” Zoran continued. “Why else would a hunting arrow have been used, except to kill? Furthermore, the impact point of the arrow, in the area of his kidneys, almost guaranteed a quick death. All of the arrows in the target were target arrows, not hunting arrows.”

“Anything else, Zoran, or should we go downstairs to talk to Mrs. Fellini again?” Dan said.

Yoko’s cell phone rang as she followed Dan and Zoran down the stairs from the roof. She stopped on the landing to answer it. It was Brian Watson, calling from the 13
^th
Precinct.

“Oh, it’s you, Yoko. I thought I hit the speed dial for Dan. Never mind. Just tell Dan that I’ve sent a car to the Fellini house to take him to the hospital then to the morgue, okay?”

“What’s up, Brian?” Yoko said. “Doesn’t Dan have to go to the hospital to interview the balloonist?”

“Nah, that guy’s still in surgery. They’re not sure he’ll survive, helluva lot of damage from that one arrow. What the chief said was for Dan to go to the hospital and pick up the arrow, they don’t want it hanging around the ER too long. Our butt-lovin’ ME, Dante Necrophilian, reported to the chief about the arrow that killed Marco Fellini, something about it being different from regular arrows. Doc Necrophilian wants to compare the two arrows. Gotta be some connection. No surprise there, I figured two attacks with arrows, one attack lethal, one attack that may wind up being lethal, it don’t add up. Oh, yeah, God forbid I forget to tell you the ME raved about Marco Fellini’s custom-made sportswear. Doc Necrophilian knows about clothes, that’s for sure, a regular fashionista.” Brian paused for breath.

Yoko waited for the rest of the message––or was it a rant?––grimacing at Brian’s homophobia. Dante Necosian, an MD as well as a top ME with the city, was openly and unashamedly gay, and as fastidious about his appearance as he was about his autopsies. He represented a walking offense to Brian Watson’s soon-to-be-retired old-school cop sensibilities, which was the reason Brian preferred Vinnie Baldoni’s nickname for the head of the morgue and used it as often as he could.