Law
& Order Story: Death Do Us Part
Chapter 1
“You exchanged keys?” Briscoe asked incredulously, staring at his partner from the
passenger seat of the city owned cruiser.
“That’s not what I said,” Green answered, without allowing his vision to
stray from the traffic in front of him as they drove through a quiet suburban
neighborhood. “I said she gave me a key to her place. We’ve been seeing each
other for a while now and she trusts me. She wanted me to have it in case
something happens and I need to get in, because I’m a cop and all.”
Shaking his head slowly, Briscoe said, “Ed,
Ed, you don’t get it; that’s how it starts. First it’s, ‘I trust you. I know
you’ll protect me.’ Then you’re lying in bed one night, all nice and relaxed
and you hear, ‘You know I trust you. Do you trust me?’ And given the fact that
she’s curled up beside you without a stitch of clothes on, what are you going
to say but ‘Yes’? She says, ‘So why don’t you give me a key to your place, just
in case?’ Then you come home one night and find her in your apartment, wearing
a sexy dress, with a nice dinner waiting for you. ‘I wanted to surprise you. I
know how hard you’ve been working lately,’ she says. Next thing you know, you
open up your closet and find every one of your possessions sandwiched into a
six-inch space, and her stuff is crammed everywhere else. Trust me,
she’s moving in on you.”
“It’s not like that with us. Sasha isn’t pushy. She’s very sweet.”
Briscoe snorted derisively. “All women are sweet until they get the ring
in your nose. One morning you wake up and she says, ‘I’m late,’ and you find
yourself out shopping for a minivan. Take my advice: Run for cover at the first
sign of domesticity. And giving you a key is a Big Sign, Buddy.”
Green sighed contentedly, recalling the previous evening. “But they’re
so soft, Lennie. And they smell so good. And they feel so good…”
“It’s a trap, I tell you,” Briscoe insisted.
“Come on, admit it. If some nice-looking woman started coming around,
tossing her hair and talking sweet, you can’t tell me you wouldn’t follow her
out the door.”
“Well, yeah,” Briscoe acknowledged, “but that’s different. If some woman
is fool enough to want to get mixed up with me, I’m game. I’ve got nothing to
lose. You, on the other hand, are young; you’ve still got your whole life ahead
of you.”
His partner chuckled and shook his head. Easing off of the accelerator,
he said, “This looks like the place.”
“Looks like it,” Briscoe agreed.
Green pulled over and parked at the curb behind an ominous black van
with the words, “New York County Coroner” stenciled in white block letters
across the back. As they got out they noticed two patrol cars parked in front
of the van, one stopped partly on the sidewalk.
Patches of refrozen late snow crunched under their shoes as they cut
across the small yard toward the open front door of a dingy red brick house,
clearly the worst kept on the upper middle class block. As soon as they climbed
the three shallow steps, a draft of warmer air from inside the house confronted
them.
“Oh, man,” Green exclaimed, pulling his jacket over his nose and mouth,
“I hate it when they’re ripe!”
Briscoe pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and covered the lower
part of his face as well. “Judging by the aroma, I’d say we’re looking at about
four days.”
“No way. I’d say it’s more like six.”
“Care to put your money where your mouth is? Say, twenty bucks worth?”
“Easy money,” Green accepted.
They walked into a small living room and were met by a policewoman in
uniform. “Detectives, everyone is in the back bedroom.”
“Thanks, DeSoto,” Briscoe nodded. As he and Green continued through the
worn house, they noticed that the lights in every room had been turned on,
revealing equally worn furniture. But after the first pungent blast, the odor
had improved somewhat and they no longer felt the need to cover their faces.
The detectives stepped into a crowded room with wide-open windows that
served as the master bedroom. Standing beside a bed, two plain-clothes officers
were talking to another in uniform. A man they recognized as a coroner was
sitting on the edge of the bed, carefully examining the figure lying on it. An
assistant hovered nearby, holding a plastic evidence bag. A police photographer
snapped pictures of the bed and rest of the room, while another man was
painstakingly brushing a fine powder on the surface of the nightstand.
Briscoe approached the three officers. “What’ve we got?”
“Male, Caucasian, stabbed to death,” one of the plain-clothes men
answered.
Green looked at the knife protruding from the back of the victim, who
was lying on top of a blood-soaked sheet. “No kidding,
Ignoring his sarcasm, the officer continued, “Mailman called it in.”
“Did you get a statement?” Briscoe asked.
“Yeah. He was trying to get a signature on a registered letter. There
were no signs of forcible entry, but when he knocked on the door, it came open
and he got a whiff of John Doe, here. He delivered a similar letter addressed
to the same person several weeks ago and there’s no change of address form on
file, but this isn’t the man who was here on his last visit. He couldn’t
identify the body.”
“You let him walk around the crime scene?” Briscoe asked sharply.
“We thought he might be able to help. The house is cleaned out, no
identification or personal effects found in any of the rooms. We were hoping he
could tell us who the victim is,” he explained, gesturing toward the bed. “The
next door neighbor on the corner said this house is a furnished rental and the
previous tenants moved out about a month ago. Some other people moved in soon
after, but she didn’t know anything about them and never did see them. She just
noticed the lights on at night.”
“What about the landlord?” Green asked.
The detectives turned their attention to the coroner. “What do you
think, Gus? How long has he been here?” Briscoe asked.
“Oh, three, four days at the most. The heat was left on. That’s why it’s
a little strong in here.”
Briscoe smirked as Green swore and pulled his wallet out of his hip
pocket.
Slipping the crisp bill Green passed him into his own pocket, Briscoe
asked, “Anything else?”
“One stab, straight into the heart. Judging by his position and the lack
of defensive wounds, I’d say it happened while he was asleep,” the coroner
answered.
“I guess no one ever told this guy that sleeping on your stomach is bad
for your back,” Briscoe quipped.
“Poor guy,” Green commented. “He probably didn’t even see it coming.”
“Probably done by some sweet-talking woman who had her own key,” Briscoe
offered.
Green threw him a dark look as the coroner informed them, “I’ll have a
report for you sometime tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Gus,” Briscoe said as he and Green headed out of the room.
As they passed through the living room, DeSoto was still at her post
near the door. “Have a good evening, Lennie,” she said.
“You too, Barbara,” Briscoe called over his shoulder as he and Green
walked out of the house.
Once they were on the sidewalk, Green gave his partner a sideways
glance. “She seemed kind of sweet on you, LENNIE.”
Briscoe shook his head and smiled. “Married, with children.”
“That wouldn’t stop a lot of men,” Green observed.
“Stops this one,” Briscoe countered. He stood beside the car, looking up
and down the street. “Why don’t we see if any of the other neighbors can tell
us something about John Doe? I’d sure like to have a name to put on our report
in the morning.”
Green checked his watch. “It’s after
“You can stuff your face later. If we wait and come back tomorrow, most
of these people will be working. Looks like a lot of them are home now.”
Green sighed with resignation. “Let me get some business cards out of
the glove box.”