Detective Dawgleash: Leave No Bone Unturned

Book Two
The First Bone
Thursday 2 December -> Saturday 4 December

2.1

The walk home, less than a mile in all, seemed endless. Millicent’s legs were leaden. The starless sky was oppressive. She couldn’t wait for this day to be over.

Turning the corner of 50^th Street and First Avenue, Millicent’s own comfortable house came into view. Her unease escalated into foreboding, something was very wrong. She could feel it in her bones. Her heart began beating wildly. Millicent could hardly catch her breath. The anxiety became so intense she thought her chest would explode.

She began to run. What if something had happened to Barkley? “Why” thought Millicent, “did she leave him home?” She should have taken him to the office. But Barkley so hated to sit though long administrative meetings and this day’s session promised to be an exceptionally long one.

Suddenly, out of no where, a bicycle was racing right at her. Its headlights were blinding. Millicent froze and felt a shock of impact. She was thrown into the grassy garden of a neighbor’s house where she lay for a few seconds, temporarily stunned and much too confused to move. Only then did Millicent become aware of the man standing over her. A voice asked, “Are you all right? I’m so sorry.”

Even in that moment of pain and confusion, the man’s voice was reassuring. He was middle aged, handsome, fair-haired and dark eyed. Familiar. The man took Millicent’s arm and helped her up.

Even though he spoke with obvious concern, it was difficult not to miss the man’s desperate need to get away. He barely waited for her answer before getting back on his bicycle and turning north on First Avenue.

Millicent made her way home, unlocked the door and found an agitated Barkley waiting in the front hall. He didn’t even wait for her to put his coat on, but ran naked except for his god-given fur past Millicent’s legs and out onto the street. Millicent grabbed his leash and followed behind best as she could as Barkley bolted towards Detmold Park. She followed him down the park stairs, stopping on the first landing to catch her breath. Then she saw the flames. The Dog Park was on fire. Barkley was already down at the park gate which was closed but not locked. It struck Millicent as very odd that the gate was unlocked. And it was very dark. Then she realized why. None of the streetlights were on.

Millicent pushed the gate open and Barkley ran through. Millicent felt her way along the fence to the front gate of the dog run and stood rooted in terror. “Oh My God! Someone’s been killed!” Millicent’s anguished cry was joined by a primeval howl. As it turned out, Barkley wasn’t as far from his wolf ancestors as one would have thought judging solely by his dress and demeanor. Deep in this modern dog’s throat was a primeval howl. The same howl that had resonated through the woods long before a few of Barkley’s ancestors chose to leave the wild and toss their fate in with man’s. This was a sound securely coded into Barkley’s genetic memory; one neither cashmere sweater nor velvet cushion could ever erase.

Millicent closed her eyes, but the horror wouldn’t be blotted out. Rescue was out of the question, it would have been no use; one arm stuck straight up into the air as if in protest, and what was once a human head was now a blackened ball with a fixed snarl of teeth gleaming like porcelain against the charred flesh.

Millicent was transfixed. Barkley, who’d gone quiet, pushed his nose against her leg. Reality began to take hold and Millicent tried to run for help. But her body felt like a dead weight, the muscles rigid. She managed to get to the stairs. “Be calm, be calm,” Millicent told herself but her hands would not stop shaking and she had to take hold of the stair railing to keep her balance.

Millicent was so distraught that she neglected to notice the little silver bone Barkley was holding tightly, albeit with some disgust, in his mouth.

2.2

The summons, in the form of a request, came from an Assistant Commissioner but Dawgleash knew the moment she entered his office that this wasn’t routine police business. King and his handler from the FBI were there with someone whom Dawgleash didn’t know and no one thought to introduce. “Something doesn’t smell right,” thought Dawgleash, unconsciously sniffing the air.

Without preliminaries, the Assistant Commissioner, Detective Denis Brandtly, said, “The 51^st Street Dog Park that abuts the Rockefeller’s garden down by the East River. Dawgleash, you live in that neighborhood. Do you know it?”

Dawgleash nodded her head. “That’s helpful,” said Brandtly, “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Not many people have,” said King’s handler. “Nor did we until King and I helped out at the United Nations after 9/11. We took our breaks in the Peter Detmold park.”

The door opened and Dawgleash’s junior partner, Detective Diane Tooney, rushed in. “Sorry I’m late, I’d already left for the day and the duty officer had to find me.” Dawgleash who was very fond of Detective Tooney, gave her a welcoming wag.

Brandtly walked over to his conference table. “We’d best sit. This may take a while. There’s been what looks like a murder. Someone, and we’re not certain who that is yet although we do know it’s a male, was burnt to death in the dog run at 51^st Street some time after seven this evening. A woman who lives in the neighborhood, Millicent Stanhope and her dog Barkley, found the body. Someone appears to have lain in wait for the victim, thrown gasoline over his head and set him on fire. At least that’s how it appears; we’d like Dawgleash to take the case. John Botuky from the 17^th Precinct is at the park now. John will come down soon as he can and bring us up to speed on his end of the investigation.”

Dawgleash looked over at King. “As you and your handler are here, I take it the FBI has an interest.” Before King could answer, his handler spoke up. “This is a sensitive area, so close to the UN and all the consulates. We only know the barest facts but our bosses want the case cleared up as soon and as quietly as possible.”

“Why us?” Tooney asked Brandtly. “Because we need the case solved with a minimum of fuss. Murder always attracts the press and we don’t want anyone getting too inquisitive.” King’s handler added, “We use Kissenger as a contact and the park is a good place for him to slip us information. It’s out of the public view and the people who use the park early in the morning are used to seeing him there. They pay no attention. We get useful leads from time to time and would like this to continue.”

Tooney asked, “Is he on your payroll?”

“Not exactly. We do make occasional cash gifts, but more importantly, we shield him from certain unpleasantness, if you catch my meaning. He’s a freelance, and a very useful one.”

King told Dawgleash in confidence that the FBI wasn’t happy about sharing this information and expected it to be kept very quiet.

Tooney asked “How are we handling this with the 17^th Precinct? And if this is simply a suspicious death, why wasn’t it just handed over to the homicide division?”

Brandtly dismissed the question saying that Detective Botuky understood the sensitive nature of this investigation and would cooperate fully. We need his familiarity with the immediate neighborhood. At that very moment the door opened and John Botuky walked in.

He’d come with good news: the victim had been identified. Sadly though, it was Peter Jacob Hartig III, the very well liked Board President of 455 East 51^st Street. What he was doing alone in the dog run after dark was any one’s guess.

2.3

Dawgleash’s arrival at the Dog Run was very different from her first visit. The police car bringing them parked at the end of 51^st Street. Dawgleash and then Tooney got out and walked towards the stairs. Search lights had been set up. The glaring illumination intensified the surrounding darkness and the clumps of bushes seemed denser than they had during the day.

When Dawgleash and Tooney got downstairs the entry was barred by tape and a uniformed police officer. They were obviously expected; the officer took a cursory look at their shields, saluted and moved out of the way.

They needed no directions to the murder site, small clouds of acrid smoke still wafted from the dog run.

Dawgleash waited by Tooney’s side as she took their protective clothing from the bag. She helped Dawgleash into her NYPD bullet-proof vest and they walked to the still smoldering fire together. Twin arc-lights blazed on the murder scene, giving it a garish look.

The Fire Department’s Investigation Officer came over immediately. He was a large red-headed man with a craggy care worn face. “Detectives Dawgleash and Tooney? Thomas O’Rourke, Fire Investigation and this is Sam Simpson, my assistant. We’ve been expecting you.” Sam, who turned out to be a girl, bent down and extended her hand for sniffing. “I’ve heard so much about you Dawgleash, didn’t you help solve the warehouse fire murders a few years ago?” Dawgleash wagged her tail and nodded her head in the affirmative. She and Sam were going to be great friends.

They all walked over to the burnt corpse, or what remained of it. With Tooney standing quietly at her side, Dawgleash sniffed about in a seemingly random way that wasn’t random at all. The victim, or what was left of him, lay slanting to the left with the remains of his left arm close to his side and the right flung stiffly out. A few burnt fragments of cloth hung from his wrist. Everything on the victim’s head was destroyed by fire and the charred face was turned upward. What held the eye were his teeth, a gleaming white against the blackened flesh. There was a nauseating smell of burnt flesh mixed with gasoline.

Dawgleash was not a religious animal. That was unfortunate, because she would have liked to call on some instinctive response with which to bestow some recognition of a living being onto these charred remains. Her deeply ingrained, historic bond with mankind demanded that some dignity be given this smoldering lump that would soon become a pathology exhibit; labeled, transported, dissected and examined. Tooney had, without thinking, bent her head in silent prayer and crossed herself.

Dawgleash looked over and felt a sudden surge of affection for her able partner. She knew Tooney hated fire, yet here she showed only a vague glimmer of fear. Tooney was, in fact, a very good police officer despite, or perhaps because of, her fears. There was a great respect among her colleagues for the determination that got Tooney where she was now. Affirmative action put a great number of women in the NYPD. Most, however, weren’t yet able to rise to the rank of Detective. “It was hard for dogs in the beginning too,” thought Dawgleash, feeling empathy.

For a moment Dawgleash considered releasing Tooney from what must have been an onerous duty. Instinctively she moved closer and touched Tooney’s leg with her nose. She felt Tooney’s body straighten and knew everything would be fine.

“The cause of the fire?” “Gasoline, certainly,” said O’Rourke. “We’ll send a sample through the lab for confirmation, but it’s hardly necessary. The gasoline could have come from the garage just to our South. Its back door opens on the park and the attendants say they don’t always close it completely because they need to keep the air circulating. We’ll give that place a thorough going over, I don’t like the looks of it.”

Dawgleash walked over to an open can more than a dozen feet away and gave it a meaningful sniff. O’Rourke agreed that was the container that held the gasoline, but shouldn’t there be a top? Tooney asked, “Murder, accident or suicide?”

O’Rourke ruled out an accident and said he didn’t think it was suicide. “Suicides who kill themselves with gasoline don’t throw the can away. It’s usually sitting right by their sides. Besides, if someone is obsessive enough to throw the can away after dousing themselves, they’d put the cap back on. Where is the cap?”

At that moment, King and his handler walked in and were debriefed. King’s handler noted that the murderer, and there probably was a murderer, would have been standing in the dark. The lights in the park were off. “It’s odd that the lights were off. Was it coincidence or did the murderer know where the switch was?”

2.4

Ruffean and Sarah were waiting at Millicent’s front door when she and Barkley got home. “You shouldn’t be alone now, we’ll stay for as long as you need us.” One by one other neighbors came by or called. The neighborhood hotline was in full play and Millicent’s living room was quickly filled with friends.

The doorbell rang and Ruffean was quick to answer it. He returned to say that a police officer had come to make certain she and Barkley were all right and to let them know that Detectives Dawgleash and Tooney would be with them as soon as possible.

Most of the neighbors had come over with food and Ruffean disappeared into the kitchen only to reappear a few minutes later with scrambled eggs cooked to perfection: creamy and slightly peppery. There was ham, toast, cookies of every imaginable type and a pot of strong fragrant tea.

Barkley dove right into his eggs, ham and toast, gobbling them up with a side of kibble. Sarah joined him with a biscuit and a bit of egg topped off with ham.

Millicent hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she began eating. The hot tea partially revived her. But Barkley no sooner finished his meal than he turned on his side and fell fast asleep.

The neighbors began to leave and Ruffean said, “Would you like to come stay with us or should we stay here with you?”

“We should stay here in case the detectives come by or call. If it’s not putting you out too much Ruffean, we’d be glad for the company just for tonight.”

The front door bell rang. Before Millicent could get up, Ruffean and Sarah were there and came back with Detectives Dawgleash and Tooney. “Would Detective Tooney care for some tea? Or coffee, we can make some coffee? Detective Dawgleash, would you like a biscuit? Water?” Tooney accepted tea and Dawgleash was only too happy for a dog biscuit ——Barkley’s were homemade by Millicent and delicious—— with some water.

Barkley opened one eye and, seeing his friend Dawgleash, jumped up to welcome her. “Windsor, I’m so glad you’re here. This whole thing has been a terrible shock. Such a horrible death, and in my park. It’s awful. Millicent is in a state. And as you can see, I am too.”

Dawgleash said, “This has been appalling for both you and Millicent. I know that. Are you able to answer a few questions now? It’s best to get the facts as soon as possible, but if you’d rather wait we can come back tomorrow.”

“I can tell you everything right now. I can do something even better,” said Barkley, running to fetch what looked like a shiny trinket from under a cushion. He came running back with a bone, a silver bone that had been on a chain of some kind and was engraved. “I found this just outside of the dog run right just before the officers showed up. It’s possible the killer lost it in his or her haste to get away. It wasn’t trampled or dirty, so it must have been dropped after the park had emptied of visitors and before the Fire Department got there.”

Dawgleash sniffed the silver bone, turned it over and sniffed again. Tooney came right over with a plastic specimen bag. She carefully picked up the bone with a forceps and put it in the bag, knowing that the lab would be able to distinguish between dog and human DNA. Tooney held the package up to the light and could see Tiffany’s mark on one side and “The 51^st Club” engraved on the other.

“Well done, very well done Barkley,” said Dawgleash.

Detective Tooney began questioning Millicent. “Can you please tell us exactly what happened from the time you came home from work until now? Take as much time as you need and try to remember every detail, even if it doesn’t seem very important.”

Millicent told her story and Barkley sat by her side, touching her ankle when it seemed she forgot something. Between the two of them, they told it completely and clearly.

At the end, Detective Tooney asked about the man on the bicycle. “Do you think you could remember his face? Have you ever seen him before? Think carefully, you did say he looked a bit familiar.”

“I don’t think I’ve actually met him in person. It was as if I’d seen him on a stage or maybe in a movie. My impression is that he’s well known somehow. Of course it might just be that he resembles someone famous. I wish I could be more helpful.”

“You’ve been very helpful, Ms. Stanhope, very very helpful. And you, Barkley: thank you for having the presence of mind to save that very important bit of evidence for us. We can’t thank the two of you enough.”

Dawgleash turned to Barkley and said an officer would be checking on them tomorrow morning. “Will you and Millicent be here? I don’t expect it will be very pleasant to be alone tonight.”

Sarah MacLane moved closer to Barkley. “We’ll be staying the night,” she said. Ruffian told the detectives that “tomorrow, first thing, he would have security locks put on the front door and the windows bolted. I’ll call the firm that put ours in and have one of their men take care of it before tomorrow night. Sarah and I will stay until that’s done.”

“I don’t think you’re in any danger,” said Tooney, “but it’s best that you lock up carefully before going to bed.”

Millicent said, “I don’t ever feel frightened here, especially with Barkley around. Besides, Ruffean and Sarah are staying tonight so we’ll be fine. And my housekeeper comes in tomorrow morning, she’ll be here all day.”

Detectives Dawgleash and Tooney thanked them again for the tea and biscuits and took their leave. Tooney handed Millicent a card with both her office and home phone numbers and said to telephone at once if anything else occurred to her.

Sitting in the parlor with another cup of tea, Millicent looked at Ruffean, Sarah and Barkley. Their calm presence was reassurance that her world hadn’t fallen apart.

2.5

When all the team members were assembled they moved into a small conference room set up with coffee, tea, water and an assortment of muffins and rolls. It was Dawgleash’s custom to let the team discuss a case before intervening. But first they had to find a name for their unknowable quarry. Tooney suggested “Silver Bone,” and all agreed that “Bone” it was.

Tooney began. “We thought from the start that Hartig’s death was a murder and what we’ve learned so far corroborates our initial view. The evidence against suicide includes the curious position of the gasoline can and no trace of a screw top which would certainly have been on if the can had been carried any distance. The street lights had also been turned off, but the main gate to the Northern entrance of the park was unlocked, and the back door to the garage slightly ajar. There isn’t any question about the time of death. It had to be after six when the park closed to the public but before seven-fifteen when Millicent Stanhope found the body.”

“So we may be looking for someone who knows the park well and was probably familiar with Hartig’s movements or at least knew how to lure him down into the park after it closed.”

Dingwall added that the gate to the shed at the Western end of the dog run was locked last night. “The shed is gated off from the rest of the park and put there to hold supplies and cleaning tools. It’s flush with the lowermost portion of 455 East 51st Street and forensic teams from both the NYPD and FBI are scouring the place in minute detail right now.”

Dawgleash looked around, inviting additional comments. O’Rourke spoke first, “If this was a planned murder, does anyone know what the motive could have been?”

“There’s quite a neighborhood fuss over having the dog run closed and he was a very vocal and influential opponent against keeping it open,” said Detective Botuky.

“But you don’t kill a man in this particularly horrible way just to keep a dog run open. There must be more to it,” replied Tooney.

Dawgleash thought that figuring out a motive this early in the investigation was premature. However, she also thought it seemed likely that there was more to this murder than just keeping a dog run open.

Inspector Simpson suggested they rule out Millicent Stanhope. “She had nothing to gain from murdering Hartig after all and if the dog run closing was involved, they were both on the same side. And the timing wasn’t right.”

Tooney agreed with Simpson, “She was an honest witness and I liked her.” Inspector Dingwall said, “Liking her has nothing to do with it. I’ve seen some very likable villains in my time.”

“How about the mysterious man on the bicycle who ran her down? He could have done it. I can’t see Ms. Stanhope committing this murder, or, indeed, any murder,” said Tooney.

Botuky said suddenly, “Phoebe Figophilus is my prime suspect right now. She has motive and opportunity. And this murder, if it was a murder, was committed by someone who is a bit clever but not as clever as he or she thinks they are. That points to Figophilus who has been a problem in the neighborhood before and has a lot to lose if the dog run closes. And there’s one more thing. Last night I went back to the precinct and discovered that Figophilus has a history with the NYPD. Before becoming a dog walker she worked for a company involved in some shady businesses; drugs and blackmail included. Her boss ended up in prison, but Figophilus got away. I was never convinced that he and not she was the perpetrator. Maybe she’s at it again.”

Dawgleash thought it important to completely rule out suicide. Hartig, they’d discovered, was a very sick man. He had cancer and was told less than a week before he died that it had started spreading again. Perhaps Hartig wanted to end it all?

As if reading Dawgleash’s mind, Assistant Commissioner Brandtly, who had just come in, said: “Suicide seems unlikely. There wasn’t a note. People who kill themselves, particularly those as literate as Hartig, usually want to explain why they’ve done it. And why choose this particularly gruesome way to die? He had access to drugs. Hartig had cancer, he could have gotten as many pain killers as he wanted. Why should he set himself on fire and die in agony? So far there isn’t any evidence of pain killers or sedatives in his tissue.”

Tooney said, “There’s one thing that could suggest suicide though. It’s difficult to pour gasoline on someone with a can and hold the victim still at the same time. The murderer may have knocked Hartig out first. But it’s unlikely. We already know Hartig wasn’t drugged. And we haven’t found the top of the can yet. If it was an ordinary plastic kind it could have been stuffed down a drain. There’s one just to the south of the 51^st Street stairway into the park. Has that been thoroughly searched?”

Inspector Dingwall said that it had. He and Inspector O’Rourke had also checked all the trash bins in the immediate area. “There are a limited number of bins near United Nations right now. It’s too easy to hide an explosive device in one of them so all trash containers above 40^th Street and below 51^st Street have been removed, as have the post boxes. There’s a very sensitive Security Council meeting going on this week and next. All safety precautions have been put into place, which makes our job easier. But even if we find the right top it’s unlikely there will be any usable evidence on it.”

Dawgleash jumped off her chair and started for the door, signaling that the meeting was over. Any more conjecturing would interfere with a dispassionate assessment of the facts as they would be eventually revealed. It was almost noon, she and Tooney were going up to Tiffany’s to trace the silver bone’s buyer. O’Rourke and Simpson were headed back to the Peter Detmold park to interview the garage attendants and see how the investigation of the shed and its small garden was going. Dingwall was staying down at One Police Plaza to search the International Law Enforcement Database for more information on Figophilus.

“Priorities for tomorrow” said Tooney looking towards Dawgleash, “you and I will drop in on Phoebe Figophilus in person. Do you think you’ll have more background information on her by then John?”

Before Botuky could answer, Tooney’s mobile phone rang. She answered it, listened and looked stunned. “Thank you, Sergeant, we’ll be there right away.” Tooney turned to the group, “That was Sergeant Milagros from the 17th Precinct. When Ruffean MacLane and Sarah returned home from their morning walk, Figophilus was waiting at their door and attacked him with a metal poker of some sort. The neighbors saw everything and rang for the police. Sarah was unsettled but unhurt and brought over to stay with the Stanhope’s housekeeper. Ruffean MacLane was taken to the hospital. All he has is a superficial head wound and is on his way home now. I think we’d better interview Figophilus now rather than wait until tomorrow. She’s locked up at the station, and will be held the night, which is convenient. We’ll ride uptown with Detective Botuky.”

2.6

Botuky accompanied Dawgleash out of the car at the Stanhope’s brownstone and rang the doorbell. The housekeeper answered and ushered them in saying that Ms. Stanhope and Barkley were on their way home from the office. “Sarah was unnerved, of course,” said the housekeeper, “but better now than when she’d first arrived and Dawgleash would find her in the kitchen having a biscuit.”

And there was Sarah, in the kitchen listlessly licking a biscuit, not at all her usual exuberant puppy self. Dawgleash walked over quietly saying, “Tell me everything that happened, from beginning to end. Take your time, don’t leave out anything.”

Sarah, very glad to see Dawgleash, gave a little whine. “It was horrible, just horrible. Almost as horrible as when those nasty little Yorkies kept biting Ruffean. But I’m not allowed to hurt a human, I can only make them stay still. There wasn’t anything I could do. Poor Ruffean kept getting hit and there wasn’t anything at all I could do.”

“Start from the beginning dear. You showed very good judgment not biting Figophilus. She would have made a lot of trouble over that,” said Dawgleash. This seemed to comfort Sarah whose tail gave a sad little wag.

“It was about nine in the morning and we were having our first walk of the day,” said Sarah, considerably calmer now that Dawgleash was here. “It was a short walk, just around the block. We were both a bit tired and not really paying attention. As we turned into our door, a figure lurking at the end of the street turned around and ran at us with a big metal poker. It began hitting Ruffean and hitting him. It was Fat Phoebe, the Figophilus woman. She was yelling that the neighborhood was hers and we had better get out. But it isn’t hers, it’s ours. We live here. She doesn’t! She just comes to our park with her nasty little dogs and the ones she walks.”

“Fortunately, a nice man from the Luxembourg Consulate across the street ran over and pulled her away from us. The ladies inside called the police. They came right away and took Ruffean to the hospital because he had been hit on the head and was bleeding. The ladies brought me here to Barkley’s house, they could see I was too frightened to stay home by myself.”

At that moment Millicent and Barkley came running in. Barkley was bursting with curiosity. “Oh, my poor dear dog,” he barked softly. And Sarah told the whole tale again for his benefit, but not before Millicent assured her that Ruffean was fine and would be home within the hour. Meanwhile, Millicent began making some snacks; turkey and beef balls, Barkley’s favorite. In a flash she opened a package of ground turkey and cut sirloin into little bits, mixing them together with whole wheat flour, grated carrots, some garlic and a beaten egg. Then Millicent made little balls, arranged them on an oiled baking sheet and put the sheet into a hot oven. The aroma was almost more than the three dogs, who were very hungry by now, could bear.

King and his handler came over as soon as they heard about the attack. By this time the snacks were cooling on a rack by the kitchen window. Millicent set out four little dishes and filled them with the freshly cooked meat balls and her much loved home-baked biscuits. As the dogs ate, Millicent brought in tea and cakes for herself and King’s handler. When they looked over they saw King bring Sarah one of his biscuits and give her a shy nibble on the neck.

Sarah was almost herself again when the housekeeper came into the kitchen followed by Ruffean, a bandage on his head. “I’m alright, thank goodness for the people across the street. And Sarah has recovered too I see; thank you all so much for taking care of her.” Sarah jumped into Ruffean’s arms and gave him a big kiss on the cheek.

Dawgleash thought it best that she, King and King’s handler get back to the 17^th Precinct and find out how the interview with Figophilus had gone. King said a reluctant goodbye to Sarah and they left together.

2.7

Other criminal psychiatrists were available to the police, but Finch had always been Dawgleash’s analyst of choice. His reports were a model of clarity and he was listened to with respect when testifying in court.

They knew little about each other’s personal life, had no common interests except work, and seldom or ever saw each other socially. In fact, Finch usually shared his life with cats rather than dogs. But Dawgleash and Finch would always meet as if they were old friends; there was an instinctive feeling of respect between them.

True to his word, Finch had Figophilus seated comfortably in his office at Bellevue Hospital the next morning for the first of what was to become a series of interviews. Tooney and two burly police officers brought her there. Although she was much quieter now, Figophilus was still a prime suspect in a very visible murder.

Finch soon discovered that Phoebe Figophilus was born in an upstate New York prison forty-two years ago and confined there until she was sixteen. “ I always thought I’d done something awful and accepted the my incarceration without question or complaint.” That’s how Figophilus described her childhood to Finch, relieved at last to finally find someone who would listen.

Figophilus’ said her father was a prison guard, “… a small, precise, self-important man with a flair for sadism which prudence kept within bearable limits.” Both she and her mother were their father’s prisoners, but their common misfortune hadn’t resulted in compassion or mutual sympathy. Each seemed afraid that any shared confidence would be catastrophic. Secretly fearful of the other’s suspected delinquency, they held their misery close and kept their distance from one another.

Emotional survival demanded an elaborate inner life. Figophilus had enough coping skills to develop a dramatic dream world, but she always knew her dreams were fantasy. The knowledge that there was a real world outside the limits of her prison held Figophilus together. One day she would break free and enjoy it. She lived for that day.

Finch made a note in his journal, “Figophilus appears able to separate real from unreal, appropriately categorizing her dreams as pure fantasy.”

There was an older sister who held most of the father’s attention. But Figophilus claimed she was neither envious nor resentful, the much loved elder daughter had nothing she wanted. The only thing Figophilus wanted was to get out. She planned to escape on her sixteenth birthday.

Figophilus’ mother, who had always lived in the shadows, eventually slipped away unnoticed; dying with the same quiet incompetence that had characterized her parenting skills. Figophilus was fifteen when this happened and she looked down on her mother’s dead face with its smile of secret relief. This, thought Figophilus, was one way of breaking free, but it certainly wouldn’t be her way.

Less than a year later, on her sixteenth birthday as planned, Figophilus walked out of her father’s house forever. She went without warning, leaving her father and sister to their private little world of conspiratorial glances and intimate touches. Although she had her suspicions, Figophilus neither knew nor cared what went on when her father and sister were alone together.

Figophilus wrote short note to her father, explaining that she was leaving home to get a job. Then, with money she’d been saving for almost two years, Figophilus got on the first morning train to New York City. She never saw her father or sister again.

Figophilus expected that her decent school grades, intelligence, orderly mind and easy grasp of new technology would get her a good job. She would be loyal, hardworking and dedicated. Figophilus was shocked to discover that these attributes were not as important as those she didn’t have: physical attractiveness, friendliness, good humor and a willingness to please. She managed to get work, but no job lasted very long. Figophilus invariably left one after the other by common consent and with a good reference. Finch assumed that her virtues were played up and faults tactfully obscured; probably because no one could really put their finger on what these faults really were and felt guilty about not liking her.

Then, almost two decades after coming to New York City, Figophilus got a lawyer’s letter saying that both her father and sister had died within weeks of one another and because there were no other living relative, she was the sole heir. Her father had gone too far with a prisoner who, as it happened, belonged to a very powerful gang. The gang “arranged” the father’s death while he was in town having a prison van serviced. A few weeks later, the elder Figophilus daughter was found hanging dead at the end of a rope in the upstairs bathroom. The father’s murder was “just payback,” Figophilus told Finch bitterly. It was bound to happen sometime. Her sister’s death came as a surprise and elicited some respect; she never expected that her sister would have had the courage to do something so final or dramatic.

Figophilus inherited the family house that was never a home and hired an agent to sell it and everything in it as quickly as he could. She used the money to leave Queens and buy herself a studio apartment in Manhattan near Beekman Place.

Unlike Beekman Place, Sutton Place, and the farthermost most end of 52^nd Street, the housing on First Avenue is modestly priced. The buildings there were originally constructed as tenements for the workers at a malodorous stockyard situated on the East River between 42^nd and 48^th Streets. The neighborhood began its slow rise from slum status into the middle class when the Rockefellers bought the land under the stockyards and donated it to the United Nations. The East 50s, as the area became known, continued to gentrify when the city saw fit to tear down the noisy elevated train running over Third Avenue.

With a small apartment in a nice neighborhood and a little money of her own, Figophilus’ private life became very satisfactory. Her work life was, as usual, not going well at all. She was now employed as the personal assistant to a small-time, self-styled “entrepreneur” named Irwin who treated her badly. One day he got himself a young, pretty, arrogant assistant and Figophilus knew her own days were numbered. Not many of Irwin’s dealings were honest and she kept the books. It wasn’t too difficult for Figophilus to do some creative accounting that would call attention to his misdemeanors. Then, as expected, less than two weeks later the new assistant came over and told Figophilus that Irwin wanted to see her in his office immediately. “You’re not the kind person who looks good at a reception desk. Personally, I can’t wait to see the back of you,” she added.

Figophilus was dismissed with a week’s severance and a few days later the police came in and took her former boss away in handcuffs. The business closed and the pretty assistant found herself out of a job, not that it appeared she needed one. Figophilus, who was tired of one rejection after the other, started her own business. She’d be walking dogs. Figophilus had cards printed up and began her lofty ascent to Queen of the 51st Street Dog Park.

Finch asked if the dog walking idea had been hers alone. “No, not altogether,” she admitted. “I’d been taking care of a neighbor’s Bearded Collie. He thought dog walking would be a good opportunity.”