Detective Dawgleash: Leave No Bone Unturned

Book Four
The Third Bone
Monday 6 December -> Tuesday 7 December

4.1

Millicent made a fast cup of coffee and decided on the moment to go to Central Park; the housekeeper had the keys and would be in by nine. No point going to the office, she wasn't getting any work done anyway. The park would calm her.

Central Park was one of Millicent's favorite Manhattan walks and when Barkley was younger the two of them would spend hours there every weekend. They'd take a snack to the waterfall in the Ramble; Barkley happily chasing sticks, belly deep in moving water. Friends would come by and they would sit together talking as the dogs played in the water and the rocks, all thoroughly enjoying their temporary respite from daily worries.

Millicent made a quick call to the office, leaving a message that she was taking the day off. Then she made a sandwich, put it into her bag along with an apple and left the house, catching the number fifteen bus on First Avenue.

Getting off at 72^nd Street, Millicent walked the few blocks west to Central Park, went directly to the Ramble and followed the lake to the waterfall. Just being there brought Millicent some measure of peace. Feeling better, she sat down on a bench by the water and ate a leisurely breakfast. A bright red cardinal flew down and demanded a bit of her sandwich. She happily obliged. Lovers walked by holding hands. A mysterious dark-coated man trod over the small footbridge talking seriously into his cell phone, a spy giving away dangerous secrets Millicent guessed.

A group of noisy school children shattered the silence and Millicent thought it best to walk on; she went up the small flight of steps above the waterfall, turned east and made her way to the bird feeding station. A few birders from the Audubon Society were there, binoculars out, watching as finches and sparrows waited politely in the seed line. Two Downey Woodpeckers were happily pecking their way up and down a glistening slab of suet and squirrels foraged on the ground for nuts. No one went hungry in this little Eden in the middle of Manhattan.

Then it was up to the castle, down into the Shakespeare garden and around to the public theater. It was almost half past ten but Millicent wasn't yet ready to return home. She circled east behind Turtle Pond and down the East Drive past 72^nd Street, past the boathouse, then the zoo and onto Fifth Avenue.

Millicent walked slowly down Fifth Avenue, idly window shopping as she went. Turning mindlessly east on fifty-second street, Millicent suddenly saw Saint Bartholomew's Church and stopped abruptly. This was the church she had been baptized in many years before. And there, just across the street, was the Waldorf-Astoria hotel where she and her family always had tea after Sunday service and where Millicent "came out" at sixteen. She'd even learned to swim at St. Bart's, in the community house's long, cold pool. Discomfort was said to build character, but Millicent suspected the unheated water's bracing temperature had more to do with thrift than character building. Memories came flooding back and Millicent went up the familiar stairs, through the ornate entrance and into the body of the church.

St. Bartholomew's was the "Tiffany" church and no expense had been spared to create its somber magnificence. No workmanship in wood or stone was considered too grand for the early barons of industry who envisioned a god in their own image. This church had been built with confidence and an absolute belief in the here after as well as impressing one's rivals in the here and now.

Architects and craftsmen also believed without constraint in what they were creating and celebrated an earthly kingship with golden thrones, shimmering canopies, and tall stained glass windows bearing pictures of Christ weighed heavily under his cross. Millicent sat and was grateful to be there. The familiarity of the place was comforting. The heavy cross that had been thrust upon her frail shoulders last week was lightened. Why had she waited so long to come back?

So much time had gone by since Millicent had last been in St. Bartholomew's; yet, it seemed, so little had happened. She'd edited countless books written by others but her own novel lay quietly curled in the dark crevices of her mind, speaking to her softly when she least expected it. The soul mate she'd always been sure would appear hadn't. Millicent remained in her parents' house; alone except for Barkley and it suddenly hit her with a heart-stopping thud, that this might never change.

Busy with her thoughts, Millicent hadn't notice the people in front of her. Then she heard a voice, the voice: his voice, clear and unmistakable. He was standing at the alter, his back to her. A priest. She leaned over the pew, straining to get a better look. The priest turned and she saw him clearly. There was no need to look again, it was instant recognition.

"I Believe in the Holy Ghost: The holy Catholic Church; the Communion of Saints: The Forgiveness of sins: The Resurrection of the body: And the Life everlasting. Amen."

The voice and the face together left no doubt whatsoever; she didn't just believe, she knew. Millicent sat stunned for a brief moment then hurriedly left the pew and fled the church. She paused briefly at the front desk and asked urgently, "Who is the presiding minister? Who is saying the Apostles' Creed?"

The woman looked up from her papers pleasantly and said "Father James Stuart Drymore, he's with this parish. He'll be giving both morning services on Sunday."

Millicent suddenly found herself on the street overcome by a tangle of emotions. She'd seen a body burned beyond all recognition. That body she now knew was her friend PJ Hartig's. The vision would haunt Millicent's dreams for the rest of her life. The second death, that of a young girl, multiplied the horror. She'd told the police all she knew. But Millicent hadn't been required to take any sort of responsibility for either murder, until now. What she had to do was clear but that knowledge provided no relief. A priest from her family church, the church in which she'd been baptized, would become the chief suspect. Her evidence would make that happen.

But the fact that James Stuart Drymore was a priest wasn't what was really worrying Millicent —she simply didn't believe the man who knelt over her with such anguish and concern that night was a murderer. However, that wouldn't matter. If there wasn't any evidence to exonerate Father Drymore, he would probably stand trial and might even be found guilty. Innocent people had been convicted with less evidence. And the scandal! It would rock the community. Even if he were found innocent, Father Drymore's career would probably be ruined.

And what if the case were never solved? Father Drymore would be suspected of murder for the rest of his life. But why hadn't he come forward? What if he was guilty? Even if innocent, he may have information that could point Dawgleash and her team to the real murderer.

There were two murders now, how many more would there have to be before she summoned the courage to tell the police what she knew? Time was important. Millicent walked quickly to corner of 51^st Street, over a block to Lexington and headed down into the subway. She was at One Police Plaza in little more than a half an hour.

When Millicent got to the front desk she told the officer who she was and asked to see Detective Dawgleash. "It's about the 51^st Street murders," she said. He asked her to sign in a book and once done the desk officer called upstairs saying, " Millicent Stanhope is here to see Detective Dawgleash. She says it's important." The officer listened for a moment and told Millicent that Detective Tooney was on her way.

Millicent had barely sat down to wait when Tooney arrived. She greeted Millicent with a welcoming smile and thanked her for coming. Detective Dawgleash would meet them upstairs. They pushed their way onto a crowded elevator, got out on the twentieth floor and walked into a comfortable conference room fitted with recording equipment. There was a small table with coffee and biscuits on a side table and Tooney poured a cup for Millicent. "Milk, sugar?" Millicent nodded her head yes and took the coffee with relief.

The Brooklyn Bridge stared back at her through the interview-room window and Millicent had begun watching the cars going back and forth, thinking how much like little toys they were, when the door opened and Dawglesh walked in with a good looking uniformed officer in tow. Millicent was so relieved to see her she ran over and without restraint gave Dawgleash a big hug, getting a warm snuggle in return. Millicent was relaxed now, she was in the capable paws of her friend and neighbor, Detective Dawgleash. Dawgleash would judge fairly, the fact that Father Drymore was a priest from St. Bartholomew's would make no difference; Dawgleash wasn't a dog for whom status was important.

Getting right to the point, Millicent said "I've just come from St. Bartholomew's church and I saw the man on the bicycle who ran into me last Thursday evening. He's a priest, the Reverend James Stuart Drymore. I get the church newsletter and his picture has been in it. That's why he looked so familiar."

Tooney asked, "Did you hear him speak?"

"Yes. He said the Apostles' Creed and I knew him at once."

"Are you so sure Ms Stanhope, so certain that you could stand up in a court of law and not falter?"

Millicent turned not to Tooney who'd asked the question but to Dawgleash and said, "I'm absolutely certain the man who stood over me that night was Father Drymore. Will I have to identify him?"

"That depends on what he tells us," answered Tooney. Dawgleash nodded.

"He seems like a very good man," said Millicent. "I can't believe Father Drymore would murder anyone."

Tooney said that he might have a perfectly innocent explanation for what he was doing near the park that night. "But," she added: "he may have very useful information about the murders. It was very important to find him and we're grateful."

Dawgleash was looking up at Millicent and she knew instinctively what was being asked of her.

"I decided on impulse to go to Central Park this morning. Barkley has gotten a bit past very long walks and he stayed home sleeping in the back garden. On my way back I passed St. Bartholomew's and on a whim decided to go in. An eleven o'clock service had begun and I sat quietly in the back."

Dawgleash looked at her with understanding and Tooney assured Millicent that what she was doing was right. Two people had already been murdered and they had to find out why and by whom. The least they could do, said Tooney, was to drive Millicent home. "No," she said. "The subway is fine. If I arrive home in a police car people are bound to ask why and I'd prefer not to have to lie. The fewer people who know about this interview the better."

Dawgleash and Tooney agreed and accompanied Millicent down to the lobby and out of the building. "This is going to cause Father Drymore a lot of trouble, isn't it?" Tooney said that if he were innocent there was nothing to fear and once again assured Millicent that she'd done the right thing. The team found it doubtful that a man fleeing from a particular horrible killing would stop to make certain that he hadn't hurt someone he'd just knocked down. It just wasn't the way murders behaved.

Tooney's phone rang and she answered it immediately. John Botuky was on the line. "A priest from St. Bartholomew's is here at the 17^th Precinct, James Drymore, and says he was riding the bicycle that hit Mrs. Stanhope the night of the dog park murders. Should we send him downtown?"

"Yes, down here is best. We'll be waiting," said Tooney as she and Dawgleash said a quick goodbye to Millicent.

4.2

James Stuart Drymore was a lonely man. All during his wife's long illness he'd prayed that God would take her, end her suffering. But in his heart he wanted her to live no matter what. Even then he dreaded the gnawing loneliness he was feeling now and had felt everyday since her merciful death almost six years ago.

There were no children to comfort him. The cancer that finally killed his wife didn't do it all at once. It took her in pieces. Her ovaries and uterus went first. Then the rogue cells invaded her bones and finally lodged in her brain. Bone marrow was ablated and replaced with cells mercilessly purged of their malignant brethren in one of Sloan-Kettering's pristine laboratories. None of it had done anything but prolong and intensify her suffering. Drymore's painful loneliness was made worse by guilt, because he knew his wife had held on, endured all that was being done to her, for him.

But guilt came easily to Drymore who was born into a family of clergymen and educated to the cloth. He'd always done what was expected and done it well, but without passion. It was as if he was a sleepwalker, following a path others had set out for him. Despite this obvious lack of commitment, the young Drymore's heritage, grades and charm got him into Dartmouth, through an Episcopal Seminary and then to the University of Chicago Divinity School.

But the University of Chicago was rich in science and there Drymore learned about evolution. An opportunity to study at the University of Cambridge, where Charles Darwin had flirted with the ministry but married science instead, came quite serendipitously and Drymore grabbed it.

It was there he met Georgina. The bright and pretty Georgina whom Drymore loved at once and beyond anything he'd ever experienced before. And so he came back from two years at Cambridge with a wife, the youngest and cherished daughter of one of the university Dons. It was a good match and filled a void that Drymore hadn't even known was there until Georgina came into his life. Thus, to the great relief of his family, Drymore settled down to a more conventional life.

4.3

Drymore was very pale and uncomfortable; this was clearly an entirely new experience for the priest. The formality of his reception and the bleak interview room made it clear that this wasn't a social call.

Dawgleash could understand why Millicent was so sure that Drymore was innocent. He had a good face; not a traditionally handsome face, but one that revealed a guileless vulnerability. And he had, finally, come forth of his own volition. That should stand for something.

Tooney began without preamble: "You told Detective Botuky that you'd knocked a woman, Millicent Stanhope in fact, down on 50^th Street at a little after seven in the evening this past Thursday, December 2^nd. On that night, two people were brutally murdered in Peter Detmold park. Please tell us what you were doing there."

Drymore's hands were clasped together so tightly on the table that his veins stood out and the knuckles were so white they glistened blue under the taut skin. "Yes. I didn't know the woman's name, but I did knock someone down that evening. I hope she's all right, she said she wasn't hurt."

"Why didn't you come forward earlier?"

"I kept hoping this moment wouldn't happen. And then I saw the woman I'd run down in church this morning and there was no choice. It wasn't a bad dream, I kept hoping it was and that I'd wake up. But it was real after all and I had to go to the police and take whatever consequences would come."

"What were you doing in the park that night?"

"Nothing illegal but something I don't want anyone to know; not then, not now. That's why I rode away as quickly as I could."

"Then you saw the fire?"

"Yes, but I didn't know if it was deliberate. At the worse I thought it was mischief makers causing trouble. It is a public park after all. And with all the apartments above I was certain the authorities would be notified quickly."

"But you must have heard about Hartig's murder on the news that night or in the papers the next day. Didn't you realize that you had evidence that could help the police? That you had a duty to come forward?"

"Yes. I knew. But I also knew I had nothing to do with the murder. I tried to tell myself that coming forward would only complicate the investigation, confuse things and cause embarrassment to myself and to others. But everything changed when I heard that Miriam was dead. I had nothing to do with either death, but I was there to meet Miriam."

"And did you meet her?"

"No. She never came. We arranged the meeting for six, but six-thirty was the earliest I could manage. I waited until almost seven, it was getting very dark. I decided that she wasn't coming or had come earlier and didn't wait. I went up the stairs and was unlocking my bicycle from the fence when I saw fire. I left as quickly as I could; much too fast in fact, which is why I knocked poor Ms. Stanhope down."

"What was your relationship with Miriam Goldman?"

"Lovers, I'm ashamed to say. Briefly. But I didn't love her and couldn't ever love her. I wanted to break it off but Miriam begged me to see her one last time. She had something important to tell me. Frankly I was embarrassed by the whole situation" "But there isn't anything against the law in an innocent affair or breaking it off, that happens every day," said Tooney.

"But what is allowed by the law is not allowed by the Lord," replied Drymore. "And it is the Lord to whom I must answer."

"But the lord is not unforgiving," said Dingwall who had just come into the room.

"The relationship should never have begun. But I was, am, lonely. When Miriam asked to meet one last time I felt obliged to agree. We arranged to see each other at the 51^st Club, as usual."

"What exactly is the 51^st Club?"

"Simply sex. We meet in the sub-basement of 455 East 51^st Street. The meetings are arranged on the internet by a man called Hughes, he lives there. It's very secret, I found out about Hughes from Miriam. We're carefully selected and pay a fee, a large fee, and get a key to the shed by the side of the dog park. It has its own little path and its own lock at the front gate. Once inside we go through a panel in the back into a maze of rooms. Our keys open one or another of those rooms, depending upon which one the man called Hughes decides to give us for the evening."

Drymore fished in his pocket and pulled out a little silver bone with "The 51^st Club" engraved on one side and a key attached and put it on the table.

"How did Miriam Goldman become a member?"

"It wasn't through me. I don't know. No one knows except the person who first brought her in. That's what I've been trying to explain. It's secret."

"And you haven't any idea who that is?"

"No."

"It seems strange that Miriam Goldman was let in. She was in her twenties, unmarried. There wasn't any need for her to have anonymous sex. Besides, Ms Goldman had her own apartment. You can hardly expect a girl so young to deal with that sort of situation. Perhaps she was seen as a risk. Maybe that's why she had to die."

"No. There was an element of risk, it added to the excitement. But it was the risk of exposure not murder. I don't think anyone ever felt at physical risk. At least I didn't. We only went there to enjoy sex."

Tooney asked why Drymore didn't meet Goldman at her apartment?

"Someone could have recognized us. But beyond that, the 51^st Club wasn't for private meetings, it was for anonymous sex. Miriam and I broke the rules. At least she did. She fell in love in love with me. The 51^st Street Club is simply for sexual relief without ties. That's what we pay for."

Dingwall asked Drymore if he'd ever seen anything beyond consenting sex. Had he seen anything at all that made him wonder if something else was going on.

"Miriam hinted that something more was happening although I can't remember ever seeing any evidence of it."

And this Dingwall perked up. "What exactly."

"She and her new stepfather didn't get along at all. Miriam said that he was involved in some sort of child slavery ring; buying young girls from Africa and selling them around the world for whatever purposes the buyers wanted. I was convinced that Miriam was making it all up. But she said that Irwin Cohen believed her and was blackmailing Girmente which is why he ended up in jail."

"Do you think she was bringing you proof tonight?"

Drymore looked startled. This put a whole new light on his relationship with Miriam. Perhaps she saw him as someone with enough authority to bring her stepfather and those who did his bidding to justice. Certainly he would be more believable than she.

"Will you work with us," asked Dingwall. "Will you go back through the shed into the labyrinth under 455 East 51^st Street and point out anything that Ms. Goldman may have told you whilst there?"

"Without hesitation," said Drymore. "I didn't kill Miriam but I am responsible for her death. If she hadn't tried to meet me she'd be alive today. Maybe we can salvage some good out of what's happened."

"But first," said Tooney, "let's get Hughes somewhere safe." Dawglesh nodded in agreement and led the way out.

4.4

The line of police cars traveled quickly and deliberately up the East Side Drive, exiting at 42^nd Street, just to the south of the United Nations. The caravan turned north on First Avenue and snaked its way the few blocks uptown to Beekman Place, turning east at its southern most end and finally stopping at 51^st Street next to a series of police cars and a number of waiting uniformed officers from the 17^th Precinct.

Dawgleash and Tooney got out of the first car and went quickly into the lobby of 455 East 51^st Street where Detective Botuky was talking with the doorman and building manager. Dingwall, Drymore, King and his handler got out of the second car and proceeded down the steps into Peter Detmold Park.

Tooney asked that they be taken up to Francis Hughes' apartment and cautioned the doorman to keep their presence as quiet as possible. When the police arrived at Hughes' apartment they could hear a low whimpering coming from inside. Dawgleash's ears perked up immediately, there was a dog in there. A sad and frightened dog. Tooney took the key from the superintendent and instructed him to stand aside as she, firearm out, slowly opened the door. A Bearded Collie looked back at them, head low and tail between her legs.

Dawgleash assured the terrified dog that no harm was meant. The dog turned slowly and beckoned them to follow. The body of her human lay on the floor of the bedroom. Tooney ran over and felt for a pulse. There was none. Botuky called for an ambulance and Tooney called Dr. Saks asking if she could come right over.

Saks sounded relieved when she heard Tooney's voice. She'd been trying to contact her with urgent news — mitochondrial DNA analysis of material under Miriam Goldman's fingernails implicated the mother, Harriet Marberry Goldman-Girmente in the murder. Saks said she'd be there within the hour and please let no one, not even the paramedics, move Hughes' body before she arrived. "I want this evidence as intact as possible," said Saks.

Dawgleash and Tooney left detectives from the 17^th Precinct in the apartment and went down into the park below to fill Dingwall in on what had happened. The Bearded Collie came with them, tail still between her legs and sticking as close to Dawgleash as a dog possibly could. They found Dingwall in the sub-basement and asked him to step outside for a moment. The whole group left with evident relief. "How," wondered Dingwall, "could anyone have ever had sex in that awful place?"

Dingwall, Dawgleash and Tooney separated from the group and went to a quiet corner of the park. King and her handler took the Bearded Collie to a fountain and gave her a much needed drink of water and some biscuits which she ate hungrily. Drymore sat quietly by himself on a bench looking out at the water. The river was very beautiful in the fading light.

Tooney told Dingwall that that mitochondrial DNA analysis implicated Miriam Goldman's mother in her murder. "What exactly are mitochondria?" she asked.

"Mitochondria," answered Dingwall enthusiastically, "are descendents of free-living bacteria that were engulfed by larger cells about two billion years ago. The bigger cells were probably trying to eat the mitochondrial ancestors but the bacteria found a good home with plenty of food and stayed on as symbionts. In any case, the union proved useful for both parties and lay the foundation for all complex cells including our own."

Drymore, hearing a conversation about science, came nearer and asked Dingwall if their descendants were still in us.

"Yes indeed, said Dingwall, "anywhere between two-hundred and thousands of mitochondria live within each of our cells. The mitochondria have their own bacteria-like genomes and replicate separately from the host cell. Somewhere along the way it seems, mitochondrial ancestors, an ancient species of alphaproteobacteria, transferred most of their genes to the host chromosomes and now depend on nuclear genes for most of their protein synthesis. In return they make a chemical called adenosine triphosphate — ATP for short — which is used to power all the work in our bodies from muscle contraction to protein synthesis. We really do need them."

"What do they look like," asked Drymore fascinated.

"They vary from small, spherical particles to long, interconnected filaments and move around a lot along track inside the cell's cytoplasm. Scientists are really interested in mitochondrial dynamics not only because they're fascinating but also because mitochondrial dynamics play an important role in well being."

Tooney interrupted, "But Colin, how exactly is mitochondrial DNA used forensically?"

"Unlike nuclear DNA which is passed along to the child by both mother and father, mitochondrial DNA is almost always transmitted only from the mother. There are huge numbers of mitochondria in the egg whereas the handful in sperm is marked for destruction once the egg is fertilized. Mitochondrial inheritance makes it possible to link great grandmother and grandmother to grandchildren, even in the absence of the mother. For example, mitochondrial DNA analysis was crucial in identifying children of the Desaparacidos in Argentina during a particularly brutal period when thousands of people were killed for political reasons. Parents simply disappeared and their children taken away and adopted by military families. Mitochondrial DNA showed to whom those children really belonged."

"How is it done?"

"Mitochondrial DNA is circular, not paired like the DNA in the host cell's nucleus. And, unlike nuclear DNA, mitochondrial DNA is passed along virtually unchanged from one generation to the next. In contrast, paired DNA splits and some from the mother and the father goes into a new baby. That's a good thing; genetic diversity promotes survival of a species. If all members of a group are genetically identical, one catastrophe could wipe everyone out. Even bacteria routinely exchange genetic material and acquire genes floating about in the environment to keep their lineage strong. It's called lateral DNA transfer. However, mitochondria are symbionts, they live and die with us. They don't need to be genetically complex. The simplicity of mitochondrial DNA makes it easier to work with than nuclear DNA."

Tooney, getting impatient, said "Colin, get on with it. How does mitochondrial DNA analysis work?"

"O.K. my lovely. This is how we lab rats do it. First we isolate the closed circular mitochondrial DNA from a crime scene sample you folks bring us and then amplify it with PCR.¹ The amplified mitochondrial DNA is sequenced with a device called a genetic analyzer; it's pretty routine, really a no brainer. The human mitochondrial genome was completely described in 1981 so we know exactly what we're looking at. We simply compare the suspect DNA specimens —in this case Miriam Goldman's and her mother's— looking for common sequences. If there are two or more differences, then we can say with certainty that the people from whom they came are not related. However, if they are 'concordant,' in other words, very similar, the probability is that the people are related."

Drymore asked where it all began. "Where did the mother cell, the one that eventually led to us come from?"

"A lot of people are studying this right now and it isn't without controversy," Dingwall explained. "It used to be thought that there were only two domains of life: Prokaryotes, cells that don't have a nuclei enclosing their DNA, and those with nuclear membranes or Eukaryotes. Now we know that lumping cells without enclosed nuclei —bacteria and archaea— together is incorrect. And while the presence of both an enclosed nucleus and mitochondria certainly distinguish eukaryotes from both bacteria and archaea, it appears that eukaryotes and archaea are more closely related to one another than either are to bacteria."²

"But mitochondria are definitely bacterial in origin and the nucleus is not," continued Dingwall. "That's why some scientists think that eukaryotic cells were there from the beginning, feeding as unicellular 'raptors.' If early earth was ever a Garden of Eden it probably didn't stay that way very long. Some of the original organisms probably evolved a to engulf and eat their neighbors. Eating others is a hallmark of eukaryotic cells —our own macrophages are a good example of this— but this barbaric practice is quite unknown among bacteria and archaea. These early eukaryotic raptors may have driven their own competitive evolution by becoming hosts for mitochondrial endosymbionts. The more efficient cells, those that thrived by eating their mates, may have driven the gentler descendants of their common ancestors out of business. I'm certainly not alone in this view, but genomics and proteomics will eventually reveal the correct evolutionary pathways."

"Colin, could you say that in English please," asked Tooney.

"O.k. my love. Once upon a time when the earth was very young, eukaryotic raptors gobble up the bacterial ancestors of mitochondria. But some of the little bacteria made the best of what many would consider a very bad situation and took up residence inside the predators. Then the mitochondria shoved all their extra genes onto the nuclear chromosomes and got the host to make proteins for them. Today the cunning little mitochondria make all our energy and decide how we live and when we die. They are awesome."

Drymore asked, "how would mitochondria have made cellular raptors more efficient?"

"Probably because they enabled the host cells to thrive in oxygen-rich environments. Early earth was anaerobic, what we'd now consider hellish but undoubtedly a paradise for its early inhabitants. They'd evolved in fire and brimstone. Oxygen was a pollutant, a byproduct of microbial respiration. Most early microbes weren't prepared for it. But those that could adapt, either by modifying parts of their own metabolic machinery or forming symbiotic associations with cells that had, gained a super-charged respiratory pathway and decided survival advantage in the face of an oxygen catastrophe."

"Is it possible to go back even further? Could any of the original life have come from the heavens? I've read," said Drymore, "that about 40,000 tons of extraterrestrial matter falls to earth every year. Could cosmic dust have carried DNA-containing spores here?"

"Some people, even extraordinary people like Francis Crick, believe that at least some of the earth's original life landed here from elsewhere in the universe. It's called panspermia."

But at that moment, one of John Botuky's detectives came down the stairs and over to the group who were so engrossed in conversation that they didn't her until she was almost standing beside them.

"Dr. Saks is here and would like a word with Dawgleash."

Tooney and Dawgleash, more interested in the murder's identity than the origin of life on earth, went back up to Hughes' apartment. Dr. Saks has already begun to examine the body. She looked up and said that SNP -single nucleotide polymorphism-- analysis of the mitochondrial DNA in the samples under Miriam Goldman's fingernails implicate her mother as the murderer. Of course her grandmother could be the murderer but she's long dead, we checked, and there isn't a sibling to investigate.

"The testing took a little longer then usual," she said, "because there was some heteroplasmy involved; the mother's cells had more than one mitochondrial type, which occasionally happens. About one in ten-thousand times the sperm head stays in contact with the ovum long enough for the father's mitochondrion to get passed along to the child and not, miraculously, be deleted once it's in the egg. We always look for more than one mitochondrial type now because it's too easy to make a mistaken mismatch call when a second mitochondrion is involved. In this case, one of the two mitochondrial types in the sample under Miriam's fingernails matched her own and probably came from the mother. We also checked the Goldman mitochondrial DNA against the profiles stored in the New York State DNA database as well as CODIS and they popped up in CODIS.³ We're checking Interpol's DNA databases now. Fortunately, Dingwall is here because mention of his name put us at the top of their priority list."

"Do we have enough evidence to pick up Mrs. Girmente?"

"I'd say yes. And do it as quickly as possible. Detective Botuky can stay with me until DNA specialists from the crime lab get here."

4.5

Mrs. Goldman-Girmente's hair was freshly done in that special shade of very pale champagne blond held a tight secret by Bergdorf's salon staff. It's a color that serves as a discreet mark of wealth and belonging to that special set of wealthy New Yorkers who recognize it. Once in the police car with Dawgleash and Tooney she responded to the news of Hughes's death with no more emotion than a brief smile. Nothing more was said on the journey downtown.

Once in a proper interview room with Brandtly present and the recording devices turned on, Tooney said they knew about the 51^st Club and asked how it got started.

"Miriam's birth father and I set it up about a decade ago. The club was his idea. People, he said, are motivated by money, power and sex. Power and money are easier to get than safe anonymous sex. And powerful, successful people need sex. They need it regularly and like variety. If someone buys sex, there's a chance of blackmail or seeing one's name and picture in the daily papers. Worse yet it risks an expensive divorce from an angry embarrassed spouse. Of course you can always sleep around with the husbands or wives of friends but emotional complications invariably result. Miriam's father said that what powerful people need is guilt-free, complication-free sex with people who enjoy the activity as much as they do and have as much to lose. Mostly they're people in marriages they value but who are bored and need something extra, something with a bit of an edge and slight, but not real, risk."

"We'd known Francis Hughes for a while and he told us about the perfect place for a sex club, the labyrinth of corridors and rooms under his building. We also had the original architect's plans. PJ Hartig was one of our first members and he'd gotten a set as background material for the book he was planning to write. Hartig and Hughes could get into the sub-basement from within the building, all other members had to go through the shed adjacent to the dog park. We didn't want unfamiliar faces turning up inside and arousing suspicions."

"Hartig wasn't married or in a particularly vulnerable position, why use the club?"

"PJ viewed sex as a necessary evil to get done with as easily and quickly as possible and the club suited his needs. He didn't want to get emotionally involved. One failed marriage was enough for him."

"How long was your daughter a member of this club."

"I didn't even know she belonged until about a month ago when Norman and I discovered Miriam was blackmailing us through someone called Irwin Cohen, an absolutely dreadful little man. As I've said before, that's how the club was run, secretly, from a secure website where members can check available dates and willing partners. It's no use asking for a list of members. There isn't a list. Total secrecy is the point. People were given fancy silver key chains once they'd paid. The locks were changed periodically and new keys issued."

"But how did you find out about the club? It certainly wasn't from Francis Hughes."

"From another member, one who had a relationship with Miriam."

No one spoke for a while and the quiet seem more alarming to Mrs. Marberry-Goldman-Girmente than the questioning. She suddenly blurted out, "You're police after all, not clergy. What's the big problem here? People getting together for consensual sex happens all the time. It isn't illegal. Child pornography is against the law and that's all over the internet. Our apartment gets robbed at least once a year and no one ever gets caught. What's really going on?"

"What's really going on, in case you haven't noticed," said Brandtly in a low menacing voice, "is that two people have been brutally murdered and one of them, your daughter, had your DNA under her fingernails. We want to know how it got there and until you can prove otherwise, you're under suspicion of murder. Would someone please read this woman her rights."

4.6

King and his handler wondered if the Bearded Collie stay could stay with Ruffian and Sarah at least for the night; King, of course, was overjoyed at the prospect of seeing Sarah again. Dingwall phoned ahead to see if they were home. They were there for the evening and would be delighted to take care of the traumatized dog for as long as it was needed.

"We have plenty of room and Millicent had brought over a casserole of meat bits and brown rice for Sarah just yesterday," said Ruffean. "Sarah would be happy to share it. In fact, I'll would call and see if Millicent and Barkley would like to join us. We'll make a party of it."

As they got to 50^th Street, the kitchen door opened and Ruffian and Sarah were both standing there with welcoming smiles and wags. A wonderful smell of food warming drifted out on to the street. A half an hour later, Millicent and Barkley came over with a big box of homemade dog biscuits and an apple pie right out of the oven.

The prospect of food, as good as it smelled, didn't interest Millicent at first, but the tea and pie tasted better than she'd expected. Nonetheless, she was too restless and exhausted to be a good guest and Millicent excused herself early. Drymore said he too was ready to leave and asked Millicent if he could walk her and Barkley the short distance back to their house. On the way he apologized for knocking her over that dreadful night and asked if she would go to dinner with him the next week so he could explain why it had happened. She was delighted at the prospect and said so.

Millicent walked inside with a smile on her face, the first in almost a week. Then the phone startled her. It was Detective Tooney, she and Dawgleash would like to stop by on their way home. They were just leaving One Police Plaza.

As she hung up, Millicent heard an unearthly screaming coming from the back garden. It was Barkley! She grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen drawer and made for the back door. Barkley had gone through his own little door and was out there all alone. But he wasn't alone. Someone had hung him from the peach tree and he was swinging as he screamed. Instinctively Millicent ran and reached up to get Barkley down but he was too high. She ran back into the house and grabbed a chair and a knife and was back under the tree in seconds.

The best way to free the hysterical dog was to lift his front paws onto the closest branch and saw away at the nylon leash holding him from underneath. It took about five minutes but at last the leash broke and Millicent gently took Barkley in her arms and murmuring reassurances walked back into the house to wait for Dawgleash.

She staggered into the kitchen still carrying Barkley and put him gently onto his cushion by the stove and began to cut off the remains of the leash that had bound him to the tree. And then, too late, she heard footsteps coming across the hall and into the room. She half turned when a heavy iron bar came crashing down on her head and fell to the floor. Millicent looked into the assailant's face without surprise and then saw nothing more as consciousness faded away. "What would happen to Barkley," she thought? She hoped he was hiding, safe. Ruffian would take care of him. Perhaps he could move in with Dawgleash. She hoped there was a God and wished she'd asked more of life.

4.7

Tooney phoned for an ambulance while Drymore knelt by Millicent's body with his fingers on her left wrist feeling for a pulse. There was none. He bent down, cleared her airway and then put his mouth over hers and began resuscitation. Drymore looked up for a moment, took a deep breath and kept working. Then he felt a faint pulse in Millicent's neck; she began breathing, turned her head towards him and then quickly lapsed back into unconsciousness.

Then, the ambulance arrived and the paramedics, led by Ruffian who had been waiting for them in front of the house, rushed into the kitchen.

"Thank God," said Drymore, "the experts are here."

"Sorry we're a little late, there's been some sort of accident near First Avenue. The police are there and it was difficult getting through."

Tooney and Dawgleash looked at one another, but Millicent was still in danger. They'd find out what had happened on the street after she'd been safely taken to the hospital and watched as Millicent, wrapped in blankets and strapped to a stretcher, was loaded onto the ambulance. Drymore was by her side.

Ruffian said he'd lock up and tend to Barkley who was lying on the couch in an obvious state of shock. The detectives agreed that they should go up to the 17^th Precinct and make a full report on Millicent's attack. Everything else could wait until morning.

4.8

Phoebe Figophilus was being held in a section designed for "patients of special interest," a secure set of rooms down a long, windowless corridor behind a set of double-locked doors. Dawgleash and Tooney knew immediately which was the right room by the two police officers stationed in front. The detectives showed their shields and went inside.

Figophilus was sitting in a chair by the bed; a plaster cast on her left leg was the only sign of injury. She was wearing a cheerful hospital gown and her face was very pale but calm. Her hair had been carefully brushed and she stared at the detectives without a trace of fear. Tooney asked how she was.

"Still alive, as you can see."

"Can you tell us what happened in the Peter Detmold dog run last Thursday evening?"

"I've written it all down. I assume you already have a copy of my confession, but I'll tell you again if you want."

Her description of the crime was comprehensive and factual, there was no remorse. It was pure happenchance. She hated PJ Hartig because he was a key architect of the dog park closing and there he was, coming down the stairs to lock the gate. Normally this was the doorman's job, but the doorman on duty that night has an arthritic knee which makes getting up and down the stairs difficult. Hartig or another kindly tenant occasionally volunteered to lock the gates in his stead.

Figophilus, who said she'd expected the gate to be already locked, came into the park through the garage. There was Hartig right in front of her. A bucket of gasoline was within reach and the park lights were off. She waited in the darkness of the garage until Hartig reached the shed fence to make sure it was securely locked. His back was to her. Then she quietly walked out of the garage just behind him towards the main area of the dog park. Hartig heard the first gate open and could probably see the dim outline of a figure but couldn't make out the figure itself and moved closer to check.

Figophilus went in through the second gate and waited quietly. Hartig turned and she stepped forward calling his name. Surprised, but recognizing her voice, he walked towards her and got the full force of the gasoline. She smoked an occasional cigarette and always carried matches. It only took her a second or two to light a match and throw it on the gasoline-soaked Hartig. The last sound he ever heard was her voice.

The whole thing, she said, was just too easy for her to pass up. The gasoline was there. She was wearing gloves and there wouldn't be any fingerprints. The park was dark. She had the matches. Figophilus watched the fire for a brief moment, threw the empty gasoline bucket to the side and ran back into the garage, closing the door behind her. In her haste, she dropped her silver key to the shed; but didn't discover that until the next day. It didn't worry her though, there were a number of 51^st Club key chains floating around, there was no way for anyone to tie this particular one to her.

Once home she washed all her clothes in very hot water, put them up in the bathroom to dry and went out to finish her last dog walks of the day. On Friday morning Figophilus cut up the sneakers she was wearing the night of the murder and put the pieces into separate bags which she distributed widely in dumpsters and trash cans from one end of Manhattan to another.

"I know," she said "that I'll go to prison. But I was brought up in a prison, it won't be anything new to me. And I've gotten rid of Hartig. Perhaps the dog park will remain open. So why are you here Detectives? What else do you want to know?"

"It's something we have to tell you," said Tooney. "Francis Hughes was murdered last night. We know that you and he were partners but doubt that you killed him. Do you know who wanted Hughes dead?"

Figophilus had been looking at detectives with hate, contempt and then triumph. But once she heard about Hughes her face was abruptly transformed into grief and horror. Then she spoke and her voice was amazingly steady.

"What about Bonnie? What about our beautiful Bearded Collie? Where is poor Bonnie?"

Tooney said that Bonnie was staying with friends for the moment. It was expected that she and Dawgleash would have a long interview as soon as Bonnie was feeling up to it. Meanwhile she was safe and well cared for.

"Did Hughes have anything to do with Hartig's murder?"

"No," said Figophilus. "Francis hated Hartig but his main concern was the dog park closure. It would be the end of the 51^st Street Club. The shed with its private path into the sub-basement of his building was just perfect for our purposes. It was unlikely we could find anyplace else that would do."

"But who would want him dead?"

Figophilus said she wasn't certain. His relationship with Harriet Girmente was going sour, but not sour enough for murder.

"Why did you attack Millicent Stanhope tonight?"

"She was also trying to get the dog park closed. In fact, as far as I was concerned, it was more important to get rid of her than Hartig. Hartig's murder was just a fortuitous occurrence."

"But we had you under surveillance. How did you get into her back garden?"

"That was easy. The police couldn't interfere with my ability to earn a living and I walk two dogs in the building directly behind Ms. Stanhope's house, the gardens are adjacent. I simply went into the building, out through the back door and over the fence. The police were cooling their heels by the front door on 51^st Street. By the time they'd realized I'd given them the slip it was too late and they didn't know where I'd gone."

Dawglesh was appalled by the ease with which Figophilus had tricked the police assigned to watch her. Next time there'd be a dog assigned to every surveillance team, she'd make sure of that. There isn't a police dog in the world who would have let Figophilus escape. Police work was far too important to leave entirely to humans. They didn't have the nose for it.

"Then," continued Figophilus, "I simply waited in Stanhope's back garden thinking I'd get in through the window. But Barkley came through his little door and I saw my chance. I had an extra leash with me, grabbed the dog —who was a little on the porky side — and tied it around his waist. I threw the other end of the leash over a tree branch, pulled him up, tied the leash securely and stepped into the shadows waiting for Stanhope to respond to the dog's screaming. Which she did. I went into the house while she was cutting the dog free and waited. The rest you know."

"Except what happened after you'd left. How did you get yourself run over by a motorcycle?"

"Bad luck. I wasn't looking. The police I'd evaded must have called for backup because the street was filled with officers. I expect a screaming dog got some attention as well. But my main concern was getting away and I saw the motorcycle racing down the street too late, he was going much too fast. There was a split second of appalling realization and then the Harley hit me in the leg and threw me over. He, I assume the driver was a man, skidded across the road and smashed into a tree."

"It was a boy, about eighteen years old. He died instantly."

"I've complained that our streets have become speedways for years but nothing has ever been done about it. Too bad, but he shouldn't have been going so fast. My leg was useless and I couldn't run. The police held me there until an ambulance came and now I'm here."

At that moment the door opened and three officers from the Department of Corrections came in with a release. They were taking Phoebe Figophilus to Rikers Island. As the officers helped her into a wheelchair, Figophilus turned to Dawgleash, her face touched by sadness. She said, "We'll never really get to know each other will we Dawgleash? You seem like an interesting dog to know."

"No," Dawgleash thought with relief, "we won't ever get to know each other."

4.9

Millicent's head was covered in gauze but she was cheerful enough and stretched her hand out to Dawgleash and Tooney, giving both a welcoming grin.

"How nice of you both to come and visit. I was hoping you would."

"We can't stay long. How are you feeling?"

"Fine really fine. The head wound isn't as serious as it must have looked when you found me. The doctor said my heart stopped for a while, from the shock. If you all hadn't come over so quickly I'd be dead. As it was, Phoebe didn't have time to finish me off, did she? And Ruffean just called to say Barkley was feeling better, he'd bring him over this morning. I talked to Barkley over the phone and Ruffean said his little tail wagged for the first time since I was taken to the hospital."

"We've just come from interviewing Figophilus, she's on her way to Rikers Island," said Tooney, "I don't thing she'll be a danger to anyone else."

"She killed PJ Hartig, didn't she?"

"Yes. We got a full confession."

"Why did she do it?"

"Figophilus was protecting Francis Hughes, they were both involved in the running of a sex club that met in the sub-basement of 455 East 51^st Street. Closure of the dog park meant the end of the club."

"So Phoebe loved Hughes? She must have to kill for him. It must have been love."

Drymore said gently, "Probably more like an obsession which is more dangerous than love."

"Love seems almost as dangerous as obsession," said Millicent. "Too much commitment, too many demands."

"It's worth the risk," Drymore said simply, remembering his beloved Georgina.

Just then there was a knock at the door and Ruffean stuck his head in. "I've brought someone to visit," he said. With that Ruffean opened the case he was carried and Barkley jumped out and hurled himself onto Millicent's bed, his pudgy little body shaking with excitement. She assured him everything was fine, she'd be coming home soon and thanked Ruffean for taking such good care of her dog. Millicent asked after Sarah and the Bearded Collie.

"The Collie's name is Bonnie," Tooney said. "In fact, she's the dog Dr. Finch told us about last week, the one that launched Figophilus on her dog-walking career."

"Bonnie is doing well, Sarah is taking good care of her," said Ruffean. "And King," he continued giving Millicent a wink, "has been over a number of times to make sure everyone concerned is safe."

Millicent laughed, and then winced because her head still hurt. The whole neighborhood was talking about King's obvious infatuation with Sarah. It was nice to gossip again. Nice to have fat Phoebe locked up and people safe.

"But who killed Francis Hughes?"

"We don't know yet, a lot will depend on the forensics"

"Where is Colin?"

"Oh my god," said Tooney, "hasn't anyone told him what's happened?" And she dialed his cell phone immediately.

"Colin, I'm so sorry. We're at the New York Hospital. Mrs. Stanhope was attacked last night, after you'd left the Mac Lane's. It was Phoebe Figophilus. She was caught and is on her way to Riker's Island. She's also confessed to Hartig's murder. We're all here with Mrs. Stanhope who has a rather nasty head injury but will be as good as new, maybe even better, in a week or so."

"Is Father Drymore there as well?"

"Yes, I'll put him on."

"Hello Inspector, I'm so sorry not to have called you but so much has been going on. I was at the hospital all night and haven't had much sleep. But I'll come right down to the dog park and we'll take up where we left off yesterday."

"Let's meet for some breakfast first. Perhaps Detectives Dawgleash and Tooney would like to join us. How about the outdoor café on Dag Hammarskjold Plaza on 47^th Street, right in front of the Katherine Hepburn Park Garden?"

Drymore said that was a good plan. It was close to home and he'd like to stop for a shower and change clothes. He'd meet them all there in about than hour.

4.10

Miriam Goldman's death could be construed as a sexually motivated murder, they would argue that she was a member of an anonymous sex club and that her killer could easily have arrived undetected and left unseen.

Tooney said, "Do you think there's a link between Goldman's and Hughes' murder? If we can prove that Mrs. Goldman killed her daughter we may be able to prove that she killed Hughes as well."

"We know Figophilus didn't kill Hughes. She'd already confessed to Hartig's murder and the attack on Ms. Stanhope. She had little to lose by confessing to killing Hughes if she'd done it," said Dingwall.

"Besides, added Tooney, "Figophilus would never have left the dog alone in the apartment."

Dawgleash couldn't agree more. Figophilus could kill humans without remorse, but put a dog's life in danger, never.

"But what about Barkley, she hung him from a tree?"

"Barkley's life was never in any danger Colin," answered Tooney. "Figophilus knew Millicent would get him down quickly and if Millicent hadn't she'd rescue him herself."

"Odd thing though Diane, Hartig belonging to the 51^st Club yet was still so adamant about getting the dog park closed."

"It's probably nothing. Hartig was working downtown when he was involved in the sex club and wouldn't have noticed the noise in the dog park. By the time he began working at home, Hartig was far more concerned about finishing his book before the cancer got him than he was with sex. He no longer needed the club and the noise and smell were a bother. They seem like a cold lot, not a teaspoon of caring in the whole bunch. But that was the point after all, nothing more involved than physical sex."

"So you don't think Hartig's betrayal of the club had anything at all to do with him getting killed?"

"We're keeping all options open but it doesn't seem that relevant. Figophilus murdered Hartig on a whim; she doesn't seem rational enough to kill with a great deal of planning. Even her attack on Millicent was a last-minute thing."

With that Dingwall said that he and Father Drymore still had a lot of work to do. "We should get back into the sex dungeon. Intelligence alone won't cut it, we'll need evidence."

Tooney picked up the check, it would be a department expense, and told the group that she and Dawgleash were going upstate to visit Irwin Cohen in his white collar prison. They'd stay in touch by phone.

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