Without Mercy

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It was night, and the street was cluttered with patrol cars and vehicles from the medical examiner’s office, the photo and fingerprint units, and the press. Detective First Grade Danny Rackman drove up as close as he could, parking his unmarked, green Plymouth beneath a street lamp. He was the duty homicide detective and had received the call while doing paperwork in his office at Midtown North. A girl had been found with her throat slashed in an alley on Forty-Fifth Street between Ninth and Tenth Avenues, not far from Times Square.

Rackman got out of his car and strode toward the alley. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and wore a black turtleneck sweater under a brown leather safari jacket. His straight, black hair was parted on the side, and he had a nose like a hawk. At the entrance to the alley a cordon of cops kept back neighborhood people, their coats thrown hastily over their pajamas. Rackman walked past them, some reporters, and swarms of other cops. A searchlight shone into the alley, and halfway down was a crumpled figure soaking in a puddle of blood. A few feet behind her were four overflowing garbage cans that stank of rotten meat.

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