Transfer List: Getting to Know All About You
May 21st
SVU Squad Room
“Anything else you want to see?”
Judith Otten finished pouring her cup of coffee. She raised the pot, but Fin declined with a shake of his head.
“No, I think we saw it all. I’m surprised we had the time to be so thorough.”
Fin shrugged. “Most shifts aren’t this quiet. Enjoy it while you can.”
“I will.”
She carried her mug to her new desk and set it by the cardboard box. Fin stood by her and chatted with her while she opened the box and began to stock her desk with personal items-Staedtler mechanical pencils, an art gum eraser molded into a perfect square, a handful of wedge-shaped barrettes-all put into the center drawer. Next came a small, unsigned watercolor of a narrow three-story townhouse with flower boxes at every window, red geraniums bright against pale gray paint.
“That’s not a New York scene.”
“No, that is my grandparents’ house in Basel. I spent my first five years there.”
“How did you end up in New York?”
“It’s a long story.”
Fin pulled out Couch’s desk chair and made himself comfortable.
“I’ve seen your family photos. The story behind them has to be good.”
She laughed, a throaty chuckle with more self-consciousness than humor.
“Okay; I’ll give you the condensed version. My mother is Swiss; this watercolor is her work. My father is a professor; his field is the early Renaissance. They met while he was in Basel doing research for his dissertation. We moved to New York when my father gained tenure at Hudson.
“While I was growing up, they were very involved in their careers and various important causes so I spent a lot of time with my aunt Deborah and my uncle Bob. He was a desk sergeant at the Six-Five. When I was deciding what to do with my life, I let Uncle Bob influence me more than my parents. I took the police exam, made it into the Academy, met David, and married him after our rookie year. After that, my life was very normal.”
Fin leaned over and took a second picture frame from the box on her desk. It showed two boys in their early teens, both dark-skinned with thick curly hair and broad noses. They wore kippah and black suits with white prayer shawls covering their shoulders. They were flanked by a thin man with a long narrow face and a younger version of Det. Otten; both adults wore proud smiles.
“Okay, so we adopted our kids. Aside from that, life has been normal.”
She took the photo from him and set it on the desk by the watercolor.
“Any other questions?”
“Sure-tell me about your children.”
The request came from Olivia, who had returned and parked herself on the corner of Couch’s desk.
Otten pointed to the boy standing near her in the photo. “Dante is at the Six-Five, his great-uncle’s old precinct. His wife Janet is an ER nurse at Maimonides. They have two girls, Cara is four and Nila six.”
Her finger moved to the other boy. “Derek and his wife have a son, Aaron, who is almost two. I’m afraid David and I failed with Derek-both he and Cammie are public defenders.”
Otten raised her hands in a helpless shrug while Fin and Olivia chuckled.
“What can I say?”
Fin turned to Olivia. “You find out anything new?”
“Yes, there’s a link for the three victims. They all often ate lunch at a café in the East Village. Elliot’s talking to Cragen about OT so we can visit the café tomorrow after shift change.”
“Fin filled me in on the open cases. He said that you had been beating your heads against this one.”
Olivia slapped her hand on Fin’s desk. “I hate it when leads go nowhere. Maybe this will break our way this time.”
The door to Cragen’s office opened and Elliot came out.
“Cragen told us to go home for eight, then work the café lead. No OT until something pans out.”
“Damn.” Olivia slid off Fin’s desk and headed for her locker. “You want to drop me and pick me up?”
While the two partners made their arrangements, Otten turned her attention back to Fin.
“You didn’t mention Jake Reynolds during the case review. Is he still a suspect?”
Fin’s lip curled into a sneer.
“Hell, yeah-but only where I’m concerned. All I got is gut feelin’ and one incident with the neighbor girl-Sumana?”
Otten nodded. “But you said Jake only patted her on the head. That doesn’t seem very threatening.”
“She was the only dark-skinned girl in the group. It was all I got for a week watching him at home and at work-nothing I could take to our ADA. Cap’n finally pulled me and John. The case’ll go cold while Reynolds goes after Sumana or some other little girl.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yeah.”
Otten leaned forward, her elbows on the desktop.
“If Reynolds were interested in Sumana, he would entice her with toys, candy, things that make him attractive to a second-grader. We could ask her parents if she has received any presents from anyone or has anything in her possession that they didn’t give her. Jui and Mandar would look if I asked them. Would your ADA be willing to get a search warrant based on what they might find?”
Fin thought it through.
“That’s weak, Judith. Even if she had stuff from Reynolds, we’d have to tie it to him before we could search his place.”
Otten rested her head on her hands and sighed. “It was a thought.”
Fin stood up.
“It’s enough to run past the Cap’n. If he okays it, we’ll try it tomorrow. You got any more of those cranberry muffins at your house?”
Before she could answer, the outer doors swung open. A muscular man in his early thirties with his arms cuffed behind him came into the squad room with Sofarelli guiding him. Behind him came Munch at full tilt, a wide grin on his face.
“Couch, why don’t you walk our guest past our lolly-gagging partners and park him in our lovely Interrogation Room? I’ll let Captain Cragen know that we’re here.”
Sofarelli threaded the suspect through the desks. As he slipped passed Otten’s chair, he whispered, “He’s proving Anders’ point.”
“Anders’ point?” Fin asked.
Otten answered, “Couch said earlier that his Lieutenant over in Robbery warned him away from Homicide-seems we’re all monomaniacal and weird.”
“Fits John to a T. Looks like the fun’s about to start.”
Munch breezed out of Cragen’s office and went to the Interrogation room’s door.
“This one’s a slam-dunk, Fin. I’ll have it wrapped in a bow before Casey gets here.”
May 21st
SVU Interrogation Room
“Okay, Darrell-tell us again how video of you and Yvonne White on her apartment’s fire escape ended up on your computer screen.”
Darrell Snodgrass sat staring at the legal pad on the table top before him. His posture gave the people gathered outside a good view of his short brown hair. They also had a good view of Munch, who stood to the left of his suspect, and Couch, who was observing from a chair opposite Snodgrass.
“I dunno. Maybe it’s spam from the Internet.”
Munch turned his face toward the ceiling and sighed loudly.
“Do you really expect me to believe that there are ateliers filled with computer-savvy Nigerians Photoshopping you and the woman who’s just blown you? Forget it, Snodgrass-you’re the only one responsible for these masterpieces.”
He scattered a sheaf of laser-printed photos on the table. They showed Darrell standing before a kneeling Yvonne White, Darrell with his hands around her throat, Darrell lifting Yvonne in his arms, Darrell holding her upside-down over the railing, and Darrell grinning at the camera with Yvonne’s feet barely visible in the bottom of the photo.
“You dashed home right after Yvonne went “splat” and captured these for posterity. A true artist takes credit for his work. This is your work, Darrell-isn’t it?”
Munch plucked the last photo from the table and thrust it right into Darrell’s face. Snodgrass leaned away from it. His eyes went wide, then he slumped, face almost touching the legal pad.
“Yeah, it’s mine. I did it.”
Munch picked up a pen, handed it to Darrell so he could write out his statement, then waved Couch to follow him from the room. After the door closed behind them, he allowed himself a triumphant smirk.
Okay, Brooklyn-let’s see you match that!
Aloud he said, “And that, boys and girl, is how it’s done. Anyone mind if I dump the paperwork on Couch and head home for some well-deserved rest?”
Cragen checked his watch. “No problem, John-as soon as Mr. Snodgrass is finished with his statement and processed for arraignment. Given that there’s just over an hour left to the shift….”
He let the sentence hang unfinished. Munch turned to Sofarelli.
“Couch, note how true genius is valued around here. We close this case in record time….”
The rant faded as the two of them headed back into Interrogation.
Fin and Otten remained at the one-way glass.
“He’s good,” she said to Fin.
“Yeah, but don’t tell him that. He’ll be insufferable for days.”
“Should I tell him that it’s nice not to be the oldest one on the team?”
“That’d go wrong, too. Best you don’t mention age, marriage, divorce, Baltimore, the JFK assassination, the IRS, UFOs-hell, don’t say the word “conspiracy” at all-and especially don’t mention ex-wives.”
“Sounds like he’s a joy to work with.”
Fin turned to lean against the one-way glass.
“We had a case right after I got here. Cop’s daughter caught up in a sex and drugs ring. Lawyer had some info we needed in a hurry, so I flashed him a business card I’d used undercover for Narcotics and paid him for an hour’s time.
“I figured John’d be cool and follow my lead and he did-even when the lawyer asked why he was there and I called him ‘my Jew.’”
Otten interrupted, “The perfect accessory for the fashionable dealer?”
“Beat tellin’ him John’s rank and pay grade. I got the name we needed and we got out of there. John starts bitching at me about not warning him and calling him “my Jew” and I blow it off. When we get back to the car, John gets in the back seat. He’s just siting there, leaning back with his arm resting on the window ledge. I open the driver’s door to see what’s up and he starts whistling the theme song from ‘Driving Miss Daisy.’”
He folded his arms and waited for her reaction.
You gonna refuse to laugh because it might offend a black man? You gonna go all righteous over my partner’s ‘racial bias’? You gonna get offended because I said ‘Jew’?
Otten stared at him for a moment then made a strangled squeak. Her lips twisted and tightened in a struggle to keep her reaction limited to that squeak. She lasted three seconds by Fin’s count before a hearty guffaw echoed from her through the squad room.
“Yeah, it was kinda funny.”
“Funny? That was damn clever. You can have him-he sounds too intelligent for me.”
“I wasn’t offering to trade. You back under control? We ought to see Cap’n before he gets tied up with Casey and arraigning Snodgrass.”
Otten drew in a deep breath. “I must have needed a good laugh.”
“Enjoy it. They’re precious few around here.”
Shift change
SVU Squad Room
Fin shrugged into his leather jacket.
“Hey, Fin,” John called from the door to Cragen’s office, “where’d Couch disappear to?”
“Gone,” Fin said without turning around. “He and Judith went for a beer.”
“Bonding already? Good. The sooner they’re on their own, the sooner we can get back to….”
Fin turned to see Munch halted by Otten’s desk, his attention riveted on her desk pictures.
“Fin, what do you know about this?” He pointed at the framed pictures.
“That’s where Judith grew up. Her mom painted it. The photo’s her family.”
Munch greeted the info with a nod.
“Interesting. See you in sixteen, Fin.”
He was out the door before Fin could ask why it interested his partner.
May 22
803 W 183rd St
Residence of John Munch
Keys, coat, cell phone, holster and gun-a place for everything because his place was too small for anything to be out of place. Freed from the trappings of his job, John stopped halfway between kitchen and bookcase, deciding between a light midnight supper and his need to verify a suspicion.
Suspicion won. He pulled from his bookcase a folio titled “Marguerite Geistner: Collected Works”-his second copy, the first having vanished with most of his other possessions when Nancy had packed and left him. He sat down, feet propped on the low table before his chair, opened the oversized book to the biographical section and skimmed until he found the paragraph that he sought.
Geistner and Aaron Fogel had one child, Judith, born in Basel in 1950. Mother and child lived with Geistner’s parents until 1956, when Fogel was granted tenure at Hudson University in New York City. During this time, Geistner produced her Ursprung, Geschichte, and Alpen series, the watercolors that brought her international attention.
He flipped the pages to Geistner’s Ursprung series, a set of paintings depicting the birthplaces of famous Europeans. It had been the artist’s conceit to include herself, a foreshadowing of her future fame.
Here we are: Ursprung-Geistner. I thought so.
The watercolor reproduced in the book was identical to the one on Otten’s desk, except that the photo showed the work’s title hand-lettered under the body of the watercolor and a scrawled “M. Geistner” at the extreme lower right-hand corner. The caption for the photo read “Courtesy J. Fogel”
Otten had it matted to cover the title and signature. Why would she do that?
He turned the page. The text wrapped around several photos of Geistner and her family: two adults and a tow-headed grade-schooler in a pink bathing suit at Coney Island, Dr. Fogel in a book-strewn office, Geistner in her studio reviewing sketches, and one that made Munch laugh out loud-a teen-aged Judith Otten and her parents sandwiched between two Black activists clothed in black leather pants and wool turtlenecks, their carefully unkempt Afros forming an arch over the distinctly sullen girl.
The caption read “Fund-raiser for the Back Panthers attended by the Fogels, 1966.”
I’ll bet she’d pay good money to keep this off the squad’s bulletin board.
He then flipped to his favorite Geistner work, her Geschichte: Der Gefangene von Chillon. The sight of it took him back to high school and Mr. Barton’s Art Appreciation, a class reputed to overflow with girls desperate for the company of art-loving males. He had slouched low in his desk, long legs angled into the aisle, listening to Barton drone on while waiting for the girls seated around him to be awed by his presence.
“We’ll now compare two renditions of the same scene. The first is a tinted print from the 1800s of Chillon Castle, a 13th-century castle near Lake Geneva, Switzerland. Nice work, suitable for hanging in your grandmother’s parlor, assuming it matches her sofa.”
A couple of students laughed politely. Barton set the print on the rail of the chalkboard. Next to it, he put a watercolor of the same castle. John straightened in his desk at the sight of the second picture-same castle, almost the same angle and view-but this one weirded him out. He wanted to see how the artist made the painting so creepy, but he didn’t want to get any closer to it.
I’d visit the first castle even if Frankenstein dropped the drawbridge for me. I wouldn’t go near the second one for anything-but they’re the same place! How’d he do that?
“If I tell you that François de Bonnivard, who supported Geneva’s revolt against the Duke of Savoy in the sixteenth century, spent six years chained to a pillar in the dungeon of this castle, does that change your opinion of either picture?”
It doesn’t change it-it explains it. That second guy, somehow he put those years of imprisonment in the painting. How? Is it something in the paint, the colors, the way it’s painted? Did he concentrate on being chained, unable to move, unable to see daylight, while he painted?
Barton droned on about perceptions and preconceived notions and bringing an open mind to art so one could appreciate it better, but John heard none of it. He was too lost in the realization that someone could create a painting that wasn’t just a picture of something, but also made him feel and think about that something.
The bell rang. He grabbed his book bag and headed to the door, stopping when he heard Mr. Barton call his name.
“The original is hanging in the Corcoran in D.C. You should go see it.”
John looked sideways at the watercolor.
“Is it like that in person? I mean, if I went and looked at it, would it….”
He let the question trail off, unsure how to express it.
“Yes, it’s like that in person. Geistner has the ability to show us a scene, its surface meaning, and also everything that lies under the surface.”
“How?”
Mr. Barton didn’t have an answer other than “talent.” The next weekend, I stood in front of that watercolor, learned the German title meant “History: the Prisoner of Chillon” and realized that Geistner meant for me to feel the horror of imprisonment when I looked at that pretty castle. Being able to show both the outside and the inside of something is a rare gift and Marguerite Geistner has it in spades. If her daughter has the same gift of perception, then she’s a damned good detective.
John let the book fall closed on his lap and thought about Otten. She was a threat, more than capable of replacing him. She was an enigma, her upbringing and background at odds with her choice of career. Judging by her family photo, she didn’t mind being different, but she hid her mother’s name as if ashamed of her.
Otten is too much like me for comfort.
He spent a long time considering what to do.
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