As I pointed at raised hands for the first few questions, members of Liddy McSwain’s committee walked up and down the auditorium aisles collecting index cards that had been on the sign-in table at the entrance. Audience members filled in their queries on the four-by-six cards, which were forwarded and handed up to me in a pile.

“That’s a good one,” I said, reading from the card on top. The question is, ‘How important is the use of DNA technology in your work?’ “ The enthusiasm with which I answered belied my disappointment in the lack of its existence in Gemma Dogen’s case. ”It’s the most significant tool we have in this business now. We use it, when seminal fluid is deposited on or in the victim’s body, to make a positive identification or to confirm one that she has made visually. That really takes the weight off the victim at a trial-it’s not just a matter of ‘her word’ in proving the case.

“It’s just as critical that we use it to exclude suspects. If a defense attorney tells me his client was in Ohio on the day of the rape, I simply ask him to provide us with a vial of blood. If the suspect is not our man-that is, if there’s no DNA match-there’s no arrest. And it also lets us be more creative. Four times now in the last few months we’ve used it to convict rapists who could never have been identified otherwise because the women were blind or blindfolded by the attacker. Ten years ago we were calling it the tool of the future. Well,this is the future and it’s helping to resolve issues in a growing number of cases.”

I skipped over two cards that asked about how prosecuting these jobs affected my personal safety and my private life. Sorry, girls, not the kind of thing I discuss publicly.

“This question is about sentences for rapists. It’s a bit complicated to answer because of the different degrees of crimes involved, and since so many offenders have previous convictions they’re often eligible for longer incarceration.” But I set out to give a five-minute exposition on the range of sentences as they related to each kind of assault.

Liddy McSwain was coming to the rescue. She stood on the side of the stage and announced that we only had time for three more questions.

I took another one, which asked about the new system of handling domestic violence cases that the NYPD had inaugurated a couple of weeks earlier. Then an easy one, to describe the medical services available in our city hospitals for pediatric and adolescent cases of child abuse.

The question on the next card made me bite my lip, look up to the rear of the room, and scan for a couple of faces I might recognize.

The familiar writing on the card read: “The Final Jeopardy answer is: it’s black and twelve inches long. What is-?” Chapman and Wallace were flanking the rear door of the room. Mercer’s head was bent down, shaking with laughter, while Chapman looked dead on at me, pointing his finger across his chest toward Wallace.

I was almost tired enough to lose it in front of these lovely women. “I’m sorry, ladies, most of the rest of the questions are about the tragic death of Doctor Dogen at Mid-Manhattan and the course of that investigation. It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to comment on any matter that’s pending but I can assure you that the city’s best detectives are working on it right this minute. Thanks for coming out in this bad weather tonight. I really appreciate your interest in these issues.”

As I stepped down onto the auditorium floor, several audience members hovered around me. A few made gracious remarks about the speech, one wanted to know whether I could put her in contact with the Crime Victims Assistance Program at St. Luke’s so she could volunteer some counseling, and-as always-three wanted to talk about “something” that had happened to them at some time in their pasts.

I listened briefly to each in turn, told them that we should have these discussions in a more private setting, and gave them my business card to arrange a time to call on Monday to make appointments. It never failed that after a speaking engagement at least one woman disclosed an incident of victimization for which she now had the strength to seek help-whether it was her own experience, her college daughter’s, or her best friend’s. Rape remains a dreadfully under-reported crime.

My coat was on a chair in the last row. Mercer had picked it up and held it for me as I walked toward them. “No need to apologize, gentlemen. How would I have been able to recognize you two if youhadn’t been rude and juvenile? I might have thought it was someone else. But in Chapman’s case, it’s a more reliable means of identification than DNA. Whatever invitation you’re here to offer tonight, I decline. I’m busy.” I kept walking and pushed open the solid wooden door. “Don’t call me, as they say, I’ll-”

I could hear Chapman’s stage whisper follow me out. “Don’t worry about it, Mercer. If she’s serious, I’ve got Patrick McKinney’s beeper number. He’d never say no to doing the Q and A on Dogen’s killer. Give him a call.”

My head whipped around at the mention that the murderer was in custody and I stopped immediately.

“I apologize, Blondie. You’re right, that really wasn’t the question tonight. Is that what you’re upset about? Oh-and, yes, we have a suspect Looks good. The lieutenant sent us to pick you up ‘cause he’s determined to do everything by the book. Screw Chief McGraw.”

“Someone from the hospital-staff?” I asked as we walked out to the front steps, now coated with a thin layer of sleet.

“Nah. One of the tunnel men. Covered with blood up to his knees. Like Chet said, this guy must have been in a slaughterhouse.”

“We’ve had him in the 17th for a couple of hours.”

“Talking?”

“I’d call it babbling at this point. You’ll see for yourself.”

I got in the backseat of Wallace’s car for the short ride down Lexington Avenue to look the beast in the eye.

CAN YOU BELIEVE,“ MERCER ASKED OF Chapman as he pulled up in front of the station house, ”McGraw hasn’t leaked this yet?“

He was referring to the fact that no reporters or cameramen were circling the building like sharks, smelling the fresh blood of a suspect in a hot case.

We got out and went into the lobby, past the uniformed sergeant on the desk, and upstairs to the squad room. This time even the precinct detectives and cops looked interested in all the activity. Every one of them would be used for some chore in nailing the pieces of the puzzle together during the next twenty-four hours.

“Hey, Chapman, you on this dirtbag?”

“Paulie Morelli. Damn, I haven’t seen you since your partner nailed the Zodiac killer. Did that arrest catapult your ass out of Bed-Stuy or what?”

We were on our way up a flight as Morelli was trying to descend. “Yep. Right here to the 17th Squad. A little slow if you’re used to catching homicides.”

“Yeah,” Chapman said, leading us up, “but if you like your women with teeth, Paulie, the Upper East Side ’s the place to be. Helping us out with Dogen?”

“I’m on my way to look for stand-ins for the lineup.”

“Lineup?” I asked. “Somebody better slow this train down and let me know what’s going on.”

“That’s what you’re here for, Blondie.”

Mike steered me through the squad room. Unlike the night before, every man was actively engaged in an aspect of the case work. A few were handling the phones while others were interviewing witnesses. Alongside almost every desk, being questioned, was a civilian-some in nurse’s or doctor’s uniforms, others in outfits labeled with the name of the delivery service that employed them, and still a few in the ill-fitting, mismatched, unwashed apparel of the homeless population.

As we walked toward Peterson’s command module, I noticed that the holding pen door was still wide open. But tonight it held only a single visitor.