Joey Mancuso Mysteries Box Set

by Owen Parr

  The Doctor replied, “Sure seems that way. As I said, lipstick intact, no signs of anything, other than the sex.”

  “It seems this guy, our killer, has no emotion, or affection for his dates. He has a mission. He’s robotic in some ways. He doesn’t even want to look at them. They come into the room and undress. Then the killer bends them over in front of the bed and penetrates from behind, using a condom. None of the ladies had any semen in them, right?”

  Doctor Frankie, replied, “Correct. Go on; I’m with you.”

  “Fine. As they’re having sex, he takes the red satin ribbon, which appears to be consistent with a gift package-type ribbon. I think you wrote; it was a half-inch wide, correct? He begins to choke them, still from behind. At this point, the ladies would think this is just part of the extreme sex. But then, our perp goes beyond the extreme, and he strangles them.”

  “I would have to agree with all of that. One other thing,” the Doctor paused.

  “What’s that?”

  “They, the ladies, all had orgasms. The rape kit analysis shows secretion on their part, as a result of multiple orgasms. So, in fact, they must have thought they were having sex, or, extreme sex, as you said. That is until the ribbon got tighter.”

  “No sign of fighting back from any of them?” I asked.

  “They had no idea they were about to die. As the ribbon got tighter, the sex got better. Perhaps he timed his orgasm to the final tightening of the ribbon.” “You know what, Frankie, I can see it happening, man.”

  “I know, I can see it, also.”

  “Did you find anything else?” I asked.

  “We found traces of lubrication, one with petroleum jelly, the other three, a silicone-based lubricant. I haven’t been able to pinpoint the brand. But, we also found traces of latex.”

  “What do you think happened there?”

  “Our perp seems to know what he is doing. He probably brings his lubricant, the silicone-based. The petroleum jelly can damage the latex in the condom, making it break–something the perp would want to avoid, of course, except for the fact that it happened with the first vic. Petroleum jelly was used, and traces of latex from the condom were found.”

  “Another reason to suspect our unsub to be a man, right?”

  “That pretty much confirms it, yes.”

  As I was listening intently to Doctor Frankie’s dissertation on the sex, one disturbing thought crossed my mind. So, I asked. “One thing I can’t understand is that there’s no trace of the perp; no hairs of any kind from him—pubic or otherwise. Is this true?”

  “We did find the victims hair, but, no other. Here are a few possibilities: the perp could be naturally bald, or even better, he could have shaved—head, chest, pubic area.”

  A shaved chest and pubes? Who does that?”

  “Obviously, you haven’t been to a gym lately. Many guys are doing that these days.”

  “Do you?” I shot back.

  “Ah … No,” he answered, laughing.

  “Seriously, the genital area?”

  “From what I see here, some guys do.”

  “Fuck that shit,” I said.

  “Speaking of that, we found feces, consistent with each victim; on the bed, and on their rear ends.”

  “They had their shit … on their asses?”

  “You figure things out fast, don’t you? That would be consistent with the sex they had.”

  “I get it, of course. Can you tell if the perp had an orgasm before, or after he killed them?”

  “No, I couldn’t tell you that. But, with a psycho like that, I wouldn’t doubt he stayed in for a while.”

  “You mean after he strangles them, he continues having sex?”

  “Very possible. But, I can’t be sure. This guy is a sick puppy, Joey.”

  “We’ve got to catch this maniac. Tell me about the sliced breasts in the form of a cross, or is it a T?

  “As you know, the first victim did not have that signature; on the last three, yes. He used either a small pocket knife or what is called a grip knife, similar to a box cutter.”

  “I understand the cuts were not deep, just superficial–definitely a signature. Is it a T, or a cross?”

  Doctor Frankie replied, “With the tool, he was using, he could have easily fashioned a letter if he wanted to; however, the marks he left on each of these women’s breasts are definitely in the shape of crosses.”

  “I see.”

  “Unfortunately, I expect more bodies in here. He’s not done. Something is driving him to these horrific acts. Anything else, Joey?”

  “Have you examined the stomach contents of the latest victim?”

  “Not yet. Let you know as soon as we do.”

  “Do you have anything, anything that could identify this guy?” I asked, as I sat back and put my feet on top of the conference table.

  “Other than the cologne, this guy is very meticulous. He leaves nothing behind, no pun intended there. And, even if you find someone with the same cologne, it could be very circumstantial, right? I mean, how many men could be using the same cologne?”

  “So, in other words, you’re no fucking help?”

  Frankie laughed, “You have a way with words, Mancuso. I’m afraid this case is not going to be solved using forensics, unless, he makes a mistake. It’s all up to you detectives to find this guy.”

  “Thanks, buddy. I hope I don’t have to call you again,” I said, clicking off my phone. Now, I had to make the call I didn’t want to make, even though I knew Marcy could help with this case. I punched number one on my speed dial and hoped for the best.

  “Hey, Joey, how are you?” Marcy said as she answered the phone.

  “I’m happy to see you haven’t erased me from your phone contacts,” I replied, with a quick, nervous chuckle, “how are you feeling?”

  Marcy ignored my quip about the contacts. “I’m feeling much better. Doing my physical therapy every day. I’m even writing your name with the little rubber ball on the wall.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “There’s an exercise in which I have to pretend I’m writing things on a wall with a rubber ball, the size of a baseball. I have to extend my arm out and write. It’s boring, and I hate it.”

  “You hate it? Is that why you write my name?”

  “No, silly. I just need to entertain myself. I write other nasty stuff too, lots of four-letter words.”

  “I got it. As long as you don’t use my name in a sentence with the other four-letter words,” I said with a chuckle.

  “You just gave me a good idea … Are you working a case?”

  “That’s one of the reasons I called. How are your profiling skills?”

  “I’m not a profiler with the Bureau, but I can help, why?”

  “Could you perhaps listen to what I have, and maybe start me out on a profile of my unsub?’

  “Sure, I could,” she replied. “Joey, hang on a second, would you?”

  I heard her ask someone a question, even though it seemed as if she had covered the phone with her hand.

  “When do you want to do this?” Marcy asked.

  “I was hoping today, the sooner, the better you know.”

  Again, she spoke to someone else covering the phone. “Come over after six in the evening. Tony Belford can help you also.”

  “Is he there now?” I asked, trying not to sound pissed.

  “He was just leaving, but he’ll come back to help us. Plus, he says he’ll bring dinner,” she replied.

  Tell him to stick dinner up his ass, I said to myself. “Oh, that’s great,” I lied. “Tell him I eat meat, none of that vegan crap.”

  I could sense a smile from Marcy, as she said, “We’ll see you at six then.”

  I clicked off the phone. We’ll see you at six? What’s this WE shit? I thought. I wanted to ask how her firearms training was going since this was the one issue that would keep her from rejoining the Bureau and fieldwork. I knew GQ Tony was helping her with
that, so I avoided asking her because I didn’t want to hear how great, El Tony, was doing with her.

  6

  Marcy’s Brooklyn apartment had been my second home for almost two years. A serene ambiance made up of pastel colors and pleasantly decorated with a lady’s touch, of course. As I entered I didn’t feel at home anymore. Butterflies were flying every which way in my stomach as Marcy opened the front door.

  “Hi, Joey! Good to see you, come on in,” Marcy said in her husky, sexy voice that drove me crazy. She was wearing her lounging clothes; a loosely fit black sweatpants outfit, generally with nothing underneath. Her hair was up, like a rooster tail, and her Jimmy-Buffet-parrot tattoo was visible on the back of her sensuous neck.

  I moved in to kiss her on the cheek, and, fortunately, she reciprocated. I made a point of complimenting her before I asked about her GQ sidekick, “You’re looking good, happy to be here. Tony here yet?”

  “Yes, he just got here. He’s putting the food in the kitchen. Hope you like sushi, that’s what he brought,” she said.

  “I love sushi, I use it for bait when I go fishing,” I said, as my eyebrows narrowed.

  “Hah, hah. It’s all cooked, nothing raw.”

  “Oh great. I bought red wine. I hope it goes with sushi.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine,” she replied.

  I needed to clear something up for my benefit before I sat down with Marcy and GQ Tony. “Marcy, can I use your bathroom—the one of your bedroom, not the little one by the kitchen. I need a little privacy.”

  “Sure, help yourself. You know where it is.”

  “Thanks,” I said, as I walked into her bedroom. My purpose was not to use the bathroom. Instead, I wanted to check the closet where my clothes used to be. I was hoping, even praying, that I would not find Tony’s clothes in there. Quietly, I slid the closet door opened.

  “Mancuso, where are you?” Tony called out from the living room. There was a harsh tone to his voice.

  My heart stopped, “I’ll be right out, sport. Give me two minutes,” I replied.

  “Take all the time you need. Just make sure everything comes out alright,” Tony added, laughing.

  Hah, hah. Asshole, I said to myself as I slid the closet door fully opened. Phew! No male clothes had replaced mine. I glanced at the other side, which was usually Marcy’s. I just wanted to be sure. Boom! Just Marcy’s stuff. I felt better. Much better. Next step, the bathroom. I went in and found only Marcy’s things. No other toothbrush, no shaving cream. Nothing male related. I flushed the toilet, turned on the faucet, and walked out with a smile.

  Tony got up from the dining room table and extended his hand, “Feel better, Mancuso?” he asked, smiling in return.

  “I feel much better, Special Agent,” I said, shaking hands with Belford. He looked like a Ken doll. Barbie would have been very pleased; dark blue polo shirt with the emblem of an actual guy on a horse playing polo, khaki pants perfectly ironed, his Gucci shoes with no socks of course. What an ass! That was my immediate impression. Don’t get me wrong, I wear shoes without socks, too, but it’s usually because all my socks are dirty, or hiding somewhere.

  “Have a seat here,” Tony said, pointing to a dining room chair between him and Marcy. “What are you working on?”

  I didn’t reply right away. I sat down and opened the murder book I had brought with me. “This is not out for public consumption yet. I’m working on a potential serial killer in Manhattan.” I turned to Tony and asked, “How much training have you had on profiling techniques?”

  “Joey, I’m being groomed for a leadership position,” he said, looking beyond me at Marcy, and smiling.

  I glanced at Marcy, as she smiled back, and without turning to Tony, I asked him, “So, what does that mean?”

  “I spent a year in D.C. at the BAU.”

  “Speak English, sport, you Feds use too much of that alphabet lingo,” I said.

  “The Behavioral Analysis Unit at the FBI’s main offices in Washington, D.C.”

  “I had the D.C. figured out. And, while there, I’m sure you became an expert at profiling.”

  “That’s correct, Joey. Lay it out for us. We’ll tell you who your unsub is,” Tony said, full of confidence, or shit, I thought.

  “Tony, I’ve meant to ask you something,” I said.

  “About what?” he asked.

  “Do you wear that thing on your ear twenty-four-seven?”

  “You mean my cell phone wireless receiver?” he replied, touching the dam thing.

  “What’s up with that, man?”

  “Why have it, if you’re not going to use it, I say. It’s part of me, now.”

  Marcy cut off my silliness. “Joey, tell us about the case.”

  Over the next half hour, while we had dinner and drank wine, I went on to describe the four murder scenes and how the murders were committed. Considering that we were eating, I skipped over the ME’s report on stomach contents, and a few other details.

  Tony asked, “Has the first murder, the one they said was a case of extreme sex gone bad, been reported as an accidental homicide?”

  I replied, “Yes, the suits in charge don’t want to alarm the public, yet. But, they won’t be able to contain the news too much longer, now that there have been three other homicides with the same MO that immediately followed the first one.”

  Tony queried, “You said the killer left a signature?”

  “With the last three young ladies. That would be the superficial slicing of the breasts with a sharp knife in the form of a cross. Yes.”

  “In that case,” Tony began, “that was a mistake. It would seem that by leaving a signature, the killer is looking for recognition. Since the first murder was not reported widely, that probably gave the perpetrator just cause to do it again, and again.”

  “So, you think this person wants public recognition for what he did?” I asked.

  Tony moved forward, and opening his arms said, “Obviously, I’ll get into profiling in a second. The sooner the news goes out, the better—not that he is going to stop. It may slow him down, knowing that he’s being talked about.”

  “I agree with that,” I replied, “he’s been deprived of the credit his deranged mind seeks for his acts. I’ll pass that up to the chain of command.”

  Tony added, “I think you should, or, someone is likely to leak the news. Then, you won’t be able to control how the facts are reported. You know what I mean?”

  “I know. But, you know how politicians worry about bad press, especially in a city like New York.”

  Tony sat back, “That would be my first suggestion, Joey. They’re going to have to come clean at some point. Might as well be on our terms.”

  Marcy began to put things away, and said, “Why don’t you guys sit in the living room, while I make three cortaditos.”

  “I love those cortaditos. Don’t you, Joey?”

  I smiled and ignored the question. “Here, Marcy, I’ll help you put things away,” I said, as I gathered the plates from the dining room table and took them to the kitchen.

  GQ Tony didn’t take my cue. Instead, he proceeded to move to the living room to work on the perp’s profile.

  Marcy and I worked quietly in the kitchen. I washed and dried dishes while Marcy made the drinks. At one point, we exchanged glances--more like an extended gaze. It seemed to last several seconds. I had a difficult time reading her thoughts, and I’m sure she was trying to read mine. I assumed GQ was getting ready to work on a profile for my unsub.

  Fifteen minutes passed. I took a peek into the living room, and there was Tony, fixing the crease of his perfectly fitting khaki pants before crossing his legs. "If Barbie could see Ken now, I think she'd puke." I couldn’t take the view anymore. I gladly went back to washing and drying.

  As much as I didn’t like the guy, I could tell that GQ took his job seriously. He had turned the coffee table into a mini-office with his laptop, and other related materials conveniently set up for his profile present
ation. I was just putting the last dish away when Tony called out my name. “Joey, I think I’m ready with a profile.”

  Retrieving a notepad and a pen from my briefcase, I sat down on the sofa by myself. Marcy brought out the cortaditos, setting the tray of rich and steamy espressos on the other end of the coffee table. She made herself comfy and cozy in her recliner before picking up her drink and fixing her attention on GQ. “Okay. What’d you got?” I said, looking at Tony.

  “Listen, before we start,” Tony was pulling a large manila envelope from a briefcase while he talked. “When I first met you at your pub, I complimented you on all the photos you had with all the various celebrities. Do you remember?”

  “I remember,” wondering where he was going with this.

  “Yes, well, if you also remember, I said that I had a picture of President Obama and me. I offered to give you one so that you could hang it on a wall in the pub.”

  “You brought the original?”

  “Oh no, that one is priceless. I brought you a glossy copy,” he said, pulling it out of the envelope.

  “Brother, you could probably get a couple of bucks for that on eBay.” Count them: one, two, I said to myself.

  “That’s funny. I want you to have it and hang it up,” he said, handing it to me.

  “With all due respect, Tony, if you noticed when you were there, all the photos are with either Captain O’Brian, the original proprietor, or his son, Sergeant Brandon O’Brian, who took over the pub after the captain,…” I glanced at Marcy, “…but, I’ll take it. Thank you,” I said, not wanting to be rude. “Maybe I can Photoshop it, add my mug in between the two of you,” I said, looking at the picture.

  “Hah, that would be good,” Tony said, faking a laugh.

  “Yeah,… Anyway, can we get back to the profile?” I asked, returning the photo in the envelope before tucking it away in my briefcase.

  “Take notes, Joey, because I’m going to be very specific,” Tony said, sitting back.

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less,” I replied, biting my tongue. “Tell me this, how old do you think our unsub is?”