by Ann Marie
Josephine injected the video into the player and sat down on the sofa to watch it. There was a chill in the air, but she felt nothing. She was lost inside her own thoughts, so many memories. All the major events in her life seemed to have included Anthony. No, they did include Anthony. Anthony was indeed, an important factor in her life. She was her best friend, her only friend, honestly.
Josephine looked up to the screen, just as the slap happened. ‘Why did I slap Anthony?’ The look on several of her guest’s faces as Antonia backed away seemed to mirror her own thoughts. ‘If only I could have that moment back’, thought Josephine. Then Anthony looked past her to the gunman. Somehow Anthony knew the gunman was there. Anthony grabbed Josephine’s shoulders and tossed her to the side. In her mind, Josephine could hear the bullets enter Anthony. As Anthony took the first shot in the shoulder her face showed an almost shocked expression. ‘What was she looking at?’ Josephine’s mind ran the scene again and again. Bam, bam, bam, bam. She saw it all now; slow motion in her mind. She actually heard the shots penetrate her friend with a shhlute sound. Bam, shhlute. Bam, shhlute. People started screaming. Anthony screamed... “Billy”...the sound seemed to come slowly from her mouth as she fell to the ground. Josephine’s head slammed against the ground.
The phone rang. Josephine sat motionless, staring blankly at the screen as the video ended abruptly. The phone rang again and again as Josephine had to bring herself back. She grabbed the receiver and said hello but the line was already dead. She replaced the receiver on the table and brought her hands to her face. She wiped away the tears which had managed to fall without request. She pulled her hair back from her face and tried to regain her composure. Using the remote she shut the television off and with suit coat in hand, headed off to the hospital.
Chapter 8
Retired now for thirteen years, Harold Davis sat at his kitchen table. Always an early riser, he was showered and dressed before seven every morning. Widowed the past spring, his life had come to a halt of sorts. There was not much for him to do anymore. Breakfast consisted of a cinnamon bun and a cup of extra black coffee. He read his daily paper at the table as he had for the past thirteen years. And, as they say, old habits die hard, he always opened to the crime blotter first. A small article on “out of town connections,” immediately caught his eye.
“Antonia Dal Santo, saved as a small child from the hands of a monster. Gunned down by a crazed fan. One of our own, Ms. Dal Santo has spent numerous years abroad. After finishing her education at St. Agnes School for girls, she became a missionary and devoted several years to the Literacy Awareness Program in Africa. She returned to the States, to aid her friend and school mate, Josephine Ferrero. This had made her an instant favorite of the press. Ms. Dal Santo continually ducked the cameras and tried to stay out of sight but she could never escape the media attention attracted by Ms. Ferrero. While the shooting is still under investigation, it is believed to be the work of an angered fan. Ms. Dal Santo was shot four times and was listed in stable condition at the time of print. It has been reported that Ms. Dal Santo was approximately four months pregnant at the time of the shooting. The pregnancy was terminated. New Haven Police Chief Officer Burns, states that any charges involved in this case, will include the murder of Ms. Dal Santo’s unborn child.”
Harold stood up, a little too fast, toppling his morning coffee. It ran over the table and dripped onto the floor. He never noticed, as he walked hastily to his home office. The first floor of his Cape Cod style home had one single bedroom, which had served as a guest room for the first twenty-five years they owned the home. It had only been used a handful of times. His wife had it converted into an office for him when he became Chief Inspector. The walls were covered with frames holding awards, certificates or photos of Harold receiving an award or a certificate.
His career had been long and hard, but Harold would not have traded it for anything in the world. He had often commented that had he ever won the lottery, he still would not have given up his job. He tried his best to stay on at the Station even after he had reached the required age for retirement. However, time was not always on the side of the Inspector, he was replaced and put out to pasture.
Harold folded his morning paper so that the article was the center focal point, placed the paper on the center of his desk top and sat down. Flipping through his Rolodex, he picked up the phone and dialed. The line was busy. Placing his reading glasses on the tip of his nose, he rechecked the number. Again he dialed. Again he got a busy signal. Replacing the receiver, he sat back thoughtfully.
His extra-large, leather upholstered swivel chair was a gift, from the guys at the station, when he retired. He stood up and headed for the filing cabinet. He opened the first drawer. Nine files, letters A through I. He flipped through to the file index marked “D”, removed it and laid it flat on the open drawer. He flipped through it searching for Dal Santo but not finding it, he replaced the index. He tapped the sides of the drawer with his hands, as he looked for an answer, with his eyes scanning the office. His eyes fell upon the phone on his desk. Leaving the drawer open, he returned to the phone. This time he dialed a number from memory. It rang and was answered by a woman whose voice he recognized at once, Sharon Warner, his secretary for the last fifteen years of his career.
“Morning Sharon, its Harry.”
“Well, yes, yes it is. And what can I do for you, on this fine morning, Harry?”
“I’m looking for my records on the Dal Santo investigation. You wouldn’t remember the investigation itself, goes back some thirty years at least. I was wondering if you could jolt my mind as to where I may have filed such a record.”
“Hmm, Dal Santo, the name rings a bell. Was that the name of the family who owned that string of gas stations on the coast?”
“No, that was Del Graeca. Look, it was a nice size record. I have looked under “D,” but nothing. I must be getting senile or something.”
“Well, I would look under “S” maybe for solved. Thirty years or more, you said? It was a solved case, wasn’t it? Or perhaps you filed it under the name of the town where the crime was committed?”
“Yeah, maybe.” Harold responded without much vigor. “Wait a minute, Dal Santo. I remember now. The missionary from Africa. Didn’t you pull that one when that movie star was being stalked?”
Harold laid the receiver down, on the desk top. He walked back to his cabinets and reached for the file marked “Ferrero”. He picked the receiver up again as he sat back down, file in hand, “You’re the best Sharon, thanks.”
“Don’t mention it Sir. What’s up, if I may be permitted to ask?”
“Nothing really, just a hunch and a lot of free time.”
“Well, OK then, it was nice to talk to you again. You really shouldn’t be such a stranger Chief.”
Harold smiled to himself. Sharon had no idea, just how often the Inspector called in. Since the passing of his wife, Harold had managed to call in his opinion of just about every ongoing investigation in the state. The presently instated Chief of Police had put a hold on all of Harold’s so-called priority calls. “Hey, Sharon, one more thing, before you go, if you have a minute.”
“Sure boss, whatcha need?”
“The number for the New Haven police department.”
“New Haven? As in Connecticut? New Haven Connecticut?”
“Yeah, yes, that’s the one; can you get it for me?”
“Sure, hang on though, while I put you on hold.”
Harold opened the folder, as he waited patiently for Sharon to return. The folder marked “F”, held many tales. The one that interested him at the moment though, was sitting in the very front. He pulled out the related papers and set the file aside. He mechanically began to sort the papers in front of him. Without thinking he placed the papers into four different piles. The piles diagrammed the events of Ms. Dal Santo’s life, from the moment of her birth, until present day.
“Hello, Chief? You still there?”
&nbs
p; “Yes, I am.” Sharon relayed the number and asked “Is there anything I can do?”
“No, I’m not really sure where I am going with this one at the moment. Thanks for your time and efforts though. It sure has been nice, hearing your voice again.”
“Call me any time boss, anytime at all.” The line clicked dead. Harold hung up the phone again, without looking. The papers on his desk filled him with so many memories.
He read the papers regarding Ms Ferrero. Her stalker had been shot to death by police while refusing to cooperate. It had taken months of surveillance and cost the township thousands of dollars, but they had managed to identify him and track him down. He had fired several shots at officers while they were attempting to enter his dwelling. Refusing to lay down his weapon, the officers had little choice but to return fire. The Postal Prophet, aptly named via the media, was shot six times. No chance of his having anything to do with the latest shooting.
This first pile regarding Ms. Ferrero then got placed up at the further most corner of his desk top. His eyes then fell upon the face of the missionary. ‘Antonia Dal Santo’ he thought to himself. He cradled his face with his hands and ran his fingers over his lips. He repeated this motion twice more before he picked up the papers belonging to this pile. He glanced over her bio from the eighties. She had done a lot of good for a lot of people. Harold admired her. He read all the newspaper clippings on her African missions. He looked briefly at the photo of Antonia and Mother Teresa. He looked a bit longer at the photo she shared with Audrey Hepburn.
Sighing to himself, he read about her work with literacy and the children of Africa. There were those in the world who did not feel Antonia should be in Africa. There were those who thought she owed her talents to her own country first. But she had returned to the States, so how could this shooting be related to those feelings. At the bottom of the pile, there was an article on the two women. Ms. Ferrero and Ms. Dal Santo were friends since childhood. Both starting out from different worlds, they were brought together by fate. They were separated once again by career ambitions, only to be brought back together again through a simple twist of fate. This article went on to describe how Antonia had returned to the States to support her lifelong friend in her time of need. Still Harold had not found that spark that had ignited his curiosity.
Nothing he had read could explain to him, why anyone would want to kill Antonia. One could assume, the stalker, or crazed fan, may have been jealous of Antonia’s relationship with Ms. Ferrero. Perhaps thinking he could have Ms. Ferrero to himself, with Antonia out of the way, he shot her, hoping to kill her. This assumption would float, but it did not tickle Harold’s investigators instincts.
He placed the second pile to right of the first, along the top, far side of his desk. The third pile contained articles and clippings from Antonia’s academic life. All of her accomplishments and awards. A report of every penny she ever won in scholastic competition. A financial disclosure for every cent earned writing short stories, related articles, or even a poem now and then. Although he had read through this stack many times in the past thirty or so years, it never ceased to amaze him.
How far this young woman had come, was truly impressive. And the fact that she had touched so many lives along the way, including his own made his heart surge. Was it possible that someone may not have appreciated her attention? Perhaps something she had written had angered someone.
Harold let his eyes fall upon the fourth and last pile while he placed the third to the right of the second. The photo, paper clipped to the first page, made his stomach constrict. Perhaps he was stalling. He wasn’t quite sure but he knew he was in no rush to analyze the fourth and final pile. So instead he let his hand float over to the phone once again. This time he dialed the number Sharon had given him. He needed to know how Antonia was doing, where she was located and what information they had so far.
“New Haven P.D...”
“Yes...Hello...Chief Officer Burns please, if I may.”
“Sorry sir, Officer Burns has headed home for the day, he will be back in around 9pm this evening, if you care to call back.”
“No, no, listen this is Chief Inspector Davis, I would like to speak with whoever is in charge of the Dal Santo shooting, is that possible?”
“Well I can transfer you to Lieutenant Barsky. I don’t know what kind of information she can give you though, would this be OK?”
“Fine. Fine. Barsky you said?”
“Yes, sir, that is correct, just a minute sir.” Harold reached for his coffee while he waited. Empty. He set the cup back down, just as a voice returned to the phone. “Sorry, sir, she just stepped out of her office. Would you like to hold for her?”
“No, that’s OK. I’ll call her back. Is there a direct line or should I just dial the same number?”
“The number you have dialed is fine, sir. Lieutenant Barsky is usually here well into the evening.”
“Thank you. Then I will call back later. Have a nice day.”
The phone line was disconnected and Harold hung up the receiver again. His eye’s passed over the last pile. He inhaled deeply and decided to go to the kitchen for another cup of coffee.
Chapter 9
New Haven was a quiet, New England community; home to approximately fifty thousand households. Less than two percent of the average yearly crimes dealt with murder or an attempted murder. The story of the Dal Santo shooting was front page news. Lieutenant Barsky had her morning paper in hand as she entered the police station, as always, at nine A.M. The paper however, she tossed on the top of her desk without thought when she was beckoned to the holding cell on the lower level of the building.
Grabbing a hot cup of coffee, Taylor Barsky headed to the basement of her building. She was exhausted, as she did not get much sleep the previous evening. Seasonal allergies always took over her sleep patterns. Somehow she always managed to get a sinus infection in the fall and once the infection showed up, sleep all but left the county. Her throat was sore, and she could not swallow without pain. Talking was tricky.
Down in the holding cell was the local town drunk. Taylor thought how sad it was that every town just had to have one. Charlie Daniels was his real name. His parents must have had it in for him from the get go. With a name like that, Taylor was surprised more on the days he wasn’t occupying her cell than on the days that he was. Charlie wasn’t a bad person. He just never had anyone to take care of him. And he was never very good at it alone. He was a lonely man who sought company in bars. He never hurt anyone or stole anything. He wasn’t really all that good at being a drunk either. He usually passed out before he left the bar stool.
“Lieutenant?” Taylor hadn’t realized she had stopped in front of the cage and had been staring at the sleeping Charlie. She was brought out of her daze and into the basement.
“Patrick, good morning. What was it you needed from me?”
“Simmers, down at the pub, he mentioned a stranger coming in last night.”
“And...”
“Well, he felt as if he knew the man. He mentioned the guy made him feel uncomfortable.”
“Patrick, Simmers is what, about eighty five or so? If a midnight blue seventies Cadillac cruises past his place, he feels uncomfortable. Why is it that you feel I should be concerned?” Taylor wasn’t using a reprimanding tone, just a parental, please explain tone.
“I don’t know, Lieutenant, it’s just with the Ferrero thing and all...”
“Ferrero, ah, I see. OK, well did you take down any details? Did you get a composite?”
“No ma`am, I had to bring Charlie back before he puked all over the back seat.”
Taylor had to chuckle, in spite of herself. “All right Patrick, why don’t you call Jed upstairs and send him over to pick up Simmers. Bring him down here and see what the top artist from the graduating class of 2002 can come up with. Anything else?”
Charlie moaned in the cage. He was about another thirty minutes from standard awake zone. “On his way back,
have him stop by McCluscky’s and grab Charlie a breakfast sandwich.”
Patrick glanced over at Charlie, then back to the Lieutenant. “Sure thing boss.” And that was the end of the basement visit. Just about the extent of the usual daily excitement.”
On the way back up the staircase to her office, Taylor passed the entrance doors. They looked out to the main street in town. The morning had started off gray, but now the sun was bright and the sky was blue. Such a contrast to the way she was feeling. Up yet another flight of stairs to the main floor and off to the right for her office. Hoping she had brought some sinus medication with her she searched for her handbag. The light on her office phone blinked. Her phone did not ring; she had it set like that because she hated interruptions of any sort. She walked to her desk to answer the phone and set her bag down on top of the forgotten newspaper. The only part of the paper left showing was the section with the story concerning the Ferraro’s past stalkers.
“Lieutenant Barsky here.”
“Morning Lieutenant. Just checking in. Nothing serious happening here this morning. A few reporters camped out over night, but Billy swatted them away like flies about an hour ago. Want Sam and I to stay on or come in and regroup?”
“You have been out there since eight last night?”
“Six ma`am, I stayed while George went back to the hospital and Sam took Billy back to base to fill out the report. Sam came back around eight I think.”
“All right. Come on in, both of you. I’ll expect to see you in my office in fifteen.”
“Right. See you then.” Taylor picked up a pen and tapped it against her lips as she sat back thoughtfully in her seat. Gazing up at her clock she mentally noted the time. It was nine twenty.
Sitting up again, she went back into her handbag in search of her medication. Finding it, she stood to get a cup of water with which to swallow the pills. As she did so her eye caught the article, peeking out from under her bag. She moved it aside and picked up the paper. She read the article as she walked to the water dispenser. Pulling out a paper cup she accidently dropped her pills into the trash can sitting alongside the dispenser. Looking to the heavens in despair she tossed the cup into the trash. She glanced down to the article and read a few lines regarding Ms. Ferrero.