A Death In Calabria

by Michele Giuttari

  Denis fell silent.

  ‘Was he white?’ Reynolds asked, rubbing his chin.

  ‘Yes, he was, I’m sure of that.’

  ‘Young? Old?’

  ‘Young, I think, but I can’t be a hundred per cent certain.’

  ‘What age would you say?’

  ‘I don’t know. But he wasn’t old. He wasn’t like Bill.’

  ‘Beard, moustache?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Do you remember anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you see anyone looking suspicious before you entered the building?’

  The boy shook his head. ‘No. No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Or anything unusual?’

  ‘No. I already said no.’ With his hand, he began picking at a spot on his right cheek.

  ‘Stop that, Denis,’ his father said. ‘You’re going to make it bleed.’

  It was pointless to continue. It would only be a waste of time. And right now every minute was precious.

  ‘I understand, Denis. Just try to think about it a bit more. Dr McGrey, if your son happens to remember anything else, let us know.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Lieutenant, I will.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Reynolds took his card from his wallet and handed it to him. ‘All my phone numbers are here. Call me any time.’

  ‘Of course. I want to know what happened more than anyone. I’m concerned about my family. Manhattan just isn’t safe. All these policies they’ve brought in lately don’t seem to have done any good. Sure, the streets are cleaner now, they’ve gotten rid of the vagrants, you don’t get stopped on the streets and asked for money like you used to, but there’s still plenty of crime. And it’s not just at night; something can happen to you any hour of the day. Well, you would know all about that, Lieutenant. Am I right?’

  Reynolds made no comment, simply said goodnight to them. Father and son both took the elevator.

  As soon as they’d gone, he scanned the lobby, looking for cameras.

  There weren’t any. That was a pity: CCTV might have confirmed Denis’s testimony.

  For the moment, they had nothing to go on.

  3

  It was the medical examiner who provided the first clues.

  Robert Cabot looked forty at the most. He was slim, with longish brown hair combed back from his face, a light complexion, and keenly alert eyes. Looking at him without knowing him, you’d be unlikely to guess that this was a man who worked out of the Kings County Hospital mortuary, in daily contact with death. Unlike some of his colleagues in the Medical Examiner’s office, he wasn’t the kind of person to make cynical wisecracks as an antidote to the more distressing aspects of the job.

  He approached the lieutenant with an air of tranquil assurance, still wearing latex gloves and overshoes.

  Rigor mortis had not yet set in, he explained, and he had found two bullet holes in the back of the dead man’s neck. No doubt about it: this was a homicide.

  ‘How long has he been dead?’ Reynolds asked.

  ‘Not long. I’ll be able to be more specific after the post mortem.’

  ‘Any hypostatic stains?’

  ‘No.’

  That meant, Reynolds calculated, that death must have occurred four hours earlier at most. Any longer, and the blood, through force of gravity, would have accumulated in the lower parts of the body and filtered through the skin tissue, forming bluish marks, the so-called hypostatic stains.

  ‘Exit wounds?’ Reynolds asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So the bullets are still in the body?’

  ‘That’s right. I’ll recover them during the post mortem. Then we’ll be able to clarify their trajectory and determine the positions of the doorman and his killer when the shots were fired.’

  ‘Thank you, Dr Cabot. When are you planning to do the post mortem?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning at ten, I hope. I’ll try to get the report to you as soon as possible.’

  ‘Detective Bernardi will be there.’

  ‘I’ll be expecting him,’ Cabot said, taking off his gloves and raising his arm by way of farewell. Reynolds had never seen him shake anyone’s hand - it was as if he feared infection from the contact.

  He called Bernardi over and asked him to check around the precincts to see if any police officers had paid a visit to the building that evening. Then he ordered searches of the doorman’s booth and the victim’s apartment, and assigned officers to go door to door, asking all residents to report to the precinct house as soon as possible, preferably the following morning, to be interviewed. ‘Anyone who isn’t home, leave a card under the door.’

  The officers dispersed.

  In the meantime, the Crime Scene Unit technicians had already finished their work, and now two of them were getting ready to take the body away in a black plastic sack.

  The doorman’s booth was on the small side.

  In his years of service, John Reynolds had come across some which were bigger, and many that were downright squalid. This one had a long wooden counter and a two-door cupboard, also of wood, crammed full of newspapers, magazines and leaflets. A plastic shopping bag in a corner contained the remains of Bill Wells’s dinner: a cheeseburger and a sachet of ketchup from the nearby McDonald’s. A can and a small Diet Coke bottle, both empty, were in the litter bin, next to a well-preserved mahogany desk. The only item of clothing, a dark grey overcoat, somewhat worn at the elbows, was hanging from a plastic coat hanger. In one of the pockets, the detectives found a bunch of keys, but no wallet. They had hoped it might be there, as it wasn’t on the body or on the counter.

  ‘Do we know where he lived?’ Reynolds asked Bernardi.

  ‘Yes, Lieutenant. The manager of the building gave me the address. It’s in Queens. He lived alone since his wife died ten months ago. I’m on my way there now.’

  ‘I’ll walk out with you,’ Reynolds said, joining him.

  As soon as they were out on the sidewalk, heavy rain and high winds lashed at their faces. Lightning flashed across the sky at ever decreasing intervals. It was almost midnight and they seemed to be in the second circle of Dante’s hell. Only a few reporters had gathered so far. They ignored them.

  The atmosphere on the streets of Manhattan was no different than any other night: expectation and excitement for some, a sense of danger, even extreme danger, for others. Behind the façades of its skyscrapers and on its avenues and streets, New York, the city that never sleeps, concealed traps for the unwary. That was how it was. Even on a stormy night like tonight.

  The predators were always lying in wait.

  4

  Sunday, 2 November

  Michael Bernardi was forty-two years old.

  The son of Sicilian immigrants, he’d been born, and had always lived, in New York. Of medium height, solidly built, with a dark complexion, short chestnut hair with a sprinkling of grey, and piercing dark eyes, he was tireless and determined in his work, a detective with a secure future in the police department. Always helpful, he was much appreciated, a favourite of the lieutenant and his colleagues. His reports were always clear and detailed. He double-checked everything scrupulously, and never accepted anything at face value. Highly intelligent himself, he had a short fuse when it came to stupidity and arrogance in others.

  Now, at the head of a small team of officers, he stood outside the front door of Bill Wells’s apartment building. It was located at the end of a dead end street, and they had had to park their cars in a nearby square and cover the last few yards on foot. The area was a decaying one, filled with low-rise housing, factories and potholed streets.

  The apartment was on the second floor of a dilapidated brownstone building with deep cracks in the walls and a rusted fire escape. It had been a barracks at one time, but decades of neglect had reduced it to a squalid, unrecognisable state. There was no uniformed doorman here. No security system. No one to give out information at such a late hour.

  Before knocking at t
he door of the apartment, the detectives stood listening for a moment or two. There was no sound from anywhere. But their arrival hadn’t gone unnoticed. On entering the building, Bernardi had glanced around and had seen a curtain moving in the dim light of a street lamp. He knocked at the door. Several times. It was no use. One by one, he tried the keys from the bunch found in the overcoat, until at last one of them turned in the lock. Once, twice, three times. The door opened.

  ‘Anyone at home?’ he called out, going in with his gun in his hand.

  Silence.

  He switched on the lights.

  There was no corridor. The three small rooms had low ceilings, damp-stained walls, and threadbare carpets. The furniture was sparse and of poor quality. The living room was empty apart from two armchairs and a couch, covered in some synthetic material, presumably to hide wear and tear. But at least the place was clean and tidy.

  There was an indescribable air of sadness about the place.

  The detectives started searching.

  The search was an indispensable routine. It was here that the victim had lived his life, and it was here, among the things that had belonged to him, that they might find a few clues to his death.

  They looked everywhere, even in the unlikeliest places.

  Experience had taught them that people, especially older people, hid money, jewels and their most valued possessions in their homes, either because they’d stopped trusting banks, or else out of fear.

  So they looked in the lavatory cistern, the bag in the vacuum cleaner, the lampshades, the refrigerator, the freezer and - the oldest and commonest hiding place in the world - under the mattress. They didn’t find anything anywhere, except in an old dresser in the bedroom. When they opened the four drawers with floral motifs on them, a strong smell of mildew emerged. They were full of linen, socks, sweaters and shirts, some very worn. Here, too, everything was tidy. In the last drawer they discovered a tin box containing photographs of the victim and others, perhaps relatives and friends, along with some yellowed letters and a diary with names and addresses. Buried right at the back were papers relating to an account at a bank in Manhattan. They took everything away with them.

  But there was still no trace of a wallet. More than ever, Bernardi was convinced that Bill Wells had been the victim of a petty robbery that had ended as badly as it possibly could: in murder.

  He knocked at the door of the apartment opposite Wells’s.

  The door opened, but only as far as the chain would allow. An elderly man stared out at Bernardi, his angry eyes saying, Why the fuck are you knocking at my door at this hour?

  Calmly, Bernardi opened his leather wallet and showed the man his badge. ‘Detective Michael Bernardi,’ he said.

  The man’s eyes lingered for a moment on the badge, then moved to Bernardi’s face, then back to the badge, for longer this time, as if he wanted to examine it. The chain was still in the same position.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked in a sleepy voice.

  ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions. Can I come in?’

  ‘A few questions? What about?’

  The crack in the door widened, but only as far as the length of the chain.

  ‘Your neighbour, Mr Wells, was killed this evening.’

  Immediately, the man turned pale. At last he took off the chain and opened the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, moving away from the door, a sad expression on his face. ‘My name’s George Brooks.’

  He had long white hair and a pale, emaciated face. He was wearing only a pair of long woollen underpants with a large hole over the left knee and a sweater that came down to his waist.

  ‘Thank you,’ Bernardi replied. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t warn you we were coming, but I’ll only be a few minutes.’

  The apartment was freezing cold. Bernardi followed the old man down a narrow corridor past the open door of the bathroom, through which he glimpsed an old-fashioned toilet with a chain, a little washbasin and a pile of linen in a corner, until they came to the small kitchen, which smelled of fried fish. They sat down at a table covered with a stained plastic tablecloth with a floral pattern.

  The man told him that his neighbour was a very serious individual, who had often had a faraway look, and a hint of tears, in his eyes of late. ‘He lost his wife, you know. They loved each other very much. He had no one else in the world.’

  ‘Had he had any strange visitors lately?’ Bernardi asked. ‘Did you hear anything suspicious?’

  The man shook his head. Two large tears were running down his cheeks. For a few moments, he was silent. Then he started speaking again. ‘No, nothing at all. He led a quiet life. I can’t believe he was murdered.’

  ‘You haven’t seen or heard anything unusual in the last few days?’ Bernardi persisted.

  ‘Nothing, and nobody I don’t see every day. The punks, the dealers . . . This isn’t exactly the best of neighbourhoods. Well, I’m sure you people know that.’

  ‘Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. I’m sorry to have called on you so late.’

  As Bernardi rose from his chair, he heard subdued voices and footsteps out on the landing. His colleagues. He had to go. At the door, he turned and handed the man a card. ‘Don’t hesitate to call me if you remember anything.’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t even offer you anything to drink,’ the man replied, closing the door quietly.

  Turning to his men, Bernardi hesitated for a moment, thinking, What do you know - humanity, in a rat hole like this!

  5

  When John Reynolds got back to the 17th precinct, he immediately gave instructions to his men about the interviews they would be conducting. ‘Dig,’ he said, urging them, ‘and you will find.’ Then he opened a bottle of water, poured some into a paper cup and took a long gulp.

  He occupied the typical head of detectives office space: a large corner office at the end of a long corridor. On one wall hung two big maps of Manhattan, strewn with pins. The first indicated the rapes, assaults and murders reported within the past six months. The second showed the houses, banks and commercial premises robbed during the same period. Next to it was a graph showing the decline in crime statistics. On the left-hand wall just next to the desk was another map, which had been there for a few months now, showing locations for two crimes that were on the increase: rape and sexual assault.

  He walked to the window. Large raindrops were beating noisily against the panes. He thought about calling home again.

  That morning, when he had left, his wife Linda had had all the symptoms of flu. She was pale, sweating, and shaking like a leaf. When he had last phoned her, at around eight in the evening, she had told him that she had a temperature of 102 degrees and that she had already phoned the doctor. Now he dialled the number again. Linda answered at the fourth ring.

  ‘Hi, darling, did I wake you?’

  ‘No, John, I was in the bathroom.’

  ‘Sorry about that. How are you feeling?’

  ‘A little better.’

  ‘What did the doctor say?’

  ‘Nothing too serious. Just a bout of flu. I should be up and about in a few days.’

  Reynolds hesitated before replying. He imagined his wife in her nightdress, the black lace one, his favourite, with her dark hair falling softly over her shoulders.

  Linda was a tall, beautiful woman with full hips and blue eyes. Reynolds had always been jealous of the admiring glances she received from other men, although he was sure she was faithful to him - and took pride in the fact.

  ‘Look after yourself, darling,’ he said at last. ‘Keep away from draughts.’

  ‘Don’t worry. When are you coming home?’

  ‘There’s been a homicide.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Here in Manhattan. The doorman of an apartment building was murdered.’

  ‘Another murder . . .’ There was a kind of exhaustion in her tone, and perhaps something else. He caught the hint of it, and the terrifying thought suddenly s
truck him: What if Linda gets so tired of this life that she decides to leave me? What would become of me?

  But it was only a fleeting impression. ‘Only a little while longer, darling, you know,’ he hastened to reassure her.

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  ‘When I get home, I’ll try not to wake you.’

  ‘I love you, John.’

  ‘I love you too.’

  Both hung up simultaneously.

  Reynolds knew that his career was about to change. His promotion and transfer to a desk job at NYPD headquarters on Park Row, which would allow him to work more sociable hours and to devote more time to himself and Linda, had already been decided.

  A reassuring future.

  The offices of the detective squad occupied one whole floor.

  Homicide was on one side of the corridor, spread over a series of rooms. Each room contained four desks. Rows of metal filing cabinets lined the windowless walls. The last room was Michael Bernardi’s office, separated by large windows from the space where his men worked.

  The rooms were crowded, the computers switched on, and the telephones were constantly ringing. The chairs in front of the desks were occupied by witnesses, answering questions with an air of boredom, convinced they were only wasting their time. Their answers amounted to little more than the same litany:

  The victim was a good man . . . He’d been working there for more than thirty years . . . He was always helpful, always doing little jobs . . . He was a quiet man and didn’t go in for gossip . . . He never did anything at all suspicious . . .

  There was complete unanimity. No one had heard anything unusual, any gunshots, no one had seen anyone suspicious in the past few days. No one confirmed Denis’s story of having seen a police officer in the building.

  In separate rooms, the victim’s two fellow doormen gave their statements. They mentioned the occasional argument Bill Wells had had with local punks who’d tried to bum a few dollars off him, some of them even threatening violence. ‘In this town,’ one of the two men said, ‘you can be killed for a ten-dollar bill in an old wallet. That’s how New York is. It’s a violent place. What happened to Bill could have happened to one of us on our shift.’