As the Twig is Bent
A Matt Davis Mystery
By
Joe Perrone Jr
As the Twig is Bent:
A Matt Davis Mystery
© 2008 Joseph Perrone Jr.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
SMASHWORDS EDITION
FIRST EDITION
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or means without the written permission of the author, except in cases of brief quotations.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
WARNING: This book contains explicit sexual content that may be inappropriate for some readers.
MORE BOOKS BY JOE PERRONE JR.
Fiction
Opening Day: A Matt Davis Mystery
Escaping Innocence (A Story Of Awakening)
Twice Bitten: A Matt Davis Mystery
Non-Fiction
A “Real” Man’s Guide To Divorce (First, you bend over and…)
Gone Fishin’ With Kids (How To Take Your Kid Fishing And Still Be Friends)
co-authored with Manny Luftglass
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my dear wife, Becky. Without her inspiration, everlasting patience, mammoth understanding, and undying love, it is doubtful that it ever would have been completed.
This is for you, my love.
CHAPTER 1
7:48 p.m., Thursday, March 16, 2002
Wriggling impatiently in his narrow tourist class seat, George Spiros gripped the armrest fearfully and fought against an almost overpowering impulse to scream. The huge DC10 airliner was being buffeted wildly about as if it were nothing more than a leaf in the wind. Below the plane, bright electrical flashes exploded spectacularly like miniature nuclear devices. An enormous line of thunderclouds had spread its ugly tentacles over the entire eastern seaboard. As a consequence, the American Airlines flight from California had been diverted from its direct route—LAX to JFK—along a more northerly path into New York City. The captain announced that they would be coming in over Jamestown, then into the sprawling metropolitan facility. Despite the change of route, the airliner had still caught the edge of the storm.
The man straddled Melina Spiros’ naked, spread-eagled body, and began to methodically rape the thirty-four-year old housewife. Her face was battered beyond recognition. Her right cheekbone was shattered; her nose was broken, and crusted blood filled both nostrils. She had a split lip, and there were angry red welts that covered both breasts.
Occasionally, the man would raise his face upward, his lips moving in a kind of silent prayer, almost as if pleading—to whatever entity he called his god—for some sort of divine intervention. None came. Beneath him, Melina drifted in and out of consciousness. Each time she showed signs of awakening, the man pummeled her unmercifully, until she drifted off again to that state between life and death that now held her in its grip.
The forty-seven-year old Greek immigrant had a deathly fear of flying, and the storm had come as a disconcerting addition to an already unpleasant trip. Lately, these sales trips had become a necessary part of life. He owned a small wrought-iron furniture-manufacturing firm, and as such, wore many hats. He not only designed and supervised the construction of the furniture, but was also the company’s sole representative. The sales trips, though irksome, were the price he had to pay for the gains he hoped to make. The West Coast trip had been a huge success, and he couldn’t wait to get home and tell Melina the good news.
After knocking Melina unconscious, the attacker had stuffed a sock roughly into her mouth to insure that she couldn’t yell for help. Her legs were anchored to the posts of the footboard by stockings tied to her feet; and her hands were tethered to the headboard—one with her bra, and the other with her panties. When she was awake, Melina’s terror was as palpable as her pulse, which beat like a trip hammer within the cavity of her heaving chest. This must be the way a mouse felt, she thought, caught between the claws of a playful, but deadly, cat.
Outside the plane, the storm had intensified. Huge claps of thunder accentuated each flash of lightning, like the orchestral score of a gothic film. Inside the cabin, lights flickered on and off, and passengers shifted anxiously in their seats. Beads of perspiration poured down George’s face. His newly acquired, three-piece Brooks Brothers suit was already stained beneath the armpits. He made a note to remember to have it cleaned. A violent mechanical shudder, accompanied by dimming lights, caused him to tremble. Packages and baggage stored in the overhead compartments shifted and bumped noisily as the craft was tossed about in the increasing turbulence. Women shrieked in alarm, and men coughed nervously. Thoughts of his wife raced through George’s mind. He began praying silently, imagining the worst. Fortunately, his imagination was not sufficient to the task.
The man she had arranged to meet this evening was someone she had met several weeks ago in an Internet chat room, called “Manhattan Singles.” He had intrigued her from the start, and when he had invited her to meet him for a drink, she had been pleasantly surprised, accepting immediately. Privacy was important, so they had agreed upon a small tavern, just out of the neighborhood, where no one would know either of them, especially her. Inviting him back to her apartment had been a risk, but she never intended to do anything more than talk, so she had taken it.
Hoping not to offend him, she explained that she liked him, but wasn’t interested in anything other than a platonic relationship.
Immediately, he had accused her of teasing him. She protested, but he grew more agitated, persisting with his allegations. The more she tried to placate him, the angrier he grew. Finally he grabbed her by the shoulders and shouted in her face, “You goddamn cock-teaser, I’ll teach you to fuck with me.” The first punch had broken her jaw. Mercifully, the next one had knocked her unconscious.
Now, awake again and helpless on the bed, she reflected upon her predicament. It was George’s fault she rationalized, for always being away on business. After all, a woman has needs too! Never mind the fact that he was killing himself, working in an effort to get them out of the small apartment in the crowded Chelsea neighborhood that they called home.
At the same moment that her husband was praying to live, Melina Spiros was wishing she would die.
CHAPTER 2
Detective Lieutenant Matt Davis of the Tenth Precinct Detective Squad scratched his head, as he slouched in his leather recliner in front of the ancient little black-and-white television set perched precariously on his neat but crowded desk. The Mets were ahead of the Pirates, 2-1, in the final spring-training game of the season. Davis did not expect the lead to hold up.
He was forty-five years old, and had been a police officer for nearly twenty years, the last fifteen as a detective. His thick but graying hair was testimony to life in the homicide division. There was also a slight paunch that Matt considered an unwelcome advertisement for middle age, yet many women found curiously irresistible. He had a face with “character” that sported a nose broken on more than one occasion in countless PAL boxing matches. His gold-wire framed reading glasses gave his pale blue eyes a magnified look that prompted good-natured ridicule within the department, but his overall appearance was such that it was attractive to the opposite sex, and non-threatening to most men. He was of average height and build, and carried himself with a quiet dignity that commanded respect.
The small study in the Chelsea walk-up where he lived with his wife, Valerie, was a reflection of th
e preferences of its male occupant. Pictures of Bobby Jones, Gene Sarazan, Ben Hogan, Palmer, Player, and Nicklaus, adorned two of the four walls in the little room. Many of the photos were autographed, and some carried personal inscriptions. Other golfing mementos and souvenirs, including several antique golf clubs, hung carefully from shiny brass hooks.
The remaining two surfaces were covered with artistic representations of fish. Scattered among the stuffed specimens were paintings and sketches of trout and salmon. All of them were numbered prints rather than originals, more a misleading reflection of the detective’s modest budget rather than any disdain for one-of-a-kind artwork.
Next to his passion for golf, there was nothing Davis loved more than to fly fish for trout. As for salmon angling, that was still a dream to be realized, a reminder of the financial constraints imposed upon him by his meager detective’s salary. He often fantasized how he would someday realize his dreams of fishing on the storied Miramichi River for Atlantic salmon – after retirement, of course. It wasn’t really the money, but the lack of free time that represented the obstacle. Until then, he still had his pictures and his books. Fishing publications of every size and description filled the ancient walnut bookshelves, which spanned the area beneath the large, triple window that faced the street below. He often sat until late into the night poring over their pages, imagining himself on the mystical waters of the Margaree River of Cape Breton Island, with a crusty old guide standing by his side. Occasionally, his wife, Valerie, would find him in the morning, asleep with his head in the pages of one of the treasured tomes.
The detective glanced at his wristwatch, then flipped off the television set. Although it was only nine thirty-five, it was nearly his bedtime. “Shit,” he exclaimed, as he realized that he had spent the whole evening watching baseball, never eating the sandwich Valerie had made for him. He had missed dinner (as usual), and now the remains of an ice-cold grilled cheese sandwich, accompanied by a dill pickle slice and a handful of stale potato chips, lay attached to the plate by a string of congealed cheese. He reached for the pickle, took a bite, and was just fingering the cold sandwich, when the telephone rang. He picked it up on the first ring
CHAPTER 3
The storm had subsided at last, and the plane banked lazily as it dropped into its final approach to the rain-slicked runway. The PLEASE FASTEN SEATBELTS sign had been flashing regularly for several minutes, and George grasped the textured armrest in the traditional “white knuckle” manner and held his breath. His stomach flip-flopped nervously as the lumbering jetliner neared its destination below. A blond flight attendant standing nearby met his nervous glance with her eyes, and offered a reassuring smile.
Melina would be surprised to see him a day early, he thought. He pictured her dark brown, moody eyes and her full-figured body – still relatively young, still alive with passion. He imagined himself holding her tightly, the smell of her hair, the weight of her breasts against his tired chest. He felt himself becoming aroused at the thought and looked around nervously, half expecting to find the attendant staring at him. To his relief, he discovered that the pretty blond was already busily arranging herself in an aisle seat in preparation for landing. He glanced at his gold-colored Citizen watch and noted that it was seven fifty-five. Maybe next year he’d be wearing a Rolex.
As the attacker clumsily attempted to enter the helpless woman, he babbled incoherently, and occasionally swore, as he poked and prodded between her wide-stretched legs. Melina frantically slid her hips from side to side in a feeble effort to avoid the erect penis that pushed insistently against her. Strong hands grasped her buttocks roughly as the attacker triumphantly thrust himself inside her. She felt something tear, and thought of the children she would probably never be able to bear. Well, she would not make it easy for him, she thought.
With a mighty effort, she bucked her hips sharply against the invasion. But, she was no match for her attacker, and the more she struggled, the stronger he seemed to become, and the more aroused. She was incredulous that any man—especially this man—could be doing what he was doing. Earlier, he had seemed so kind, so gentle—not at all like the crazed person who was now violating her.
Melina’s mind raced furiously in an attempt to recall what she was supposed to do. A fleeting glimpse of an Oprah episode flashed through her mind. What had the expert said? Be quiet? Make noise? She couldn’t remember. It was impossible to focus on her thoughts. Desperate to detach herself from the agony of the present, she tried to picture her husband’s face. But the image of George’s loving countenance only filled her with despair, and she began to cry, tears streaming down her face
Her attacker was oblivious to her fear and pumped into her angrily. Perspiration dripped from his face and the moisture fell on her body like a macabre rain. He was hurting her, and she desperately wished he would stop. Maybe he would leave then. Finally, his watery blue eyes glazed over and his hips bucked in the unmistakable throes of orgasm, and she felt him spurt his pathetic seed deep inside her body. No sound came from his twisted face, as if words would tarnish the sanctity of the moment. She was filled with a sudden sense of outrage, and she screamed angrily against the sock inside her mouth. The muffled noise brought a brief, satisfied smile to the man’s face.
He paused and removed his hands from beneath Melina’s hips, and for an instant, she foolishly expected him to untie her. She relaxed slightly, and he began massaging her shoulders – rhythmically, as if he were kneading dough. Melina took shallow breaths through her swollen nose. Gradually, however, the force of the pressure increased, and she felt his hands moving to her throat. Melina realized at last that there was no hope for escape. The killer’s breath came in ragged gasps as his powerful fingers closed against her unprotected throat. Her eyes bulged grotesquely, growing dull and unseeing, and her arms and legs jerked ineffectively against the restraints that held them tight.
The man saw the look of fear in his victim’s eyes and smiled. Melina saw her own desperate face reflected in the attacker’s eyes and recognized it as the face of death.
A dull thud announced the lowering of the landing gear, followed by the familiar hydraulic sound of the wing flaps being extended. Shortly afterward, a welcome bump relayed their landing. George was assaulted by the roaring whine of the reversing engines, and the abrupt pressure of the seat belt against his hips. Gradually, the big jet decelerated, and then lumbered toward the terminal.
Things would be different now, he thought. Melina often spoke of her biological clock – teasing him with the tick, tick, tick sound of nature’s timepiece. George acknowledged that a child could provide the missing ingredient in their otherwise perfect marital mix. From now on, he would pay more attention to his wife’s needs. He would call her more often when he was on the road, and he would bring her gifts that would make those dark eyes sparkle with delight and – yes – passion.
The killer carefully undid the stockings and undergarments fastening the dead woman’s arms and legs to the bedposts. Then he removed the sock from Melina’s mouth, tossing it casually into a corner. He had already carefully cleaned the brown stain that Melina had made between her legs when her anal sphincter had relaxed and released a flood of warm feces in a deadly orgasm of death. Only a clear, wet spot now showed beneath her limp form, and even that would soon be dry. He was pleased with his efforts, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the disfigurement of her face.
Rummaging through his pockets, he extracted a small, pearl-handled penknife. He ran his thumb over the miniature blade, biting his tongue when the edge pierced the skin, prompting a deep red drop of blood to well up on its surface. Satisfied, he quickly put the instrument to work. With the skill and dexterity of an artisan, he traced the shape of a small heart on the dead woman’s left breast. Then, he delicately carved two sets of initials inside the design. He stepped back to admire his handiwork. A look of dismay crossed the killer’s face, for there were small droplets of blood obscuring the clean edges of the heart. That w
ould never do. He took several tissues from a box of Kleenex on the night table and blotted the fresh blood. Although Melina’s heart had long since ceased beating, the killer maintained steady pressure on the wounds until, at last, the design was sealed forever.
The yellow taxi screeched to a halt in front of the Spiros’ apartment building. George paid the young Israeli driver, tipping him generously, and moved to the rear of the vehicle to retrieve his battered suitcase. Then, like a nervous horse free of its rider, the cab lurched forward. George was alone on the empty street. A steady rain beat down on the umbrella above his head. He had been gone nearly a week and was glad to be home. The heavy suitcase grew a bit lighter when he saw the illuminated bedroom window in the apartment, bringing forth the pleasant image of his wife preparing for bed; it made him smile.
The killer closed the apartment door quietly behind him and slipped down the single flight of stairs to the small, poorly lit lobby below. He opened the scarred, metal front door at the end of the hallway and stuck his head outside into the cool evening air, glancing up and down the street before exiting. He started down the deserted sidewalk, his footsteps echoing off the walls of the surrounding buildings, and nearly collided with a man carrying two suitcases. The killer lowered his head, avoided eye contact, and continued on his way. He crossed the pavement and disappeared into the shadows.
George shrugged his shoulders against the burden of the heavy bags, and entered the apartment building. He didn’t ring the bell, his usual signal that he was home, but instead climbed the stairs to the apartment. He reached for his key, but saw that the deadbolt was unfastened. How many times had he reminded Melina to fasten it? Suddenly an overpowering sense of dread washed over him. He dropped his luggage and entered the apartment, drawn by some unseen force through the living room, past the kitchen, and down the hall toward the bedroom.
As The Twig Is Bent: A Matt Davis Mystery Page 1