As The Twig Is Bent: A Matt Davis Mystery

by Perrone Jr. , Joe

  The door was open and George breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Melina lying quietly asleep on the double bed in the corner of the little bedroom. Thank God, she’s all right, he thought. He started out into the hall, stopped, and turned back to gaze upon the scene again. Something was wrong. He stared at the naked woman lying on the bed. Naked? His wife never slept in the nude. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead as he crept closer to the bed and looked down at his wife. Something was dreadfully wrong. Thick yellow bile rose in his throat, threatening to choke him. He stared at her in horror, a silent scream echoing inside his head. The room began to spin, and he retched violently, collapsing on the bed in a pool of his own vomit, next to his very beautiful and very dead wife.

  CHAPTER 4

  Detective Davis?” inquired the voice on the other end of the line. Matt hesitated before replying; somehow sensing a tone in the caller’s voice that made him wish he hadn’t answered. “Yeah,” he said, “this is Lieutenant Davis. Who’s this?”

  “It’s Patrolman Harder, sir.”

  “Of course, I should have recognized your voice,” said Matt.

  “Yes sir,” said Harder.

  “So, what’s up, Hard On?” he joked, using the vulgar nickname that everyone substituted for the patrolman’s real name. Paul Harder was a recent transfer to the Tenth Precinct’s uniformed squad, and had been immediately tagged with the unflattering moniker by the detective Precinct Commander, Captain Ed Foster.

  “Sir, the captain asked me to call you. He said you better get down here right away.”

  “What’s the problem?” asked Davis.

  “Looks like we’ve got another heart murder,” said Harder.

  “You’re sure?” inquired Matt. A particularly brutal homicide had occurred about six weeks ago. The victim’s name was Ida Simpson, a part-time social worker. They were still at square one with that one, and he definitely didn’t need another. The murder had all the earmarks of a serial killing, complete with a distinct signature. A vivid mental picture of the previous murder victim flashed through his mind. The attractive twenty-five year old housewife had been bound hand and foot, raped, and strangled. Nothing particularly unusual about the crime – except for the heart carved into her left breast.

  “Lieutenant? Are you still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here,” answered Davis. He massaged his forehead. “Tell the captain I’ll be right down.” He hesitated, looking for the right words to say. “One more thing, Hard-on—”

  “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  “That heart stuff – keep it to yourself. Do you understand? That particular bit of information isn’t supposed to be—”

  “I know, I know,” replied Harder quickly. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. The captain already told us. Don’t worry. You can count on me.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Matt quietly, “just tell Foster I’m on my way.”

  If this new one was like the other, it meant bad news. Usually two homicides with strikingly alike modus operandi indicated a serial killer, the most difficult of all to apprehend. He gently placed the receiver in its cradle, flipped off the light in the study, and headed down the hall towards the kitchen. It would be a long evening, and he was not about to get started without something in his stomach. He dumped the remains of the grilled cheese sandwich and stale chips into the garbage. He opened the refrigerator, and bent over a cold platter of leftover turkey that monopolized the small top shelf of the well-worn appliance. He was stalling, and he knew it.

  “Who was that on the phone, honey?” It was Valerie, his wife of five years, who was sitting in the living room, working on a crossword puzzle – her passion.

  “Hard On,” answered Matt matter-of-factly.

  He heard his wife laugh at the nickname. Valerie had a wonderful sense of humor, and never flinched at the off-color stories her husband regularly brought home. She represented his second attempt at trying to achieve the perfect marriage. His first wife had left him after fifteen years of being alone too often; the broken promise to have children had not helped. This time around was proving to be nearly as difficult; the main obstruction was still “the job.” Only the combination of Valerie’s devotion and Matt’s determination were preventing a repeat performance.

  “What did he want?” asked Valerie.

  Matt either didn’t hear her or pretended not to as he studied the turkey, knowing it was the healthier choice, then reaching instead for a container of leftover lasagna.

  “I said what did he want, honey?” repeated Valerie, from the other room.

  “Guess,” replied her husband. He stabbed a fork at the cold pasta, spearing a hunk and stuffing it into his mouth.

  Valerie got up from the over-stuffed flowered sofa, placed the puzzle book on the lamp table, and joined him in the kitchen. She crossed behind him to where he sat at the Formica-topped table and began tenderly massaging his neck and shoulder muscles. Val didn’t need to be a genius to guess what was coming next – another night by herself. It was a part of the job, but no one said she had to like it – and she didn’t. Matt closed his eyes and luxuriated in the moment. He leaned back and looked up into his wife’s deep blue eyes. She leaned down, kissed him gently on the lips, then left the room, shaking her blonde head back and forth in resignation. It wasn’t that she disapproved of her husband’s job; he was good at it, and she respected him for his dedication. It was just that she loved him so much, and worried that some day it might drive the final wedge between them. Davis, too, wished he could just stay home with Valerie. He shrugged his shoulders and sighed. Just fifteen more months, he thought. That was how much longer he had until he would be eligible for retirement.

  Another mouthful of lasagna, followed by a cold swallow of cranberry juice and a couple of red grapes, finished off the abbreviated feast, and Davis grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. He paused to plant a kiss on Valerie’s forehead and whispered “See you later.” She looked up from her book, smiled, and mouthed, “I love you, Matt.”

  “Love you, too,” he replied quietly. He turned and exited the apartment, the door closing silently behind him.

  CHAPTER 5

  Detective Second-Grade Chris Freitag was Davis’s partner of nearly seven years, and his best friend. He was waiting in an unmarked black Chevrolet Impala in front of the precinct house. In contrast to Matt, the younger Freitag stood six-three, and was built like a refrigerator, with huge shoulders, bulging biceps, and a shock of jet-black hair that revealed his one-quarter Mohawk Indian ancestry. He was forty-one, and hailed from upstate New York near Newburgh, where he had been a standout on his high school football team. Unlike his partner, he had never married, and saw no reason to change the status quo. He was quite at home in the tiny Eastside walkup he called home.

  Sitting in the back seat was Captain Foster. Davis opened the front passenger door, nodded at his boss, and climbed in next to Freitag. Chris slapped the magnetic light onto the roof and pulled the car into traffic.

  “It doesn’t look good Matt,” said Foster. “It’s just like that woman we found six weeks ago over on Eighth Avenue. Feet tied with her stockings, hands bound with her underpants and bra, sock stuffed in her mouth and,” sighed Foster, “the heart”.

  “Shit,” said Davis. They had yet to come up with so much as a weak lead for the previous murder, and he saw no signs for optimism.

  “I hear you,” replied Foster, matter-of-factly.

  “Who called it in?” asked Matt.

  “The husband,” answered Foster. “Comes home early from a business trip. Says he wants to surprise her.”

  “I guess the surprise was on him, huh?” Freitag quipped.

  Foster shot him a disapproving look.

  In just over three minutes, the car screeched to a stop in front of the four-story walk-up. Yellow crime scene tape was stretched between the wrought-iron railings lining each side of the concrete stoop. The rain had abated, and the wet sidewalk glistened in the night’s light. Several standard-i
ssue blue and white cruisers sat in front of the nondescript building, lights flashing, their engines running. Behind them was a red and white Emergency Services truck, its high-pitched alternator humming reliably. The call to 911 had come in at nine-thirty five, and the unit in B sector had responded to the scene. A young acne-faced patrol officer stood guard at the entrance to the building. His somber posture bespoke the seriousness of the crime.

  Davis, Foster, and Freitag hustled up the few concrete steps to the landing and addressed the man in blue. “Did you see the body?” asked Matt.

  The uniformed cop shook his head. “Hanley was the first one in. The asshole puked his guts out.”

  Davis studied the young cop’s face. “Wipe that smirk off your face.”

  The patrolman blushed in embarrassment, and then said, “I mean, I’m glad it was him and not me,” as if that would clear him with Davis.

  Matt frowned in response.

  “Sorry, sir,” mumbled the cop.

  CSU and the ME are on their way already, sir,” said the patrolman. “I called them myself.” He smiled at his efficiency, hoping Davis would approve.

  Matt smiled a tight-lipped smile and acknowledged the remark. Normally it was the responsibility of the detectives to make such a call, but protocol often took a back seat to expediency.

  Davis led the way up the stairs to where the second patrol officer stood maintaining a watch outside the apartment. His uniform was soiled, a souvenir of his first experience with a homicide. He grinned uneasily at the detectives. Foster and the two plainclothesmen showed their badges and filed into the apartment. The rookie patrol officer followed them inside.

  “The victim’s name is Melina Spiros. Her husband is in the living room,” he said.

  The distraught spouse sat hunched over on the couch, sobbing quietly into his damp handkerchief. He looked up as Davis approached and started to stand. Davis put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him.

  “Mr. Spiros? I’m Detective Davis. I’m very sorry about your wife, sir.”

  The man shook his head in quiet acknowledgment.

  Hanley addressed the captain and the two detectives. “The deceased is in the bedroom on the right at the end of the hall,” he said quietly.

  “Thanks,” replied Freitag. The three men started down the corridor. Matt scanned the naked walls, noting the lack of pictures or other meaningful adornments.

  The detectives entered the bedroom as young people might enter a funeral home for the first time—with respect and trepidation. Both emotions were appropriate.

  “Jesus Christ,” whispered Chris. The specter before them was not a pretty one, and Davis inhaled deeply through clenched teeth. Freitag tried not to breathe at all. His heart started pounding as it always did at the sight of a murder victim. Melina Spiros’s right eye was black and blue, and swollen shut; the left bulged grotesquely, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Her face was distorted by extensive swelling, a mass of bruises and abrasions. Blood matted her hair, and red welts covered most of her body.

  As the two detectives stood solemnly by the bed, each was aware of the other’s discomfort. Sex crimes were never easy. Freitag’s present-day girlfriend had been a rape victim as a teenager. Davis’s first wife had also very nearly suffered a similar misfortune while doing wash at a coin-operated laundry. Only her martial arts training and the quick-witted actions of a fellow customer had prevented her attacker from succeeding.

  A noise at the front door of the apartment caught the attention of the two men. Several seconds later, two crime scene technicians padded into the room, coughing noisily to announce their presence, before positioning themselves alongside Freitag and Davis. Foster stood at the opposite side of the bed.

  “I want this place gone over with a fine-toothed comb,” ordered Matt. “Phones, door knobs, toilet bowl handle, everything.” His orders were not necessary, but he gave them anyway, fulfilling an unspoken promise to the deceased. Routine procedure mandated that every possible effort be made to gather all physical evidence at a crime scene. Included would be the collection of any blood, hair, and fiber evidence, as well as semen, if there were any. The evidence would be placed in plastic bags, sealed, and labeled.

  There would be extensive dusting for fingerprints. Every possible point of entry would be tested, in addition to telephones, counter tops, the victim’s own skin (with Polaroid film used to lift any marks), and any other items or surfaces that could possibly yield fingerprints. They would take measurements, collect fingernail scrapings, and note temperature readings. In addition, the scene would be photographed from every conceivable angle.

  Along with the bruises and cuts, there were extensive abrasions on her wrists and ankles, a result of her fierce struggle against her bonds. Each mark was photographed and noted. There was some swelling around the vaginal area, and also bruising and swelling on the victim’s neck. Strangulation appeared to be the obvious cause of death, but only an autopsy could confirm that as fact.

  While the crime scene men gathered physical evidence, detective Freitag was busying himself elsewhere in the apartment building. The tall detective canvassed neighbors, copying down anything they said that might give the slightest hint of what had happened. Then he moved outside, and wrote down license plate numbers from the cars parked on the block.

  But, the most unique evidence was plainly visible for even the most casual observer to see—two clues that were so compelling and unusual that no one had even dared to mention them. It was as if by not acknowledging the clues, the horror of the crime could be denied.

  Now, their presence could no longer be ignored.

  The young medical examiner, Cathy Ahearn, had arrived, and was bent over the corpse, examining it from every angle. Finally, she began speaking slowly and deliberately into her small, portable tape recorder. Her words grimly and matter-of-factly described the dreaded evidence in its grotesque detail.

  “There is a small heart-shaped incision on the victim’s left breast,” she noted. “The incision appears to have been made either by a scalpel or other similarly sharp cutting instrument.” She coughed and then continued, “The heart is approximately seven and one-half centimeters long by five centimeters wide. There are located directly within the heart what appear to be two pairs of initials, one set positioned precisely above the other….”

  It was impossible, of course, for words to describe the brutality of the senseless disfigurement. But, there might be added significance to what they saw. One set of initials was the same as one of those found on the body of Ida Simpson: J.C.

  Jesus Christ? Can this be real? The medical examiner already knew the answer.

  CHAPTER 6

  Davis and Foster looked across at one another from opposite sides of the bed. Their eyes reflected a mutual concern. Each, in his time, had investigated countless homicides, many with characteristics far more offbeat than those currently on display. What disturbed them both was the fact that while individual murder cases were solved at the surprisingly high rate of around seventy-five percent, the probability of solving serial homicides was much lower. Often, these types of crimes involved complex motives, and frequently defied the best efforts of even the most aggressive detective work. Davis addressed the ME regarding his most pressing concern.

  “Listen, Cathy, about these initials,” he said. “If the press gets a hold of this we’re gonna be screwed. We were lucky as hell to keep it out of the papers last time.”

  The ME nodded. “So?”

  “It’s all we’ve got to go on right now. Other than that we don’t have a clue.”

  “And?”

  “I just don’t wanna let things get out of control.”

  The ME was a tall, slender woman, always immaculately dressed. Her short hair was coifed in the latest style, and her make up was impeccable. She straightened her charcoal gray skirt, and regarded Davis with an icy stare. Leaks were like cancer. Once they started there was no saving the patient—or the case. It was common knowledg
e that most leaks to the press originated either in the DA’s office or in the office of the medical examiner. Davis wanted to be at least reasonably confident of securing the latter.

  The ME resented the implication. “Don’t worry about my office, detective,” said Ahearn, sarcastically. “Worry about your own blabbermouths.”

  Davis’s jaw tightened in response. Only on rare occasions did a rumor escape the confines of precinct headquarters, and then only by way of a uniformed officer. Leaks from detectives were almost nonexistent. Davis let her remark pass in the interest of harmony, but Ahearn could tell by the detective’s silence that she had overstepped the boundaries of propriety. After an uncomfortable pause, she broke the stalemate.

  “Matt,” she offered, almost in apology, “you might want to get in touch with the archdiocese. Maybe they can shed some light on any religious angle.” Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “There does appear to be a connection, don’t you think?” Davis nodded automatically, subconsciously making a mental note of her suggestion.

  Foster and Davis left the ME and returned to the living room. Freitag had returned from the canvass, and sat beside the victim’s husband.

  “I’m afraid I need to ask you a few questions, Mr. Spiros,” said Matt, his voice trailing off. This part was never easy, no matter how often he did it and this was his thirty-third homicide investigation. It always made him feel the same—very uncomfortable, and more than a little sad.

  “Sir,” he began, “when did you first discover your wife’s body?”