Spiros blew his nose before he answered. “Around nine-fifteen, I guess.” Davis had his notebook out, and wrote down the information. “I noticed the dead bolt wasn’t on,” he continued. “I’m always telling Melina ‘Lock the door, Melina. It isn’t safe.’” He started to cry again, then tried to regain his composure.
“Yes, sir,” replied Davis. “You told her the right thing.” He smiled and patted the little Greek man on the shoulder. A lot of good that did, he thought.
“Anyway, I came home a day early. I want to surprise her, you know?” His eyes brightened at the memory of his anticipation, then dimmed at the reality of what had followed.
“I see the bedroom light from the street. I figure she’s watching TV. But the door is unlocked. I know something is wrong. I just know it…” The man began weeping openly now. Davis waited patiently for him to stop.
“Were you away long, sir?” he asked.
“Five days,” replied the husband.
“Business trip?”
“Yes, to California. I was at a trade show. I make furniture, and...”
The questioning continued for another five minutes, but Davis had already dismissed the man as a suspect. He concluded the routine interrogatory as quickly as possible, hoping to save the tired man any further agony. Finally, he thanked him, and turned to Freitag and Foster. “I think we’re done here,” he said, softly.
They left the apartment as quietly as they had entered it.
Matt took the wheel on the way back to headquarters; he hoped the driving would serve to distract him from the crime—at least for a while. Instead, dozens of questions flashed through his mind as he steered the Chevrolet in silence. When did the killer carve the initials? Were the women still alive? Was it before he raped them, or afterwards? To whom did they belong? Did the J.C. really refer to Jesus Christ? Did the killer love women or did he hate them? Maybe he couldn’t get women—except by force.
The possibilities boggled the mind, but one thing was clear. There was a compelling reason for the heart and the initials, and the sooner he discovered what it was, the sooner he would possess the key to unlocking this mystery.
CHAPTER 7
The Tenth Precinct buzzed with excitement like a Times Square hotel ballroom minutes before midnight on New Year’s Eve. A mob of reporters had gathered in the lobby beneath the raised platform occupied by the desk sergeant. The reporters were waiting for the Precinct Commander to hold a press conference. Police radio scanners had attracted them like scavengers to carrion, and they were everywhere. Foster, Freitag, and Davis brushed past them, to where a microphone had been set up. The newsmen shouted rudely at them. Davis stood alongside Foster as he prepared to speak. Freitag moved to a spot behind the two men.
“Hey, Captain. Is it true you have another Boston Strangler on your hands?” shouted one reporter.
Foster smiled and held up his hand, waiting for the noise to abate.
“Gentlemen,” he began. “As you probably know, there’s been a murder. The victim is a thirty-four year old housewife. The deceased was found by her husband at around nine-thirty this evening, upon his return from a business trip. The cause of death appears to be strangulation. There are no witnesses and no suspects at this time. Identification is being withheld until all relatives have been notified. That’s all I can tell you at this time. Thank you.”
“Is the husband a suspect?” a voice yelled from the back of the crowd.
“I repeat,” said Foster, with a dirty look, “At this time we have no suspects. Thank you.”
Another reporter yelled out his question. “Is there any truth to the rumor that there might be a connection between this murder and the woman who was killed last month?”
“No comment,” said Foster.
“There’s been talk that there were signs of some kind of ritual,” said another scribe. “Any truth to that report?”
“Gentlemen, the press conference is over.”
Foster turned and hurried past the reporters, making his way upstairs, and leaving Davis to face the anxious newsmen. The questions came fast and furious. Davis raised his hands and repeated the captain’s response, “No comment,” like a mantra. He finally recognized the last questioner as Harry Cohen of the New York Post.
“Sorry, Harry. I’m not saying ‘boo’ until I know something definite,” said Matt.
“Oh, come on Davis. Give me a break. I’m just trying to make a living here. What about the ritual business?”
Davis pulled the reporter close to him and whispered, “Listen, Cohen, I can’t discuss the case with you. When I know something, then you’ll know something, okay?”
Cohen stared directly into the detective’s eyes, decided he was being honest with him, and replied, “Okay, Davis, but don’t forget, you promised!”
“Yeah, right,” answered Davis, “and next week we’ll pick out the furniture.”
With that, he exited the lobby, quickly making his way upstairs and into the sanctuary of the wood-paneled office that Captain Foster called his second home.
Closing the door behind him, Davis headed for the ancient two-burner electric hot plate that held two Pyrex coffeepots—one filled with the appropriate brew, the other with steaming hot water. Rummaging through the enameled cabinet that supported the hot plate, he retrieved a clean paper cup and a packet of generic hot chocolate mix. He dumped its contents into the cup, slopped some hot water into it, and stirred the whole thing with the eraser end of a number two pencil. He sucked the end of the pencil dry, and then took a sip from the cup, burning his lip in the process.
Davis never drank coffee, seldom if ever, tea—except the Chinese kind—and rarely consumed alcohol. But chocolate was his passion. He stood with one foot propped against the green wall of the office, drinking a cup as Foster began talking.
CHAPTER 8
Baltimore, Maryland: April 3, 1942
Marie Dameski was sixteen years old. She was poor, not particularly bright, and the only child of a widower father who drank. However, she had several things going for her – she was extraordinarily good looking and she had a great body. With it she was able to get any boy she wanted, and she wanted them all. There was a lot smoke, but no fire, none that is until Jack Curran came along and lit the flame.
Jack was the neighborhood Errol Flynn. He was a hard-drinking Irish youth whose sexual appetite was well known. Marie’s father had forbidden her from seeing the boy and even threatened to throw his daughter out if she ever so much as spoke to him.
Right now, it was the sixteen-year old girl’s mind, not her body, which was working overtime as she shifted her firm buttocks against the rough, uncomfortable back seat of Jack’s 1936 Ford sedan. The two of them had been seeing each other on the sly for almost a month. So far, Marie had been able to hold off Jack’s advances with promises and excuses, but it was becoming more difficult. She found herself trying half-heartedly not to become another of Jack’s conquests, just as her father had predicted she would be.
Jack Curran’s breath reeked of cigarettes and whiskey as he pleaded in Marie’s ear, “Come on, Marie. Let me do it. You know you’ll like it.”
“What if I get pregnant?” She knew her father would throw her out if she did. She couldn’t take a chance.
“Marie, come on. You know I love you.” He quickly added, “We’ll even get married if we have to.”
Maybe he really would marry her. Maybe at last she could get away from her crude, abusive father. She lay trapped beneath Jack’s sweaty body, her skirt around her ankles. Her blouse was unbuttoned, and her head was spinning from too much whiskey. Jack rubbed her thigh with his callused hand, and she thought of her father, who often touched her like this when he returned home after drinking all night. Her cheeks flushed even further. She felt an overpowering tingling between her legs, and her resolve weakened. It would serve her father right if she got herself knocked up. She relaxed for a second and Jack took this as a sign of encouragement. Soon there was no turni
ng back, and the awkward coupling had taken place.
Afterward, Marie popped several Sen-Sen tablets into her mouth in an effort to mask the scent of the liquor on her breath. Jack drove her home. He pulled the Ford to the curb, a half block short of the rundown tenement on Quincy Street, and reached over and pulled the girl toward him. She allowed herself to be cuddled. They sat like that until Jack broke the uneasy silence.
“Marie, I gotta tell you something.”
The girl swallowed hard and felt her lips grow dry. “What is it, Jack?”
“I got my notice today.”
Marie shut her eyes and covered her ears with her small, slender hands. The war was heating up and she understood the significance of what Jack had told her. She did not want to hear anymore.
“ I gotta get goin’,” she said.
“Marie,” said Jack. “Did ya hear what I said?”
The young girl shook her head up and down, tears coursing down her cheeks.
“I’m leavin’ a week from tomorrow.” Then, he added, “I want ya to marry me.”
Marie was shocked. She liked Jack a lot, was crazy about him, in fact. But marriage, well that was something she really had not been ready for—not yet, anyway. Jack gripped her arms firmly and repeated his awkward proposal.
“Marie? Did ya’ hear me? I said I want ya’ to marry me. Please?”
Gradually, the girl regained her composure. She loosened her boyfriend’s hold on her arms and turned to face him. With a deep breath, she gave him her answer. “Do you really think I’m gonna marry you and then watch you go off and get yourself killed?”
Jack winced. The image of himself being blown to smithereens overwhelmed him.
“I don’t think so!” continued the girl. “Thanks a lot! Thanks for nothin’!”
Rebuffed, Jack replied, “Hey, fine. I don’t give a shit. I’m only tryin’ to do the right thing, you know. I mean…Hell, I’d marry ya’ …I mean, if you really wanted me to...”
“Look, just take me home, okay?” said Marie.
“Sure, fine, whatever you say,” he answered, the relief evident in his voice.
Jack put the car into gear and advanced the remaining half block to Marie’s apartment house. Before the vehicle had rolled to a complete stop, Marie was out the door and up the stairs into the hallway of the tenement. The apartment was dark as Marie closed the heavy door quietly behind her. The smell of her father’s breath arrived along with the first punch, which caught her completely by surprise. She put up her hands in meek self-defense. After that, it didn’t matter.
Marie and Jack were married the following day. After the brief civil ceremony, they moved into a furnished apartment. Six days later Jack went off to fight the Japanese. Marie was left to fend for herself. At first, she enjoyed the change. Living on her own was sort of fun, and, with World War II in full bloom work was easy to find. Marie got a menial job on an assembly line making hand grenades in a defense plant, where she earned more than enough to pay for her room and board. Her father, relieved to be free of the responsibility, never bothered her again.
After seven weeks, Marie’s worst fears were realized. She visited an outpatient clinic, and confirmed that she was pregnant. She continued to work right up until her eighth month, but was finally forced to quit when her swollen belly would no longer allow her to sit at the assembly line. On December 31, 1942, exactly two-hundred and seventy-two days after her initiation into womanhood in the back seat of Jack Curran’s Ford, Marie gave birth to John Curran, Jr. Happy New Year!
From the start, Marie hated motherhood and her baby. He cried from morning to night, never giving her a minute’s rest. Most of all, she hated feeding him. Her breasts ached continually; heavily swollen with milk, their weight was a constant reminder of her unwanted offspring and his absent father. She would tease the hungry baby by holding his mouth an inch or so away from her distended nipple. Then she would watch with fascination as his little lips sucked voraciously at thin air. His arms would wave frantically until she finally allowed him to partake of the watery milk—and only then to alleviate her own discomfort.
In March, she received a telegram informing her of Jack’s death in the South Pacific. There would be some insurance money, said the communiqué, and a monthly support check. Good riddance, she thought. Now if she could only get rid of the kid.
CHAPTER 9
9:13 a.m., Monday, March 20
Archbishop Alfonso Romero of the New York archdiocese paced nervously back and forth in his ornate office. The décor of the prelate’s expansive quarters was dominated by rich mahogany wainscoting, which covered two thirds of the twelve-foot high walls. Wide, matching crown molding accented the high ceiling and complimented the wall covering. A massive silver crucifix on the south wall demanded the attention of anyone entering the room. But, it was the life-sized portrait of a young Jesus, on the opposite wall, that ultimately held their focus.
Romero was the first Hispanic to rise to the position of archbishop in the history of New York City, and, at sixty four years of age, he was not about to let a couple of murders with religious overtones tarnish his auspicious tenure. Surely, the murderer was a Baptist. Perhaps a Methodist, but certainly not a Catholic. He would afford whatever help he could to the detective who, even now, was on his way up to see him. A buzzer on the bishop’s large, mahogany desk announced the arrival of his visitor. The white-haired cleric padded toward the heavy wooden door to admit the detective.
“Detective Davis?” he asked, rhetorically.
“Good morning, your Eminence,” replied the detective. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”
“Nonsense,” he replied. “It’s the least I can do. I only hope I can be of some help. Please, come in.”
Davis’s eyes darted around the spacious room, noting the contrast between his own cluttered office and the lavish—almost decadent—interior of the archbishop’s quarters. Sensing Davis’s silent assessment, Romero moved to dispel any apprehensions the detective might have.
“Don’t be misled by my opulent office, detective. It is intended to lend an air of respectability to the title. As a rule, we try to maintain an image of austerity. “I can assure you that we are forever fighting a budget deficit.”
Davis chuckled at the obvious contradiction. “No indictment here, your eminence. Innocent until proven guilty, just like anyone else.” Davis laughed aloud at his own cleverness.
“Please, detective, call me Father Al. All of my friends do.”
Davis found the new “worldliness” of the Catholic Church somewhat disconcerting, and for a second was at a loss for words.
“Well, Father…uh…Al,” he began, deferring half-heartedly to the bishop’s request for informality. “As you may or may not be aware, we’ve had two particularly gruesome homicides in our precinct in the last six weeks. The second one occurred last Thursday. The two women were raped and strangled.”
The bishop winced at the mental image of the crimes. “And how can I help you?”
“Based on some of the evidence, we think there could be some kind of religious connection,” replied Matt. “And I was hoping... we were hoping that the church might be able to shed some light on things.”
“What makes you think there is a Catholic connection to these murders?” asked the bishop.
Davis was caught off guard by the bishop’s defensive posture, and didn’t have a ready answer. He paused to gather his thoughts. After a moment, he spoke. “We’re not sure that there is one. But both victims were Catholic, and…”
“Yes?”
“What I’m about to tell you must remain absolutely confidential.”
“Yes, of course.”
“We found two unusual pieces of evidence on each victim.”
The bishop studied Matt’s face intensely. Despite being alone with the detective, he moved in closer and lowered his voice as he spoke. “And what might those two things be?” he asked.
Davis removed his coat and
carefully draped it across his lap.
“A small heart cut into the left breast...” said Matt.
The bishop gasped and closed his eyes, as if doing so would eliminate the sight he pictured in his mind.
Davis continued. “...And inside each heart two sets of initials were carved into the victims’ flesh.”
The archbishop grimaced, drawing an exaggerated breath through his clenched teeth.
“One set matched those of the deceased individual. But, in both cases, the other initials were the letters ‘J.C.’ so, naturally we thought—”
“Madre de Dio,” sighed the clergyman.
“—that there might be some kind of religious significance,” said Davis. “Since the victims were Catholic, naturally we came to you first.”
The archbishop crossed himself and shook his head in disbelief. “How can I possibly help you?” he asked.
“The fact is, with the exception of that evidence, we’ve got absolutely nothing to go on,” said Davis. “We’d like permission to speak with one of your priests down in the One-O.”
“Excuse me?” asked Romero.
“I’m sorry, Father, I mean the Tenth Precinct, in Chelsea. We call it the ‘One-O.’ It’s where both murders took place. I believe that would be St. Jude, down on Ninth Avenue. We’d like to talk to whoever is in charge down there.”
“Yes, that’s correct,” replied the bishop. “That would be—” he scratched his head, searching for a name, “ah, yes, Father Richter, of course; a fine man. I’m sure he would be happy to work with you. I’ll call him and tell him to help you in any way he can.”
“Thank you,” replied Davis “I’d also like a list of priests, religious students, janitors, anybody you can think of who might have had problems with that church in the past, disgruntled employees of the church, even priests who…well…you know—might have had problems. Anything at all.” Davis shrugged his shoulders in a display of frustration.
As The Twig Is Bent: A Matt Davis Mystery Page 3