As The Twig Is Bent: A Matt Davis Mystery

by Perrone Jr. , Joe

  “You got it, boss,” replied Freitag. Rita nodded her assent. They each shook Father Pete’s hand and Rita said, “Thanks for the offer, Father. Maybe some other time.”

  Davis waited until the two detectives had left the room before turning to the priest, who sat quietly, seemingly lost in thought. The next words Matt spoke came as a surprise, both to the priest and to himself.

  “Father Pete, you’re the expert on religion. What do you think? Do we have a religious fanatic running around killing these women, or what?”

  Father Richter’s face blanched. The detective’s frankness had caught him off guard, and it took a moment for him to compose himself.

  Davis realized he might have gone too far. “I’m sorry, Father Pete. That was really out of line.”

  “Yes, well, perhaps—”

  “I guess I’m kinda desperate, Father. I think I just said the first thing that popped into my head. I’m really sorry.”

  Richter smiled a forgiving smile. “I guess I can understand that, Matt; after all, three women, all having affairs or cheating, and all members of the same church. To use your expression, there must be some kind of ‘religious fanatic’ running around. I would tend to agree with you.”

  “Well, I guess I could have phrased it a little better.”

  “No problem, Matt. Hey, how about some of that hot cocoa? Maybe clear the old mind a bit, huh? What do you say?”

  Davis grinned sheepishly. “I think that would be fine.”

  When Father Richter had disappeared into the kitchen, Davis stood up and began absentmindedly roaming around the priest’s office. The bookshelves were full of standard Catholic publications, including books, magazines, and a dozen copies of The Baltimore Catechism. There were also a number of different versions of the Bible, and even a Torah. Several titles caught the detective’s attention; most especially one entitled Children with Aids and the Celebration of Life, by Tolbert McCarroll. Things sure have changed, thought Matt. Scanning the lower shelves, Davis was surprised to find books of another kind. These were books on golf. The titles greeted him like old friends. There was even a copy of Golf Shot Making With Billy Casper, an old paperback that Davis, himself, had purchased a copy of back in the late sixties. He opened it and was shocked to see the price of only “one dollar” printed inside the front cover. Things definitely had changed, he thought.

  “That one was given to me by Mrs. Flynn,” said Father Richter. He had returned with a wooden tray bearing a silver teapot, two bone China cups, two silver spoons, and a large Danish pastry. One of the cups held a heaping pile of instant cocoa, obviously intended for the detective. The other cup contained a tea bag.

  Startled, Davis turned around in embarrassment, his face flushed, caught, red-handed, rifling the priest’s personal library. “Sorry, Father. I just couldn’t resist,” he said. “It’s an occupational habit, I guess.”

  “I understand completely,” said the priest. “Do you play?”

  Davis smiled. “I try,” he said. “Some people actually play golf. Me, I play at it.”

  “As long as you enjoy the game. That’s the important thing.”

  Judging from Richter’s athletic build, Davis thought he was probably a pretty good player. “I’ll bet you hit a pretty mean ball, huh, Father?”

  Father Pete raised his eyebrows, and looked at the ceiling in a display of false modesty. “Let’s just say…that I…do okay.”

  “Oh, come on,” said Matt. “Don’t be so modest. What’s your handicap?”

  “Well, since you asked, it’s a four,” said the priest. “But,” he quickly added, “I also get to play rain or shine…uh…religiously…twice a week—no pun intended.”

  Again, Matt was struck by the gregarious nature of the man.

  As if sensing Matt’s envy, Father Richter said, “Perhaps we could get out together some time?”

  “I’d like that a lot, Father,” replied Davis. “That is if you wouldn’t mind putting up with a five hour round and maybe a little cursing.”

  The priest chuckled.

  “Where do you usually play?” asked Matt.

  “Van Cortland Park,” answered the priest. “It’s the only place I can still afford.” He was referring to the city park in the Bronx, which only charged a nominal fee to residents.

  “That’s one of the reasons I don’t get out more often, myself,” said Matt. “That, and my job, of course. Never enough time.”

  “I used to play out at Beth Page,” added Father Richter. “But, now that they’ve played the Open there, everybody and his uncle wants to play it, and it’s impossible to get a tee time.”

  “Van Cortland is just fine with me,” said Matt, with a laugh.

  “Well, I think maybe we ought to set a date right now,” challenged Father Richter, “before you have a chance to back out.”

  “Well…I don’t know,” said Davis, a note of hesitation in his voice. “With the investigation going on and all….” His resolve weakened. “I guess I might be able to squeeze in nine, but that’s probably it. Maybe on a Wednesday afternoon sometime, but—”

  “Good. Then it’s a date. Check your schedule and let me know which Wednesday is good,” said Father Richter.

  “Well—”

  “I usually try to play on Mondays and Wednesdays,” added Father Pete. “So, that shouldn’t be a problem, but if you need to—”

  “No, no,” insisted Davis. “I’m sure I can get a couple of hours on a Wednesday. I just have to check my calendar, that’s all.”

  “Good. Maybe even next Wednesday,” said Richter. “Just let me know as soon as you can, okay?”

  “I promise,” said Matt. He was already looking forward to playing.

  “Now, how about some hot cocoa?” the priest said.

  “Probably more like warm cocoa, by now,” quipped Davis. “You know, I always have difficulty with my chipping. Maybe you could help me with a problem I…”

  For the next fifteen minutes the two men chatted away, each surprised at having struck up such an unexpected friendship. Finally, Matt jotted his home number on the back of one of his cards and handed it to Richter. They promised to get together soon.

  Exactly thirty-one minutes had elapsed when Freitag knocked sharply on the rectory door, signaling to Davis that his little break was over. Although it had not been an uninteresting half-hour, he realized he had failed to glean any truly earth-shattering news. He had learned, however, that most probably Cindy McKenzie was having some sort of an affair. That much had been made quite clear from his little interview with Father Anthony. And, that made it three for three. He felt certain that their luck was beginning to turn.

  CHAPTER 35

  Baltimore, Maryland

  In August of 1960, John Curran, Jr. was nearly nineteen-years of age. He had been living with a foster family ever since his release from reform school nearly two years earlier. His foster parents had been left childless after their own son had been struck down by polio in 1952. The couple was pleased to have John join their family. They felt the boy possessed an innate intelligence that would eventually blossom as he matured. The fact that he resembled their own son, physically, made him that much easier for them to love him.

  During his incarceration John had continued his high school studies and now, after receiving his diploma, it was time to think about college. His foster parents were upper-middle class residents of New Castle, a suburb of Baltimore, and had already decided that young John should attend Benjamin Franklin University in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania. Since John’s foster father was an alumnus of BFU (and a generous contributor to his alma mater) it was quietly arranged for the boy to be admitted without the usual red tape.

  Things went well at college until midway into John’s sophomore year. One evening, while he and several other students were drinking beer and playing darts in a local pub, he noticed a young girl alone at the bar. He offered to buy her a drink, and the two sat down together at a table to become better acquainted.
As the evening progressed, John became increasingly intoxicated. His attitude toward the girl, initially playful and amorous, grew belligerent, sexual, and confrontational. Finally, when he had made one offensive remark too many, the girl got up to leave. In a rage, John grabbed her wrist and began shouting obscenities. The young woman matched him, curse for curse. Suddenly, without warning, John slapped her hard across the face.

  The girl panicked. She flung her beer into his face and screamed. John continued slapping the girl viciously until, at last, the bartender charged over to the table to stop him. A nasty fight ensued, and John was arrested for assault and battery. Again he was fingerprinted and forced to spend a night in jail before being released the following day on bail.

  A week later, John’s foster father drove up to the college and hired a lawyer. Before the case ever came to trial, he, John, and the attorney met with the local judge. They arranged for John to be moved through the judicial system by way of a pre-trial intervention. Under this agreement, the court would postpone the trial for six months, during which period John would do community service, and be on a kind of probation. If, at the end of the half-year period, he had remained out of trouble, the case would never come to trial, and the record of the arrest, along with John’s fingerprints, would be expunged. It would be as if the offense had never occurred.

  John did his community service at a local juvenile home, and more than lived up to the expectations of the court and his foster parents. Now, it was six months later, and the record of his crime was to be officially deleted, and his fingerprints removed from the police files. He would be free to move on with his life.

  But, fate was to attach a very long string to John Curran, one that would forever connect his past to his future. It came in the form of a politically appointed seventy-four year old court clerk named Agnes Short. Agnes was a lovely woman, a lifelong Democrat, and a grandmother of five. Unfortunately, she was also suffering from undiagnosed Alzheimer’s disease. The day John’s records (including his fingerprints) were to be removed from the files, Agnes was stumbling through a particularly bad day. She not only locked her keys in her car and forgot to feed her cat, but, more importantly, she neglected to expunge John Curran’s records. Now, thanks to a well meaning, but forgetful public servant, John’s arrest record and his fingerprints would remain on file in the Lewisburg police records forever, and, once again, the rage that he carried against women would cost him dearly.

  CHAPTER 36

  Father Anthony was thirty-one-years old. He didn’t want to do anything that might place his job in jeopardy. He had only been at St. Jude’s for about two years, and relished his position at one of the more active parishes in Manhattan. Its location in the Chelsea district of the city, with its proximity to museums, theaters, and art galleries, made it an ideal post for a man like him, one who was consumed by the arts.

  Now, however, he was consumed by something entirely different—guilt! He paced nervously back and forth in the small room he shared with Father James. He hadn’t really done anything wrong, he thought. After all, he rationalized; he had answered all the detective’s questions as openly and honestly as the conditions would permit.

  Three women were dead, he thought—three innocent women. In the eyes of God, we are all innocent—assuming we are contrite. Certainly, the McKenzie woman was contrite, wasn’t she? And yet, she was dead. Raped and strangled by a madman; a madman that he, Father Anthony, could probably help the police to find. After all, he thought, didn’t she say that she had been chatting with him on the computer? Didn’t she confess that she wanted to meet him; the man she had been talking to on the Internet? Perhaps if the police had this information it would help them track her killer.

  The young priest knelt in the corner of the room, and bowed his head in whispered prayer: “Dear God,” he prayed. “Tell me what to do. Show me the direction to take. Guide me in this time of indecision. Lord Jesus, I know I am sworn to secrecy, but can it be a sin when the woman is already dead? I want to do the right thing Lord. Help me. Tell me what to do.”

  Tears appeared at the corner of Father Anthony’s tightly closed blue eyes, and his body heaved with emotion. He continued praying, “Father, let me do the right thing. I’m sure you can understand that I must tell someone. I can’t let this man go free. What should I do? Who can I tell? Help me Father.” He waited several minutes for an answer.

  In the end, however, the young priest decided that he would maintain his silence as he had vowed he would. He would leave it all in God’s hands. That was what his religion taught him, and that is what he must do. He hurried through an Our Father and several Hail Mary’s, crossed himself, and rose to a standing position. As he looked out the small, plain window, he thought, if it happens again, I must tell them. Please, Lord; don’t let there be another one— please!

  CHAPTER 37

  6:55 p.m., Saturday, April 22

  The killer pushed the last scraps of his dinner into the sink and ran the water, while at the same time flipping on the garbage disposal unit, which burst into operation with a loud grinding sound. He hadn’t planned on going out tonight, but when he had checked his email and found the invitation from Linda, a.k.a. Hot2Trot, he couldn’t resist. She had been on his Buddy List for about two weeks now. He found her brand of hard, raunchy sex to be just the thing to turn him on lately. He wasn’t due at her place until nine, so he decided to go online and see if any of his other “friends” were chatting. Nearly all of the women with whom he chatted lived in Chelsea, as he did, but occasionally he enjoyed chatting with someone totally out of the area. Variety, after all, was the spice of life, wasn’t it?

  The screen slowly became illuminated, and he clicked and scrolled a number of times until at last his “Buddy List” was showing on the screen. None of the little smiley faces alongside the names was illuminated, meaning that none of his buddies were on line. With just a few clicks of the mouse he was in one of his favorite rooms – “Forty Plus and Still Flirting.” He always lied about his age anyway, so it really didn’t matter which room he went into. He scrolled through the “Who’s Chatting” box and saw MyPussy4U on the list of occupants. Never heard of her, he thought. He clicked on “Get Profile” and waited while the computer loaded the individual’s home page. In a few moments, the box began to fill with information:

  Age: 41

  Real Name: Wouldn’t you like to know…

  Measurements: 38C-28-36

  Location: NYC

  Marital Status: Divorced and loving it!!

  Hobbies: Sex, sex, and more sex!!

  His eyes focused on “Location.” Hmm, he thought. I wonder where in the city? He closed down the “My Profile” box and double clicked on the words “Send PM Now,” and waited until the box appeared which would allow him to send a Personal Message. He started writing:

  SexualGuy1: Dear “Wouldn’t You Like To Know”, I like your screen name. Are you really into lots of sex?

  (He thought that was really clever. Show them he had a sense of humor; nothing like a little humor to break the ice). He waited a few moments, and then came the answer:

  MyPussy4U: Uh huh…Are you really a sexual guy?

  Oh boy, he thought. He had a live one.

  SexualGuy1: What do you think?

  MyPussy4U: I don’t know…tell me what you like…

  SexualGuy1 proceeded to walk his virtual partner through all the steps of oral sex, and in a matter of minutes, it was all over. He had achieved an orgasm. He cleaned himself, and quickly typed out some more words, telling her how great she was and how they had to get back together soon. She agreed, and they added each other to their individual “Buddy Lists.” He glanced at his watch and noticed it was getting late, and told her he had to go. He promised to chat with her again soon. Then, he closed down his computer, went into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, combed his hair, and splashed on some cologne.

  It was only a short walk over to “Hot2Trot’s” apartment on 21st Street, just
off Eighth Avenue, but he didn’t want to be late. Maybe this time it would work out – not like those others, he thought. He turned off the light and strolled out into the early spring evening. He was whistling as he walked.

  CHAPTER 38

  Linda heard a soft knock at the door and took a deep breath before answering. Her full name was Linda Jean Vogel, and she was thirty-eight, divorced, and very lonely. She had been chatting with SexualGuy1 for a while now, and looked forward to meeting the man with the great sense of humor and overactive sex drive. If he was half as much fun in person as he was online, they should have a great evening together. She doubted that they would really have sex, but she didn’t really care. All that stuff on the Internet was just an act anyway. She was sure he would be a regular guy who liked to listen to music and loved to go bowling. Who knows, she thought, maybe we…

  Why doesn’t she answer? thought the killer. He knocked softly again. This time the door opened, and there she was. Wow, he thought. She looks even better than I remembered.

  “Surprised?” he asked.

  “Wha—”

  “So, you are surprised? Bet you never expected me, did you?”

  “No, not exactly,” replied Linda. “I didn’t think you—”

  “What? Fooled around? Sure, why wouldn’t I? I’m no different than any other guy. I thought you might enjoy the surprise.”

  She didn’t look surprised as much as she looked horrified. He felt himself getting angry. Why did they always react this way?

  “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” he asked.

  “Well, I…I mean, I didn’t expect—”

  “You’re not interested, are you?” he said.

  It was happening again, he thought. Once they knew who he “really” was, they didn’t want to have anything to do with him. Well, he would just have to show her just like he had shown the others. But, first he had to get inside.