As The Twig Is Bent: A Matt Davis Mystery

by Perrone Jr. , Joe

  “How about I just come in for a drink, and we can ‘chat’ in person for a few minutes. If you want me to leave, then I’ll just leave, okay?”

  “Well, I guess—“

  “Oh, come on. I only want to talk, anyway.” He pushed the door open and walked inside. “You really do have a nice place, Linda.” He walked into the shabby living room, thinking, what a dump.

  She looked around, as if seeing her own apartment for the very first time. The walls were cracked and needed painting, the drapes were faded, and the carpets were stained from her cat.

  “I didn’t really get a chance to straighten up like I should have. I hope you don’t mind.” She appeared very nervous. “I guess I didn’t really expect somebody to take me up on my invitation. And you know I didn’t expect it to be you.”

  He waited until she had closed the door before moving closer to her. He could smell her perfume, and could feel himself growing hard already. He could hardly control himself.

  “Would you like a beer?” she asked. “I mean, I don’t even know if you drink—”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “Look,” she said. “I’m sorry if I looked a little shocked, but, to be honest, you’re the last person in the world I expected to show up tonight.”

  “Hey, no problem. It’s my own fault, anyway,” he said.

  Certainly not a problem for me, he thought. But, it could be one for you.

  She moved into the kitchen, and he followed her into its narrow confines. She turned toward the refrigerator, her back to him, and he made his move. He put an arm around her waist, and leaned over and kissed her on the neck.

  “What the—” She turned around quickly, the fear showing in her eyes.

  “It’s okay—really,” he said, quietly.

  “But—” She was beginning to panic.

  “Shhhhh...”

  He pressed his mouth to hers and simultaneously brought his hands to her throat. Soon, she had lost consciousness, and he carried her limp form into the bedroom. The bed was small, with no posts or headboard, so he would have to tie her hands behind her, and bind her feet to the legs beneath the frame of the bed. He tore off her blouse and removed her brassiere. He turned her onto her stomach, and tied her hands with the bra. Then, using his penknife, he cut off her panties. He rolled her over onto her back again, and stuffed the wadded up undergarment into her mouth. It was easy, he thought, so easy…

  Of course, when she had regained consciousness, she had resisted, struggling furiously. He’d had to beat her, and the sound of her nose breaking beneath his fist still reverberated inside his head. He never intended to hit them, but what else could he do? Later, he crouched over the body, and carefully used the little pearl-handled knife to precisely carve his trademark on her left breast. He whistled as he worked, being careful to blot any blood that ran outside the finely cut lines. Mustn’t make a mess, he thought, chuckling to himself. When he was finished, he stepped back to admire his handiwork. The heart was perfectly symmetrical, and the initials, “J.C.” and “L.V.” were perfectly centered within it.

  Again, his attempt at a normal relationship had failed. Maybe next time, he thought, as he carefully closed the door behind him, and walked down the three flights to the street below. Perhaps he would stop for a nightcap before he went to bed. He smiled to himself, and began to whistle “Hey Jude.” Then, he changed from whistling to singing, substituting the name, Jack, for the name Jude. Much better, he thought—much better.

  CHAPTER 39

  8:24 p.m., Tuesday, May 2

  The call to 911 came in around seven-fifteen in the evening; a seventy-one-year old widow named Marilyn Kaufman placed it. She complained that there was an awful smell coming out of Ms. Vogel’s apartment, and went on to say that she didn’t like to be nosey, but thought maybe somebody was sick or something. Anyway, she thought somebody ought to check on her, especially since she hadn’t answered the door in three days.

  Davis, Freitag, and Valdez pulled up to the five-story walk-up within an hour after the body was discovered. The building superintendent had let the responding officers in, and they had found the corpse on the bed, bound and gagged. The body was bloated with gases, the skin stretched taut and almost black. The putrid smell had caused the super to vomit, and the young uniformed cop had all he could do to not follow suit.

  They guessed the woman had been dead about a week (ultimately, the autopsy would show that she had been murdered between noon and midnight on the 28th). As usual, there was the neatly carved heart on the left breast, with the initials “L.V.” beneath the now familiar other set, which read “J.C.”

  The three detectives sat outside the building, in the front seat of the Impala. The engine was running, and periodically the squawk of the police radio pierced the stillness of the spring night. They were bone weary.

  “So far, no bible,” said Davis.

  “Nope,” answered Freitag, automatically. He appeared to be lost in thought.

  “Do you think we’re wrong? About the religion thing, I mean?” asked Valdez.

  “I don’t know,” answered Freitag. “Maybe.”

  “Or maybe he’s deliberately trying to throw us off,” said Davis.

  “Either way, we’re still nowhere with this thing,” said Rita.

  Matt didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.

  “Hey, anything come back on those prints yet?” asked Chris.

  “Nope. Nothing yet,” answered Davis. “I hope we get something soon.”

  The fingerprints gathered at the various scenes were sent to One Police Plaza, or, as it was referred to by the men in the department, “The Puzzle Palace.” There they would be classified, and run through the massive computer to see if they matched those of any local criminals. Then they were sent to the FBI for possible identification and comparison with those of any known felons who might be wanted by the federal agency.

  Of course, all the technical information in the world wouldn’t help if they couldn’t come up with a suspect.

  Driving up Broadway, on their way back to the precinct, the three detectives observed one of the many storefront mosques that were springing up an alarming rate in the city. Even at this late hour, bearded men in turbans moved quietly within the dimly lit confines of the makeshift house of worship. Ever since the events of 9/11, Matt had struggled with an undeniable tendency to want to mistrust middle-Easterners at first sight. The only way he was able to suppress his negative feelings was by constantly reminding himself of how blind prejudice had negatively affected his ancestors when they emigrated from Ireland to America. Conversely, Freitag made no pretext of hiding his all out distaste for “those fucking camel jockeys,” as he angrily referred to anyone with skin darker than his own. Whenever Matt would berate him for his biased opinions, Chris would jokingly refer to his partner as a sappy liberal, and urge him to get in touch with his “true feelings.” Ironically, at the present time, the reality of the recent murders made the imagined transgressions of unwanted immigrants seem relativity insignificant, and the detectives rode past the mosque in silence.

  It was nearly midnight by the time they arrived back at headquarters. The usual gaggle of reporters was waiting for the detectives when they burst through the battered front doors of the precinct lobby.

  “Alright guys,” said Matt. “Take it easy. One at a time.”

  “Is it the strangler?” asked Donnelly from the Daily News.

  “We can’t be sure, Dave, but it certainly looks like a possibility.” Davis wished they would all just go away.

  “Do you have any suspects?” asked Tim Ryan from Newsday.

  “Presently, no,” answered Matt. “But, we have a couple of leads that we’re running down which might provide us with a possible direction.”

  It was all “double-speak,” of course, but he had to say something. What he’d really like to say is that he didn’t have a fucking clue, but he sure wished he could come up with one.

  Harry Cohen, of t
he Post, stood off to the side, waiting for an opportunity to get Davis alone. Gradually, the various reporters filtered out the front door until, at last, the wily scribe got his wish. Rita had headed for the ladies room, leaving Matt and Chris to deal with Cohen. The seasoned scribe walked up to Davis and Freitag, and spoke directly to Matt.

  “So—uh—Matt,” he began. “I’ve really been patient…”

  Here it comes, thought Davis.

  “You promised me if I laid off, you’d let me know when you had something. So, how ‘bout it?”

  “Harry,” said Matt. “We don’t have a damn thing, honest.”

  “Oh, for the love of God,” said Harry. “You’ve got four murders now—all done by the same guy—and you’re telling me you don’t have a thing to go on?”

  “That’s the truth,” said Freitag.

  “Oh, great,” said Cohen. “You’ve even got him believing it.” He jerked his thumb in Freitag’s direction.

  “Look, Harry,” said Matt. “I’d love to help you out, but it’s after midnight, and I’m tired as shit. You have my word. Anything happens you’ll be the first to know about it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go home and get some shuteye.”

  Cohen shrugged his shoulders, stuffed his reporter’s note pad inside his jacket pocket, and started walking down the hall. He made a quick left and entered the men’s room.

  Freitag looked at Davis and whispered, “Let’s get the fuck out of here while the old bastard’s takin’ a leak.”

  “Good idea,” said Matt. “Rita can show him the door.”

  Both detectives laughed and headed out the door, and were soon on their way home. Tomorrow would be a new day, and, hopefully a better one.

  Five minutes later, the Post reporter quietly opened the door to the men’s room and sneaked a look back down the hall. Being familiar with the layout of the old building, Cohen used the back stairway to get upstairs to Davis’s office. He prayed that the door wouldn’t be locked. He wasn’t disappointed.

  Keeping his back to the door, he looked around the darkened hallway, and then slowly opened the door. Cohen had never done anything like this before, but he was getting a bit long in the tooth, and this story had the potential to boost his career big time. He needed the edge that this information could provide. He shrugged his shoulders, and tiptoed over to the detective’s desk. Reaching inside his pocket, he extracted a small flashlight, and carefully adjusted the beam until it was as small as possible. He moved the light quickly back and forth over the top of Davis’s desk. Several manila folders caught his attention. One was marked Spiros. Two others bore the names McKenzie and Simpson. He quickly flipped through the paperwork contained in the Spiros file, until he came to several photos, located in the back.

  “Hmm?” he asked, rhetorically. “What’ve we got here?”

  His eyes focused on the image of the heart on Melina Spiros’ nude body. He stared hard and brought the two sets of initials into focus. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  He grabbed up the other two folders and began rifling through their contents. In each one he found a photograph similar to the one in the Spiros file. The only difference was that, in each of the others, there was a different set of initials accompanying the ones reading “J.C.”

  “Holy shit,” whispered Harry to himself. “That son of a bitch. He’s known about this all along.” He thought of what Davis had told him: “As soon as I know anything, Harry, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Oh, yeah? Bullshit! Well now I know, so kiss my ass, Davis!

  The reporter continued to study the three folders, until, at last he was satisfied that he had gleaned all he could from them. He turned off the flashlight, exited the office, and slipped quietly down the back stairway, leaving through the rear door of the building.

  I’ll fix that prick. He fired up the engine to the battered ’91 Nova. Not only am I the first to know, but we’ll see how he likes it when twelve million New Yorkers know, too.

  CHAPTER 40

  Upstate New York, 1964

  Early in his probation, John Curran came to realize that his sexual attitudes toward women had become a real problem. The scars he carried from childhood virtually guaranteed he would never marry. He decided his life needed a new direction. By the time John was graduated in June of 1964, his compass had been set. He had chosen to give his life to God.

  That fall, with his foster parents’ blessings, he entered a Catholic seminary in Elmira, New York. For four years, he studied hard, kept to himself, and reinforced his relationship with Jesus Christ. Finally, it was time for him to take his vows of celibacy and enter the priesthood. As the final act in his transformation from abused child to man of God, John Curran asked his foster parents for permission to legally change his last name to theirs. Without hesitation, they agreed. Then he selected the first name he would use forever in the service of the Lord. He chose the name given the only son of his foster parents.

  CHAPTER 41

  9:05 a.m., Wednesday, May 3

  STRANGLER HAS A CHEATING HEART!

  By Harry Cohen

  NEW YORK CITY – Undisclosed sources revealed that NYC detectives are searching for a religious zealot as the chief suspect in the four unsolved strangling murders recently committed here in Manhattan. Despite being told by the man in charge of the investigation, Detective First Grade, Matt Davis, that the department had no real leads, this reporter has learned that each of the victims has been found raped and strangled. And, in each instance, a small heart has been carved on the victim’s left breast.

  Sources reveal that within each of the hearts has been found two sets of initials – one set matching those of the victim, the other reading “J.C.” Each of the victims, it has been noted, has been involved in some kind of affair…

  The headline on the front page of The Post screamed a warning at Davis as loud as any police siren. Matt studied the article, and wondered how in the hell the veteran reporter had found out what he, himself, had tried so hard to contain. Had it been the ME’s office that had leaked the information? He doubted it. He couldn’t believe that Ahearn would let him down. So, how did Cohen find out?

  Matt knew it was a waste of time to confront the Post reporter. He would merely claim First Amendment privileges, and then threaten to sue if Davis persisted. No, he thought, that wouldn’t do any good at all. Well, Cohen could just wait in line at the next DCPI press conference. Let him try to get anything meaningful out of Deputy Commissioner for Public Information, Gil Clancy. It would be like trying to get a straight answer from Professor Irwin Corey, the double talk specialist.

  “Chris, Martini, Valdez. In my office, right now!” commanded Davis. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “You, too, Wolinski.”

  “What’s up Matt?” asked Freitag, as he filed past his boss and into the detective’s office.

  “Good morning, Matt,” said Valdez. She smiled warmly as she passed by him.

  “Mornin’,” muttered Martini. His white shirt bore a large grease stain that threatened to overshadow the garish purple flowers on his tie. Wolinski shambled past without a salutation.

  Matt had scribbled several bits of information on the large blackboard, which hung on the north wall of his office. “Everybody take a seat,” he said. He crossed the room and closed and locked the door to his office.

  “I feel like I’m back in high school,” whispered Martini to Valdez, who just ignored him. Wolinski appeared to fall asleep almost as soon as his ass hit the chair, prompting Matt to frown in mild disapproval. He thought of waking him, and then decided against it. Let the poor bastard sleep. If I were his age and still on the job, I’d probably want to sleep, too.

  Matt walked to the blackboard, turned his back to it, and propped one foot behind him against the already-filthy wall. He looked at his three colleagues and took a deep breath. He hadn’t slept well last night, and the events of the previous evening were still fresh in his mind; especially disturbing, however, was this morning�
�s headline. He held up a copy of the Post for everyone to see, like a social studies teacher holding up current events’ article for his class. He pointed to the headline, which was spelled out in 60-point bold face type.

  “Everybody get a look at this, this morning?”

  Three of the seated detectives nodded their heads; Wolinski just snored.

  “Well, what are we going to do about it?” he asked rhetorically.

  Silence.

  “Anybody have any idea how that bastard Cohen got this story? Anybody?”

  Davis stared at Martini. “Don’t look at me,” answered the disheveled detective. “I didn’t tell that bum anything.” It was obvious he was sincere.

  “Valdez?” he asked.

  “Sorry, boss. I don’t even know the guy,” she said.

  “Chris, I’m sure it wasn’t you, right?”

  “Right,” answered his partner.

  “Alright,” said Davis. “I guess it doesn’t matter how he got it. But, he got it somehow, and there’s not a damn thing we can do about it. Just make sure he doesn’t get anything else. For God’s sake, be careful. We can’t afford anymore leaks.”

  “Now we’ll have to watch out for copycats,” said Martini.

  “God forbid,” muttered Freitag. “That’s all we need.”

  “Anyway, let’s concentrate on what we have so far,” said Matt. “And, let’s see if we can’t get something going on this case.”

  He turned towards the blackboard, on which he had written the names of the first three victims: Simpson, Spiros, and McKenzie. Next to the names, he had drawn several vertical columns. At the top of the columns were the words: LOCATION, PHYSICAL EVIDENCE, TIME OF DAY, and SUSPECTS.