As The Twig Is Bent: A Matt Davis Mystery

by Perrone Jr. , Joe

  He now added to the list of victims, the name Linda Vogel, then turned back to the others.

  “Okay, so let’s see what we’ve got.” said Matt. “Location? All four victims lived within the One-O,” he said.

  “Time? All four appear to have been murdered in the evening,”

  “So, that leaves physical evidence and suspects. Well, we don’t have any suspects so far, but we’ve got plenty of evidence.” Matt pointed to the column in question.

  “Each victim was found with a heart carved on her breast. Each heart had two sets of initials in it. So, what does that tell us?”

  Martini raised his hand.

  “Yes, Martini?”

  “Well, I guess it tells us that the same guy did each one,” he said.

  “But, do we really know for sure it was the same guy?” asked Davis. “I mean, we assume it was the same guy. For that matter, we assume it was a guy. But, do we really know if either assumption is correct?”

  “Well, there was semen present on the first three,” offered Valdez. “So we know they were done by a guy.”

  “How about this one?” asked Martini. “Any semen?”

  “We think so,” answered Matt. “We’ll know for sure, later today.”

  “What about a bible?” inquired Valdez. “We had bibles at the first three scenes. Anybody turn up a bible here?”

  “Nope,” said Matt. “No bible.”

  “That reminds me,” said Valdez. “I forgot to tell you. I checked out those other bibles with Father Richter. They’re generic New Testaments, published by a religious outfit in the Midwest. They sell to everybody and anybody, including St. Jude. In fact, they had a stack of them in the rectory.”

  Davis filed that little bit of information in the back of his mind.

  “What else have we got?” he asked.

  The room grew quiet and remained that way for several minutes.

  Freitag broke the silence. “Maybe we’ve got a copy cat?”

  “But how could we?” asked Davis. “Up until now, nobody even knew about the hearts, much less the bibles. No, I don’t buy it. Maybe the guy just ran out of bibles.”

  Again, nobody said a word.

  “Okay, let’s see,” said Davis. “What do we know about opportunity?”

  He answered his own question. “Nothin—”

  “But,” said Freitag, “we do know for sure that they either know this guy—”

  “Or they don’t know him—” said Davis. He was extremely animated. “But, they’re expecting him—and—he knows them!”

  “You mean like maybe he calls them first?” asked Martini. “Like he’s selling something or—”

  “Exactly!” answered Davis. “Maybe he’s some kind of salesman.”

  “That would explain how he gets in so easy,” offered Valdez. “He’s probably got a real good line of bullshit.”

  “Okay, I want everybody on this,” shouted Davis. “Martini, I want you and Sleeping Beauty to re-canvas Simpson’s neighborhood. Find out if anybody there remembers any salesman around the time of the murder.”

  “Right,” answered Frank. He jabbed his elbow into Wolinski’s ribcage, rousing the elder detective from his sleep.

  “Valdez. Check out the area around the Spiros’ apartment.”

  “Will do,” said Valdez.

  “Chris, you and I will go back to the McKenzie block. Then we’ll nose around Vogel’s place.”

  Freitag smiled, and began gathering up his things.

  “Okay, everybody, that’s it! Let’s get moving,” said Matt.

  In less than thirty seconds the office was empty.

  The next morning forensics called and told Matt that, indeed, a bible had been found. It was wedged between two of the cushions on the couch, and had apparently been overlooked during the original search. Davis thanked the technician and hung up the phone.

  “Thank God,” he muttered to no one in particular. “I don’t think I could take a copycat.”

  CHAPTER 42

  Father Pete made sure the door to his study was locked, then crossed the room and sat down at the computer. He had never done a search before, but thought he might try to locate the web site for Van Cortland Park’s golf course. He turned on the machine, waited for the screen to brighten, and then logged on to AOL. He moved the mouse’s pointer tentatively around the screen until he found the area he wanted, and typed in www.google.com, and double-clicked the mouse. Immediately the computer transformed the abbreviated URL address into the correct form, and within seconds, Father Richter found himself face to face with the search engine he had heard so much about.

  It took a few minutes, but finally the priest managed to obtain the web site for Van Cortland Park, and soon made a reservation for a tee time for a twosome at two p.m. on Wednesday, May 10. He figured that if he called the detective with a tee time already reserved, there would be no way Davis could turn him down.

  Father Pete took out his little address book from the desk drawer, and scanned its contents until he found the detective’s business card, wedged between the pages. After struggling with the handwriting on the back of the card, he deciphered the home phone number Davis had written down, and picked up the telephone receiver. Holding it to his ear, he dialed.

  After the fourth ring, an answering machine picked up. The pleasant voice of a woman— obviously the detective was married—read a prepared announcement. He waited for the beep, and left his name and number, along with a brief message about their reserved tee time at Van Cortland, before finally hanging up.

  He turned back to the computer and clicked on the task bar’s “back” icon several times until, at last, he arrived at the AOL home page. He moved the pointer to “People,” and clicked once. Then, he scrolled down the list of options and double clicked on “Chat.” In a few seconds he was confronted by the usual assortment of chat rooms, from which he selected “Married But Flirting.”

  I won’t chat this time, he promised himself. I’ll just look.

  He clicked on the icon for “JOIN CHAT,” and watched in fascination as the smaller chat room screen materialized on the main screen. He was always amazed at the variety of individuals who frequented the Internet, and the chat rooms in particular. The contents of the room’s screen were like those of a movie script, with each person identified like a character, their dialogue spelled out—or misspelled, as was more often the case—next to the screen name of each participant. The most amazing thing of all, he thought, was the complete anonymity afforded by this unique medium.

  Father Pete leaned back in his chair, his arms behind his head, and just watched the screen:

  ImASlut32571: He told me he lived in Australia…

  Stud4U69: Any hot women out there? PM me now…

  2KidsNoMan: They always give you a phony name. Do you really believe him?

  KissMeNow36DD: What makes you think I’m a virgin?

  The priest was amazed by how many different conversations could take place at one time in a chat room. The screen scrolled as each new entry appeared, and if there were 15 individuals chatting in the room, there could be almost as many conversations going on as that. In fact, some individuals carried on chats with more than one other person at a time. He noticed that some people appeared to have no interest at all in being heard, but just wanted to make a statement about some topic or the other:

  IlikeCunt69Me: SUCK MY COCK! SUCK MY COCK! SUCK MY COCK!

  KissMeNow36DD: Fuck You! Asshole!!!

  IlikeCunt69Me: FUCK YOU 2 ASSHOLE!

  The vulgarity was incredible. The priest was mesmerized and just sat there as the dialogue continued unabated. Several times he thought about joining in. But he had promised himself he wouldn’t chat this time, and resisted the temptation. Suddenly, a box appeared in the center of his screen, partially obscuring the ongoing dialogue of the chat room. The words “INSTANT MESSAGE FROM LindaLuvsIt2 ” appeared at the top of the box, and within the box was:

  LindaLuvsIt2: What are
you? A watcher?

  Father Pete felt his face flush, and his mouth went dry. For an instant he was paralyzed. He didn’t know how to react. This was the first time anyone had ever contacted him. Did he know her? More importantly, did she know him? He searched the frame of the small box on the screen, and found the familiar smaller box labeled “REPLY,” located near the bottom. He hesitated, then moved the mouse until the pointer’s arrow rested on the box. Still unsure of his actions, he double clicked. Instantly, his screen name appeared within the box, below that of the other chatter. Without thinking, he typed in the word “What?” next to it, and clicked on “SEND.” Now, the solo word he had typed joined the other words within the box, just like those on the chat room screen:

  LindaLuvsIt2: What are you? A watcher?

  GolfNut1: What?

  In a moment, another message appeared:

  LindaLuvsIt2: Do you come here often?

  The priest drew a shallow breath. Without thinking, he answered back:

  GolfNut1: Not really. Do you?

  My God, he thought. I’m chatting again. I shouldn’t be doing this. His mind was racing. He felt every kind of emotion flooding through him: guilt, embarrassment, anxiety, curiosity, and arousal. The screen jumped again:

  LindaLuvsIt2: a/s/l?

  Instinctively, Father Pete answered:

  GolfNut1: What does a/s/l mean?

  He waited. In a few seconds he read the answer.

  LindaLuvsIt2: age/sex/location…how old are u? your sex?/ where do u live?

  He read the words out loud. It made sense of course, he thought. Am I a jerk, or what?

  Should I answer? Oh God, I can’t do this. He felt himself becoming more aroused. At the same time, blood was rushing to his cheeks. His hands trembled. He lifted them from the keyboard and wrung them out, his eyes closed tightly. He opened his eyes and looked. It wasn’t his imagination. The question was still there. He answered.

  GolfNut1: 58/male/USA He clicked send.

  LindaLuvsIt2: 37/f/NYC

  Then, before he could respond, another message appeared in the box:

  LindaLuvsIt2: I like older men. Where in the USA?

  Immediately, the priest directed the pointer to the upper right hand corner of the INSTANT MESSAGE box, and clicked on the X to close it. The box went away. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  In a moment, the box re-appeared. Oh my God, he thought. Without reading its message, he again clicked on the X, closing the box. Then, he quickly closed down the chat room screen, and exited AOL™. He clicked “Start” at the bottom left corner on his desktop screen, scrolled up to “Shut Down,” and double clicked on the words. In a moment the screen went black, and then lit up again, with instructions for the user to “Please Wait While Your Computer Shuts Down.” Then, he heard the familiar click, and the monitor went blank.

  He was sweating.

  “Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee…” came the words. They were the familiar lines of the Act of Contrition. Father Richter bowed his head, clasped his hands together, and recited the familiar words in a feverish whisper.

  He had much for which to ask forgiveness.

  CHAPTER 43

  11:45 a.m., Saturday, May 6

  Atchison’s Quality Market was located downtown in the Chelsea District. Other than for the upscale grocery store’s location, it was typical of its counterparts that dotted the Upper East Side of Manhattan. They all served as culinary oases in the streets of the city’s concrete desert. Each overcharged its customers unmercifully, citing high rents and even higher taxes as excuses for their inflated prices. But, in defense of Atchison’s, it did carry every possible luxury food item that money could buy. From snails and oysters, to bird’s nest soup and smoked salmon, the Chelsea store had it all, including ethnic specialties. In addition, the Lower Manhattan specialty store offered one more accommodation that endeared it to its loyal customers—free delivery.

  Jeanine Kelly loved Irish soda bread, and Atchison’s carried the genuine article. Of course, they charged more than five dollars for a tiny loaf, but it was fresh, and Lord knew it was authentic. The eighty-one-year old widow also knew that there was a twenty-dollar minimum order required for the “free” delivery, so, limping around her kitchen on arthritic feet, the white-haired grandmother added some basic items to fill out her order, and phoned it in.

  Twenty minutes later, Ken Callahan loaded her order into the huge basket, which hung from the handlebars of his three-wheel delivery bicycle and began pedaling up the sidewalk toward her West 23rd Street apartment. He rode slowly, keeping an eye out for pedestrians while enjoying the warmth of the early May sun. He was glad he worked in Chelsea, he thought, instead of uptown where the taller buildings all but obliterated the sunlight, and, even in spring, funneled the winds mercilessly through the narrow streets.

  He thought, too, about Mrs. Kelly’s attractive neighbor, Rita Valdez, and how hot she had looked the other night in her long leather coat, tight jeans, and high heels. He’d love to throw a hump into her, he thought. She treats me like a nice little boy—like a ten-year old—all because of my face. I’m sick of their pity. I’ll bet I could make her treat me different if she’d just get to know me. He recalled their recent late-night conversation. Imagine the nerve, he had thought, telling me, “How hard it is to meet somebody.” Just try walking around with this face. You think you’ve got problems—try mine. And, to make matters worse, the blame—he had decided—belonged to women.

  If it hadn’t been for the unfaithfulness of his college girlfriend, he would never have dropped out of Columbia in his sophomore year; never mind that his two-point-one grade point average had him on the verge of flunking out. It was easier to blame his dilemma on a girl, rather than on his own shortcomings. “The bitch fucked me,” he would say, whenever the subject came up. If it wasn’t for that cunt, I would’ve never got drafted. And, of course, if he had never been drafted, he would never have been sent to that hellhole of Vietnam. And, he would never have suffered the incident that had shaped the remainder of his miserable life. It was all so logical; it all made perfect sense—at least it did to Kenneth John Callahan.

  The day it all happened, Ken was stoned. He and one of his platoon buddies had scored some excellent Tai Stick off a fourteen-year old Vietnamese whore they both frequented. His squad was sent out on a reconnaissance patrol, and had engaged the enemy in a firefight just outside their perimeter. A cluster grenade had exploded just in front of him, and the white-hot magnesium fragments that struck his face had adhered like sticky glue, burning through three layers of delicate facial skin. His hands had been burned even worse when he attempted to remove the magnesium fragments from his face. His tour of duty was over, but his nightmare was just beginning.

  When he returned to the States, he spent nearly four months in the Veterans Administration hospital in Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn. During that period, he contacted his old college girlfriend, who visited him once—probably out of curiosity. The visit was disastrous. The young girl was repulsed by his appearance and left the hospital in tears, leaving the wounded GI in a state of shock. Later that evening, Ken attempted suicide by cutting his wrists, and only the quick actions of a neighboring roommate saved his life.

  In reality, Ken’s physical disfigurement was really quite minimal. Dozens of sessions with a team of VA plastic surgeons had all but restored his face to limits of acceptability. His hands were another story, and the scar tissue that all but obliterated his fingerprints, ensured that he would never wield a hammer, or dig ditches for a living. However, while his reflection in a mirror gave little clue to his suffering, the images he saw in his mind bore the scars just as visibly as if they were real. The fact was that the unpopular war in Southeast Asia had left the veteran with emotional wounds far more severe than the physical ones he displayed on his face and hands.

  In the ensuing years, Callahan underwent years of psychiatric treatment at the veterans’ hospital. The clinical ter
m for his condition was paranoia schizophrenia. In the beginning, he had shown promise of recovery, but, in the end, the effects of his war experiences were too much for him to overcome. Put simply, Ken Callahan felt that everyone was plotting against him, especially women.

  After chaining his bicycle to a street sign, Callahan rang the bell to Mrs. Kelly’s apartment. A moment later there was a loud buzz and the lock to the entrance of the apartment building released its hold on the metal-sheathed door. He trudged up the narrow flight of stairs to the second-floor landing, and was greeted warmly by the elderly woman who welcomed him into her dingy apartment. As he was about to leave, the door to Rita Valdez’s apartment opened narrowly, restricted by a security chain that permitted it to open only a few inches wide.

  “Is that you, Ken?” asked Rita.

  “Yes, Miss Valdez,” he answered, “it’s me.” But, you can call me Jack.

  Rita unhooked the chain and opened the door wide.

  God, she’s hot.

  “I was wondering,” said Rita, “Do you think you could you give me a hand with my new computer?”

  “Oh, I dunno, Miss Valdez,” he said, “I’m not really that great with those things. I just use mine for sending Emails—” Then, he added, “—and chatting. You know, stuff like that. Believe me, I’m no expert. I’m surprised, with you bein’ a secretary and all that you can’t do it yourself.”

  “Oh, I know how to run it okay,” answered Rita. “I’m just not too sure how to hook it up.” Although she didn’t make it a habit to lie, Rita had created a bit of a false identity in her neighborhood, preferring to be known as a secretary, effectively hiding her police connection.

  “Well, I guess I could—”

  “I’ll pay you,” said Rita.

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” he answered, quietly. “I’d be happy to take a look at it for you.”

  Mrs. Kelly waved good-bye to Rita and retreated to her apartment, locking her door behind her.