As The Twig Is Bent: A Matt Davis Mystery

by Perrone Jr. , Joe

  “Thank you, Miss Swanson. We really appreciate your cooperation.”

  “I just hope you get the son of a bitch,” she cried. “Maria didn’t deserve what happened to her.” Tears had begun streaming down the young woman’s face again, and Chris moved closer and gently cupped her shoulder with his hand.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said quietly, before stepping away.

  Outside the apartment, in the dimly lit hallway, a small cluster of tenants stood at a comfortable distance, their heads close together in muted conversation.

  “Excuse me, is one of you Mrs. Milam?” asked Rita.

  “Yes,” replied a voice. “That’s me.”

  The elderly neighbor, who had been leaning against the wall, stepped forward, her hands clasped tightly at her sides. Her face was ashen, and perspiration dotted her forehead. Rita smiled at her, trying to put her at ease. It was always hardest on these people, the ones left behind, he thought. “Do you mind if we ask you a few questions, Mrs.—” Rita hesitated, not remembering the woman’s name.

  “It’s Milam,” said the woman. “Margaret Milam. No, I don’t mind.”

  “Did you hear her come home?” asked Rita.

  The woman shifted nervously, not offering an answer.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” said Valdez, “I asked whether you heard her when she came in?’

  “Well,” She hesitated. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea,” she continued. “I mean, I’m not a busybody or anything—”

  “But, you did hear her come in,” said Rita.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “Was she alone?”

  “No,” responded the neighbor.

  “Did you see who she was with?” asked Davis, who had joined Rita in the hallway.

  “Yes and no,” she replied.

  “Well, did you see the man or didn’t you?” asked Rita. Matt gave her a look as if to say: ease up. Rita backed away.

  “Sort of,” said the woman. “The lighting’s not so good in the hall.”

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  “Maybe, but I’m not sure. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” said Matt. “You’ve been a big help. Thank you.”

  “I could try,” said the woman. “I mean I liked her. I just want to help.”

  Davis pulled a card from his wallet and held it out to her. “If you think of anything else, anything at all. Just call me.”

  The old woman nodded in the affirmative, then added, “I’m old, you know,” almost as if her apology weren’t enough and she needed to explain. Then she silently accepted the card, turned away, and shuffled into the sanctuary of her apartment.

  Several hours later, after searching the Caruso apartment thoroughly, the three detectives were convinced they would find nothing more to help them. Everything was there, of course: the body bound to the bed, the heart with the two sets of initials—everything. Everything the same—except for one thing; there was no New Testament!

  “Are you sure there’s no bible?” asked Matt.

  “Absolutely,” said one of the forensic detectives.

  “That’s really strange,” said Chris.

  “What?” said Matt. A funny look crossed his face. “You’re not thinking about that copycat shit again, are you?” asked Matt.

  “I don’t know,” said Chris. “I sure as hell hope not.”

  “Well, she’s the first one that’s not married,” added Rita. “That’s certainly different. I just hope it’s not a copycat. I don’t think I could take it.”

  “I know, I know,” said Matt, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. The threesome stood quietly, not looking at one another, until at last Matt broke the silence. “Fuck it!” he shouted. “I just can’t buy it. It’s too easy! I want that fucking computer dissected like a goddamn fetal pig. Find out who she’d been talking to, who she knew, who her fucking pharmacist was – everything! I want to know all there is to know about this woman!”

  CHAPTER 48

  9:05 p.m., Tuesday, May 16

  Rita’s relationship with Carl, her Internet friend, had cooled considerably; in fact, it appeared to be all but over. He meant well, she thought, but it seemed as if all his time was either occupied with work or his kids. Somehow, he could never fit Rita into his schedule, and they still hadn’t met each other face-to-face. Maybe his ex-wife knew what she was doing, after all. Rita decided she didn’t need the hassle of a man with kids, not to mention one with no time for her. There was every possibility that something might develop between Freitag and her, but for now she was technically a woman without a man.

  Tonight, as she sat at her computer, she thought of the fellow who had surprised her recently. What the hell was his name? Jim? John? It was something with a J. “Jack!” she exclaimed. “That’s it! Jack!”

  Now, if she could only remember his screen name. The Hulk? Hulk something? No, that’s not it. Wait a minute. I think I wrote it down—somewhere. Where did I put that piece of paper? Rita rummaged through a mess of paper scraps until she found the one she wanted. There it was, scribbled hurriedly, but legible nevertheless. It was Jack (Hunkalovin’).

  She quickly brought up the AOL Instant Messenger, and there was Hunkalovin’ on her Friends list. A little “smiley” icon next to the name indicated that, indeed, he was online. Hmm, I wonder what I should say. I don’t want to—Oh, the hell with it. I’m desperate!

  She hit “Send Personal Message.” When the box appeared, her fingers flew over the keyboard, as she typed:

  Sexy39: Hi Jack. Are you there?

  For a second, nothing happened. Shit, I’ll bet he just signed off. Then, like magic, a reply appeared beneath her question.

  Hunkalovin’: Hey Sexy. What’s shakin’?

  Sexy39: Not much, I’m afraid...

  Hunkalovin’: Aw that’s too bad...

  Hunkalovin’: A sexy girl like you all alone

  Hunkalovin’: Want me to come over?

  Sexy39: Not tonight...

  Hunkalovin’: When then?

  Sexy39: Oh...maybe some other time. I don’t even know you yet

  Hunkalovin’: Sure you do

  Hunkalovin’: OK OK I know what you mean but

  Sexy39: This is only our second “date”...remember?

  Rita regretted her choice of words almost immediately. But, it was too late.

  Hunkalovin’: Hey! third times a charm right?

  Sexy39: I just knew you’d say that...

  There was a long pause, and for a minute Rita thought she had lost Jack. She waited a bit more, before typing.

  Sexy39: Are you still there Jack?

  Hunkalovin’: Yeah...I’m still here

  Hunkalovin’: Rita, do you like sex?

  Rita’s breath caught in her throat. She felt her heart beat faster, and her palms grew clammy. What am I doing? I don’t even know who this guy is. He’s probably some pervert...

  Hunkalovin’: Do you? Do you like it?

  Rita’s mind was racing. Does he really know me?

  Sexy39: Who is this, really?

  Hunkalovin’: Do you? I’ll bet your tits are hard...Are they hard...Rita?

  This had gone far enough, Rita thought.

  Sexy39: Okay. That’s enough! Whoever you are, I’m out of here.

  Hunkalovin’: I know where you live ya know...

  Rita gasped. She quickly typed a response.

  Sexy39: What do you mean, you know where I live?

  Hunkalovin’: I see you all the time...

  Rita’s mind automatically ticked off all the recent encounters she had had. There wasn’t anyone that came to mind that could behave like this. She was frantic.

  Sexy39: How do you know where I live? It’s not in my profile...

  Hunkalovin’: You live on the east side...

  Rita was stunned. How did he know where she lived? How could he possibly know that? Who was this guy? Rita’s fingers virtually flew over the keyboard as she typed t
he next question.

  Sexy39: Who are you?

  Hunkalovin’: Why?

  Sexy39: If you don’t tell me right now, I’ll contact AOL immediately and find out who you are. Who are you?

  Hunkalovin’: Why do you want to know?

  Sexy39: Because I don’t like you knowing where I live. For the last time, who are you?

  Hunkalovin’: I’m Ken

  Sexy39: But, you said your name was Jack?

  Hunkalovin’: It is....thats my middle name...Jack....my friends call me Jack.......remember?

  Rita stared at the screen in disbelief. Could it really be? She typed furiously.

  Sexy39: Are you Ken Callahan? The delivery guy?

  Hunkalovin’: Yeah.....it’s me. Are you disappointed?

  Sexy39: No, I’m not disappointed. I’m mad! Who the fuck do you think you are?

  Hunkalovin’: But you said you wanted to meet a man....I was just havin a little fun....thats all...

  Sexy39: What’s wrong with you, anyway? I trusted you.

  Hunkalovin’: I’m sorry Rita

  Sexy39: Sorry doesn’t cut it, buddy, you fucked up big time. I don’t want you to ever contact me again. Is that clear?

  Hunkalovin’: But Rita....I thought we could get together...

  Sexy39: Look, Ken, or Jack, or whatever your name really is. I’m not really a secretary. I’m a cop.

  Hunkalovin’: You’re a cop?

  Sexy39: That’s right…and a damn good one. And if you tell anyone, or if you pull this kind of crap again…

  Hunkalovin’: I’m really sorry Rita...I was just foolin around...I swear

  Sexy39: People get arrested for fooling around like that. You’re lucky I know you, Ken.

  Hunkalovin’: I’m sorry Rita

  Sexy39: Too late. You just lose this email address. Do you understand? Otherwise I’ll turn you in. Do you understand me?

  Hunkalovin’: Yeah......I promise.......you won’t tell anybody will you?

  Sexy39: No. But, if I even see your name in another chat room I’ll arrest you myself. Now get offline! Now!

  Rita felt strange, writing these types of things on the screen. It was all so—artificial. That was the only word that adequately described the whole process. She should have known better. After tonight, she would confine her relationships to the one-on-one, in-person kind. No more Internet chat rooms for her. She studied the screen for any signs of Ken’s presence, but apparently he had taken her seriously and had signed off. She closed down the computer, and went to bed.

  CHAPTER 49

  9:00 a.m., Wednesday, May 17

  Matt moved about the kitchen with uncertainty. Valerie was working an eight-to-four shift at the hospital, and he wasn’t expected at headquarters until three-forty five. It was rare that he had the kitchen to himself, so he had decided to make the most of the opportunity.

  This was Valerie’s domain, he thought. His efforts at cooking were normally restricted to microwaving a cup of water for his hot chocolate, or defrosting a frozen bagel. In reality, however, he had actually become an acceptable cook while married to his first wife, Jean, whose abilities in the kitchen had been limited to unwrapping frozen entrees. He had acquired what culinary skills he possessed out of sheer necessity.

  Matt rummaged through the contents of the refrigerator and came up with a hunk of Muenster cheese. A Tupperware container on the bottom shelf held some leftover broccoli, and he decided to incorporate the cheese and vegetables into an omelet. He quickly diced the cheese into small chunks, and scrambled three eggs in a bowl. He placed a blackened cast-iron frying pan on the front burner, and waited until it was good and hot. Then, he coated the pan with butter, poured the eggs into a large circle, and expertly shook the pan counter clockwise to spread the mixture evenly. When the eggs were cooked, he carefully removed them to a stainless steel baking dish. He spread the chunks of cheese and broccoli on half the circle, folded the other side over, and placed the pan inside the oven.

  A few moments later, the omelet was done. He seated himself at the table, and enjoyed the fruits of his culinary labor, along with some rye toast, orange juice, and hot chocolate. It didn’t get any better than this, he thought. Afterwards, he placed the dishes in the dishwasher and moved to his study.

  Matt had decided to accept Father Pete’s invitation to play golf on Wednesday afternoon, and wanted to firm up the arrangements. He picked up the portable telephone on his desk and dialed the number for St. Jude’s. The housekeeper answered the call on the second ring.

  “St. Jude’s Rectory. Mrs. Flynn speaking,” she said, in her thick Irish accent.

  “Hello, Mrs. Flynn. This is Matt Davis, may I speak to Father Pete?”

  “Why of course, Detective Davis,” she replied. “I’ll get him for you right away.”

  In a moment Matt heard the familiar voice of Father Pete. “Good morning, Matt. How are you?”

  “Well, all things considered, I guess I’m doing okay. How ’bout you?”

  “Just great, Matt,” replied the Monsignor, “So, what can I do for you?”

  “Well, actually, I got your message, and I’ve decided to take you up on your golf offer.”

  “Hey, that’s great,” said Father Pete. “So, next Wednesday afternoon’s okay?”

  “Yeah,” replied Matt. “Wednesday’s fine. But, I can only play nine. Actually, I shouldn’t be playing at all, but—”

  “Nonsense,” interrupted the priest. “Besides, I’m sure you can use the break.”

  “Well, you’re probably right about that,” said Matt. “But, I’m serious about the nine holes. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all,” replied Father Pete, “Besides, I can always finish the back nine by myself.”

  “Well, okay,” said Matt. “So, I’ll meet you on the practice green around what—one-thirty?”

  “Sounds good, Matt. I’ll see you then.”

  Matt hung up the telephone, closed his eyes, and leaned back in his chair, drawing a deep breath. He sat quietly like that, for several minutes, luxuriating in the peace and quiet of the morning. His thoughts drifted back to memories of him and his late father, fishing for flounder in Sheep’s Head Bay. Suddenly, the harsh ringing of the phone shattered the silence.

  “Davis here,” he said, instantly alert.

  “Matt,” said the voice. “This is Ron Hogarth over at forensics. I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I’ve got some information here that I thought you might want to know about.”

  Matt sat upright in the chair, rubbed his eyes, and took a deep breath. “Yeah, Ron. What’s up?”

  “Well, we did some analysis on those carvings on your victims. We took some pictures and made some measurements, and, as near as we can figure it—well—it looks like the ‘doer’ is left-handed.”

  “No shit,” said Matt. “You could tell that from the cuts?”

  “Well, like I said, it’s not a hundred percent, but we’re pretty sure. The angles on the cuts on all the victims are pretty close to identical in their pattern. Anyway, based on those angles and where the cuts begin and end, that’s what we think.”

  “So the guy’s a lefty,” said Matt. “Hmm, okay. Well, thanks a lot, Ron. I really appreciate it.” He hung up the phone. Wonders never ceased, he thought.

  When Davis arrived at headquarters, it was around three-fifty. He hung his windbreaker on a hook behind the door, and settled into the battered swivel chair at his desk. He no sooner had sat down than Freitag burst through his office door. He was wearing a New York Mets baseball cap, sweatshirt, jeans, and running shoes, and could have passed for a college student. He was muttering to himself; carrying a batch of papers in one hand and a container of coffee in the other. He set the coffee down on Davis’s desk, grabbed a folding plastic chair from the closet, and sat down next to his partner.

  “What’s up, Chris?” asked Matt, peering at Freitag over the top of his reading glasses.

  “I thought you might want to take a look at
these.” Freitag handed the papers to Davis.

  “What have you got?” asked Matt.

  “Oh, just some information to go with our fingerprints,” answered Chris.

  Matt glanced at the papers casually, somewhat disinterested at first, than raised his eyebrows as he studied them more intently. He was looking at the results of the National Crime Information Center’s computer search that they had run on the unidentified fingerprints found at the four murder scenes. Initially, the prints had been run through the systems computer at One Police Plaza, but had come back without a match. Now, the federal results showed a positive identification.

  According to the NCIC report, the prints belonged to a John Curran. The only problem was that they dated back to an arrest that had taken place over forty years ago, in March of 1962, in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania. John Curran had been a student at Benjamin Franklin University, and had been arrested for assault and battery—on his girlfriend! Nice guy. Unfortunately, there was no current address. Still, it did fit—the type of violation and all.

  Matt handed the papers back to his partner. “Very interesting. Obviously our boy’s kept his nose clean for quite a while—at least up until now.”

  “Yeah,” said Freitag. “Too bad he picked now to fuck up.”

  Oh, by the way, “Said Matt, “We’ve got something else.”

  “What’s that?” asked Chris.

  “Forensics called me this morning. Seems like our boy’s a lefty.”

  “How’d they know that?”

  “Well, first of all, they took a bunch of pictures of all the cuts—the hearts and the initials. Then they measured the angles, where he started, where he finished, stuff like that; anyway, according to Hogarth, it’s about ninety per cent that he’s a lefty.”

  “So,” said Chris, “Looks like things are starting to fit.”

  “Yeah, some fit,” said Matt. “This guy hasn’t been seen since 1962. Now he’s here—somewhere. But, the question is, where?”

  “I don’t know, but I guess we’ll just have to find out, won’t we?” said Freitag.

  “I guess so,” said Davis.

  “We’ll find him,” said Chris.