The Celtic Cross Killer

by Keiron Cosgrave

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘Upstairs, in her apartment. Rodriguez is with her, boss. I didn’t want to leave her all alone.’

  ‘Good thinking. Excellent briefing, Abrahamsen.’

  ‘Thank you. Means a lot.’

  Casey, asserting authority new found authority as lead detective, said, ‘Follow me.’

  44

  Casey entered the Bauhaus-influenced and contemporary styled room first. The Riccis’ lounge reminded him of the many modernist boutique hotels that had popped up throughout New York. By the careful selection of materials and a minimalist approach to furniture, the Ricci’s had successfully imbued the apartment with a chic and cool ambience. Boxy low slung cream leather sofas, chairs and footstools sat on mirror-finish dark mahogany flooring; accented with soft furnishings in light purple. Expensive objet d’art on marble plinths stood in each of the four corners. Black and white prints adorned the walls.

  Casey thought the decor austere and cold.

  Casey introduced himself, Rodriguez, Pecarro and Abrahamsen to Sophia Ricci as she busied herself, making hot drinks in the kitchen. Informed the grieving woman he would lead the investigation. Stressed the importance that all contact with the Department should be via himself. Mentioned that anything of a more personal nature, should go via Police Officer Rodriguez.

  ‘You sure you don’t need assistance, Mrs Ricci?’ asked Casey, through the opening into the kitchen.

  ‘I’m fine. I’ll be with you in a minute,’ she replied. Added, ‘If someone could help with the drinks, please?’

  Rodriguez joined Sophia Ricci in the kitchen.

  ‘My, you were quick!’ exclaimed Sophia, surprised yet comforted by the officer’s swift arrival. Collecting a tray of coffee, Sophia Ricci carried it through to the lounge to join the seated detectives.

  ‘I’m very sorry to have to do this, Mrs Ricci, only I need to ask you some questions. I need to form as complete a picture as I can, of your life, family and friends. Establish also, whether Franco had any known enemies. If you don’t feel up to answering questions, we can always come back later,’ said Casey.

  Sophia Ricci was slim with petite breasts and wide hips. Her mother and father’s genes had blessed her with long and shapely legs and an athletic build. Her gold-flecked brown hair, hazel doe-like eyes, high cheekbones and slim nose attested to Italian origins. She wore a crew-necked black sweater, dogtooth check trousers, cut short to reveal shapely ankles and patent black leather pumps. Her hair hung limp and unbrushed across her shoulders. Sophia Ricci was stunning. Pecarro drew a deep breath, caught in the spell of her beauty. Her parents had baptised their first daughter Sophia, and there was no guessing why.

  ‘I’m okay, Detective Casey. Where to start?’ sniffled Sophia, reaching for a Kleenex from Rodriguez, perched on the sofa beside her.

  ‘Tell me about yours and Franco’s backgrounds. How you met? Your life together? Any suspicions you might have? Anyone, you believe may be involved, or contributed to your husband’s death. Take your time,’ urged Casey.

  45

  Sophia explained how she and Franco had grown up in neighbouring streets in the idyllic hilltop town of San Gimignano, in the central Italian province of Tuscany. Set high on a hilltop among the vineyards, sunflower and wheat fields of the rolling Tuscan countryside, San Gimignano, was a small town dominated by bell towers.

  In medieval times, adjoining landowners sought to outdo each other with ever increasing and ostentatious displays of wealth, power and status. Each year the bell towers would grow ever higher. By 1750, the skyline resembled a scaled-down version of twentieth-century Manhattan. Thirty ornate stone towers vied for prominence within a half-mile radius of the town centre. Each tower was anchored within the protective solidity of metre thick stone city walls, draped with colourful bougainvillea.

  On Sundays, the crescendo from peeling bells was incredible. Legend had it—given a fair wind—the bells of San Gimignano could be heard as far away as Rome.

  Sophia and Franco had met as children. Their childhood had been one of innocence and play. Of long summer days under the boiling Tuscan sun, spent playing hide and seek or tag. Of running wild among the historic cobbled streets and lush vineyards bordering the town. By the time they were teenagers, Franco and Sophia had developed a natural affinity and closeness. At fifteen and sixteen, they were inseparable.

  Sophia recollected those early years with fondness. ‘When I was sixteen, I found out I was pregnant. We panicked and ran away. It would save our families public shame and private pain. Back then, sex outside of marriage was frowned upon. I’m sure you know, Italy is a staunchly Catholic country. Franco and I, decided to run away before I started to show. Enjoy our time together, before the baby was born. Franco is … was … a year older than me. He had a scooter. It was a beautiful old Lambretta inherited from his grandfather. So, one night, we put our few belongings into an old suitcase. Franco borrowed some camping equipment from a friend and we sneaked away. We didn’t have a plan. We simply set off. Followed the road out of town and kept going.’

  Sophia paused. Blew her nose on a tissue. Dabbed moist eyes. ‘I left my parents a note saying I needed to see the world before I was too old. Told them I wanted to see Paris, London and New York. It was the sixties. Teenagers did things like that. I knew I was breaking their hearts,’ Sophia paused. ‘But I couldn’t face the alternative.’

  ‘Take a break,’ said Casey.

  ‘No, I’m fine. Anyway, that first night, we travelled fifty miles towards the border with France. We stopped at the side of the road and camped on the edge of a field. We were so very much in love. No one else mattered. We were so young … in hindsight … so very naïve,’ said Sophia directing her gaze to a black and white portrait of Franco in a sixties mod suit astride an ancient Lambretta at the base of the Eiffel Tower. She turned to face the detectives.

  ‘On the second day we crossed the border into France. We headed along the winding Riviera coast road. 1967 was a wonderful summer. We spent most of the time on the beach or camping at campsites inland. Franco got a job servicing motorcycles at a local petrol station. It was on a journey back to the campsite one Sunday evening, towards the end of the summer, that we had the accident. I suppose it was that accident that defined the rest of our lives.’

  Sophia Ricci stalled and blew her nose.

  ‘I was five months gone. My bump was huge. I’d been with Franco at the garage all day. I seem to remember, the owner’s wife, she was helping me to alter my dresses. It had been a lovely day. Anyway, as I was saying we were traveling back to the campsite when the scooter’s front tyre hit a patch of oil. Franco lost control. The scooter slipped out from under him. We careered off the road into a ditch. We were both thrown clear of the scooter, but I landed on my stomach. Franco got me to a doctor, but within hours, I’d miscarried. I’ll never forget Franco’s face that night. It devastated him. For years afterwards, he beat himself up about it. I could never bring myself to blame him. He knew that. God rest his soul, he’ll always know that.’ Sophia paused, voice trembling, silent tears rolling down her cheeks.

  ‘Take your time, Mrs Ricci, I know how difficult this is for you. Why don’t we take a comfort break?’ said Casey. The others nodded.

  Ten minutes later, Sophia Ricci, face scrubbed and shiny, returned to the sofa and continued. ‘Sorry, I’m okay now. Thank you. So … after the miscarriage, we considered going home. We wanted to be together. To be honest, my father scared me. We travelled to Paris. Stayed there all winter. Moved to London in the spring. In London, Franco did casual work. Waited tables. Worked bar. I got a part-time job in a drapery store. We lived in a tiny bedsit. Lived simply and saved as much money as we could. Franco had an uncle in America. His name was Giuseppe Ricci—a chef. He owned a successful Italian restaurant in Brooklyn. Franco wrote to him. Giuseppe promised Franco a job with the chance of an apartment, just so long as he paid for his passage. We sailed from Southampton to New York in
January 1970. It was such an adventure. Franco joined his uncle in the family business and over the years worked his way up to head chef. When Giuseppe retired we bought out his interest in the restaurant. It’s called Parrini’s. You may know it. It’s considered one of, if not the best, Italian restaurant in Brooklyn. I work part time for the United Nations as an interpreter.’

  Casey cleared his throat. ‘Can you think of anyone with any kind of problem or vendetta with Franco, in either his professional or private life, Mrs Ricci?’

  ‘No,’ replied Sophia, shaking her head. ‘Franco was a beautiful man. Patient. Quiet. Unassuming. He kept himself to himself in both his personal and professional lives. We live a private and simple life. One day we always imagined returning home to San Gimignano. I can’t think of a single person with any reason to be angry with Franco, let alone murder him. We have no financial problems that I’m aware of … and little family here in the States.’

  Pecarro admired the profound dignity and strength exhibited by Sophia Ricci at such a difficult time. He hoped he could show just a small percentage of that resolve when he met the Chief later that day and handed in his resignation letter.

  Taking the lead and rising to leave, Casey concluded the interview.

  ‘That will be all for now, Mrs Ricci. I would like to extend, on behalf of the Department, our deepest sympathies. Seems to me your husband was an extraordinary man. We’ll do our very best to find his killer. We will need to interview you again. In the meantime, should there be any developments, we’ll contact you. Is there anyone who can stay with you, today?’

  Sophia shook her head. ‘I’ll be fine. I’d rather be alone.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Okay. Call Officer Rodriguez on her cell—day or night—should you need to,’ said Casey.

  ‘Thank you, Detective Casey … gentlemen…’ Sophia’s voice trailed off. Consumed once again with grief.

  46

  Pecarro’s mind reeled with relief. Though he’d yet to resign, he had made his life-changing decision.

  ‘Well done, Michael. I liked the way you handled yourself in there. This job isn’t pleasant sometimes,’ said Pecarro, breaking the awkward silence in the cabin.

  ‘Thanks, boss. You taught me well. I’m grateful to you. You gave me belief. Don’t know if I’ll ever be able to repay you,’ said Casey, an earnest expression fixed on his face, not taking his eyes from the freeway.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s not a matter of repayment. You’ve either got it … or you haven’t. You showed promise in the early days. Had you not, I wouldn’t have wasted my time on you. You’ll do just fine. You’ve got the personality and aptitude to manage the politics, much better than I ever could. You adapt. It’s in your nature,’ said Pecarro.

  * * *

  Chief Johnson’s refurbished and extended office was spotless. The cost of the refurbishment had caused much controversy. Two interview rooms knocked into one had left the department short of desperately needed interview facilities. The design style adopted was more contemporary corporate boardroom than Chief of Police. The room featured frosted glass tables, black leather designer executive recliners, glass shelving and two showroom-fresh red leather Chesterfield sofas hugging the back wall. On a glass-topped sideboard, the Chief had placed personal keepsakes: trophies, certificates of achievement, and family photographs.

  It gave an insight into the man’s psyche.

  ‘Pecarro. What can I do for you? Have you made any progress infiltrating that gambling racket you’re supposed to be investigating? Sit down,’ said Johnson. ‘Bear with me a second.’

  Johnson reached into a low cupboard below the desk, flicked a switch that turned a glass division wall behind Pecarro, from clear to opaque.

  ‘The investigation is progressing well, sir. It’s not why I’m here. It’s something much more important than that,’ said Pecarro.

  Johnson’s eyebrows arched. ‘What do you mean? Much more important than that? What in Christ’s name could be more important than your present case? I’d be very careful what you say at this point, Pecarro. I’m not in the mood,’ exclaimed Johnson, irritated by Pecarro’s opening gambit.

  Pecarro made to speak, before he could, Johnson continued. ‘The Celtic Cross Killer is one of your many unsolved cases.’ Without affording Pecarro a right of reply, Johnson continued unabated. ‘It’s Casey’s case, now. I want you to give him a helping hand. Point out any similarities between the murders. Focus on the details. Give him the benefit of your experience … your case knowledge. Casey is good. He’ll go far. Anyway, you were saying…’

  Johnson leaned back in the recliner, stared past Pecarro’s left shoulder, fingers joined in a pyramid over his midriff.

  Pecarro had noted Johnson’s emphasis of the word unsolved. He’d noted also how Johnson spoke at him rather than to him. Johnson knew nothing of respect. Biting down hard on his anger, Pecarro reminded himself that losing his cool would only be damaging. It would play into Johnson’s manipulative hands. Blowing up might damage his pension. What point in leaving under a cloud? Fixing Johnson with a stare, Pecarro drew a long breath.

  A forty-year police career was about to be ended.

  ‘I’m resigning,’ said Pecarro, ‘today.’

  For the first time that morning, Johnson fixed his gaze on the man opposite.

  ‘Is this a joke? Did you say you were resigning?’ queried Johnson, seeking affirmation of his mistake.

  ‘Yes, sir, you heard right. I’m handing in my resignation … as of now.’ Pecarro settled his badge, warrant card and service revolver on the desk.

  ‘What’s brought this about?’

  Pecarro paused. ‘Nothing in particular, sir. I guess … I’ve had my time. I’m old school and proud of it. I like to get my hands dirty. I do my work on the streets not in some office sat on my butt. Policing has changed. All this computerisation, monitoring, budgeting and analysis, it’s just not my thing,’ said Pecarro. His passion rising. ‘Frankly, sir, I’ve been side-lined. I’ve not been getting the cases I deserve. Or, for that matter, the respect I deserve.’ Pecarro said, trying hard not to inflame the situation.

  Johnson tapped a pencil on the desk; seemed to be considering his response. Set the pencil down. ‘In part, I accept what you say. Pecarro, yours is an exemplary record. You’re a good detective, but none of us are immune from change. We must all move with the times. If the Department isn’t moving forwards it’s moving backwards. Under my leadership, I will not allow that to happen,’ said Johnson. ‘Do you understand that?’

  ‘Yes I do … but to my mind … there’s a way of doing things…’

  ‘What are you suggesting? I hope you’re not being critical of me personally, Pecarro?’

  Pecarro pushed out of the chair. Stood. ‘You ought to be happy. You’ve got what you wanted. You and I both know, I’ve fallen on my sword just like you wanted. Send me a pension statement.’ Pecarro stepped forward, leered over Johnson. Glowered. ‘Okay?’

  Johnson nodded. Shrugged. ‘Consider it done.’

  Vaulting down the staircase to the basement car park, Pecarro heard the voices of a thousand former colleagues resonate inside his head. A solitary tear coursed down his face. A tear shed for a lifetime of public service. He swiped it from his cheek. Waved farewell to Fats—the car park attendant—for the last time. A new life as a private investigator lay ahead.

  Upstairs, resplendent in his new lair, Johnson reached for the intercom.

  ‘Crystal, tell Detective Casey I want to see him in my office, urgently. I need to notify him of a minor inconvenience that’s cropped up,’ said Johnson, with a Machiavellian smile.

  47

  After exchanging pleasantries, Casey took a chair opposite the Chief. Johnson settled his weight on the edge of the desk, gave a lizard smile and said, ‘I expect you already know about Pecarro?’

  ‘Know about what, sir?’

  ‘Know that he resigned
this morning. He rushed away. Didn’t even give me the opportunity of accepting it. I must say he was very unprofessional. Were you aware of his intentions?’

  ‘No, sir, I had no idea. I’m sad he felt the need to resign. Tony is an excellent officer, a great partner and a good friend,’ said Casey.

  ‘Yes … well … enough about Pecarro. It’s time we got down to business. I’m told there’s been another murder. That The Celtic Cross Killer has struck again. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, sir, it is. The modus operandi and victimology are identical,’ said Casey.

  ‘I see. It would seem our killer holds a vendetta against persons of Italian origin. I understand both victims were of Italian descent. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘To my mind, the Celtic cross signature most probably indicates the killer is of Scottish or Irish ancestry. Perhaps, we’ve got an unhinged druid psychopath on our hands.’ Johnson’s eyes bored into Casey. ‘Michael, do you think the killer is of Irish ancestry? Someone with a background much like your own?’

  Johnson made it his business to research the work records and family backgrounds of all his senior staff. Better the devil you know, being just one of his many credos.

  ‘All I know is … the post mortem desecration points to the same perpetrator. The meaning behind the cross is unclear. We know the killer is physically strong and driven. He’s motivated by some dark psychology. We think he may be retired or serving military. We do know he’s clean; given that there’s no positive DNA match to the vomit or the blood sample found at the scene of the first murder,’ said Casey, ignoring Johnson’s reference to ancestry.