Am I the Killer? - A Luca Mystery - Book 1

by Dan Petrosini

  I looked down my robe to my bare feet and pulled the belt around me. “I, uh, was—”

  “You gonna let me in?”

  I stepped aside. She rushed in, flipped on the lights, and shut the TV. Then she told me, no, commanded is more like it, to get dressed.

  When I came down, she was tidying up. She frowned with her hands on her hips.

  “No shower? What did you have for lunch?”

  “I, ah, um, I didn’t have anything, yet.”

  “What about breakfast?”

  I couldn’t remember if I ate or not and stood there thinking as she stormed into the kitchen. I plopped back on the sofa and started to read the pad of notes Vinny left. Halfway down the first page I read something that made me smile. Thank God Tony was coming tomorrow. It would give me a break from the gestapo bitch for a day.

  Man, it was gonna be great to see Tony again. He visited twice or maybe three times when I was in Walter Reed, but it’d been a while, though I couldn’t remember how long since I last saw him. My buddy came right before lunch and brought subs and salads from Dearborn Farms.

  “Yo, bro!”

  We embraced for a long while, and a couple of tears plopped out.

  “Man, you’re looking good, Petey!”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “How you feeling and all?”

  “Uh, sometimes good, but the frigging memory—I don’t know, it seems to be getting worse by the day.”

  He pointed to his eyes. “What’s with the specs?”

  I shrugged. “Lifesaver, man, they help me with, you know, the, the, uh what’s it called? You know, how far things are and stuff.”

  “Depth perception?”

  “Yeah, see, I told you. Can’t remember a frigging thing. This short-term memory crap—”

  “Don’t sweat it, bro.”

  I wagged my head. “It’s funny, I can remember things from a long time ago. Like when we were in the fucking hellhole, Afghanistan, clear as a picture, but remember to brush my teeth?”

  “What do the docs say about it?”

  “Bunch of mumbo jumbo, if you ask me. Anyway, they gave me another couple of pills to help. Let’s see if it works,” I replied, fingering my ear.

  He started opening the bags. “How about the ear thing?”

  I shrugged. “Kinda the same. I can live with it most of the times, but sometimes—”

  “Come on, let’s have some chow. I’m starving.”

  You know, they’re right, service buddies are friends for life. After being filled in on what some of our other buddies were doing, we caught up with each other on the romance end of things—Tony telling me he’d met someone he felt he’d marry, and me telling him I thought things were getting a little bit better with Mary.

  The afternoon flew by, fueled by more stories of our time in Afghanistan. We were somber at times, but the joy of being home together drove the day into evening. Tony reminded me he was staying overnight to celebrate his brother’s birthday before heading back to Cherry Hill.

  “I gotta get going, Petey.”

  “Sure.”

  “Hey, why don’t you come to the party tonight? You know Joey.”

  I’d met his brother a few times. “I don’t know. I’d feel funny, and Vinny really wants me to stay in.”

  “Come on, man, you got to get back in the swing of things. What you gonna do, watch frigging TV?”

  “Who’s gonna be there?”

  “Just some family. No big deal—you gotta eat anyway.”

  “I, I don’t know, Tony. How am I gonna get back and forth? Vinny’ll kill me if he knows I drove alone.”

  “I’ll pick your ass up at seven.”

  I was glad I went. There weren’t a lot of people there, and their mother was nice and a great cook, to boot. After we ate, they had a birthday cake, and it quickly quieted down. Joey was meeting up with his friends at the Lincoln Lounge on Route 35 to continue, or should I say, start the celebration. Tony pushed me to go with them, saying it was on the way to my house anyway. He promised to take me back after a game or two of pool, and, knowing Mary went there sometimes, I quickly agreed.

  The Lincoln Lounge was an old neighborhood bar with pool tables. The bar reinvigorated itself by bringing in a DJ to play dance music after the old timers went home. Joey’s friends were shooting pool and hoisting beers when we came in.

  “Yo, here’s the birthday boy!”

  “What’s up, old man? What are you, like, forty?”

  “Fuck you.”

  I scanned the place for Mary as a bunch of bear hugs and fist bumps erupted.

  “This is my bro, Pete. We served together.”

  “Yeah, sure. You’re Vinny’s brother. Good to see you on your feet, man.”

  I nodded and shook a few hands as a familiar face cut in.

  “Hey, Pete, how you doing, man? Heard you got injured and all.”

  It was an old classmate with red hair whose name I’d couldn’t recall. “Okay, I guess.”

  “Okay? Man, you should’ve seen him! I hate to say it, Petey, but I really didn’t think you’d make it. He was hooked up to so many fucking machines,” Tony said.

  I peered over Tony’s shoulder for any signs of Mary. I moved outside the circle for a better view as a barmaid who seemed familiar took our party’s drink orders.

  As she began to move to the bar, Tony said, “Don’t forget my man, Pete. You remember him, no?”

  “Yeah sure, you used to go with Mary before she hooked up with Billy.”

  Used to? “I, I, we still, uh, I mean, we’re—”

  “I hear she and Billy are getting hitched soon.”

  I froze and leaned on my cane.

  “So what can I get you? An ice-cold beer?”

  My mouth was slammed with the taste of rusting iron and my mind with confusion.

  “Is Heineken okay with you?”

  I barely nodded. “Uh, Billy? Billy who?”

  “Wyatt.”

  I collapsed into a chair as images of my nemesis taunting me in the first grade schoolyard flooded my head. It was the start of the end of my relationship with my brother. A year older, Vinny didn’t intervene when Billy Wyatt, my age but six inches and twenty pounds heavier, punched me in the belly and I lost my breath. I was hunched over, hands on my knees, trying to gulp air as tears streamed down my face. A circle of first and second graders watched as Billy pushed me to the ground.

  Mrs. Murphy rushed through the throng of kids and pulled me to safety as my brother said, “Get up, don’t be a sissy.”

  I refused to go back to class, and they called my mom to get me, serving to embarrass me further. The tear flow exploded when I saw her and continued when I told her what happened and that Vinny didn’t help me. She comforted me and confronted Vinny when he came home. I listened from the hallway as he lied, saying he didn’t see what was going on and only came when he saw Mrs. Murphy running. But my mother knew, as all moms do, when their kid is lying. She punished him, but it didn’t help. In fact, it made things worse as he blamed me for having to stay inside the entire weekend.

  Vinny and Billy became inseparable through middle school, and I didn’t trust either one of them. When it came time for high school, Vinny and I went to Middletown South, and Billy to North. However, the fierce rivalry between the schools’ sport teams did nothing to damage their relationship. Vinny always hung out with Billy and the kids from North, while I hung with my South classmates. I kept my distance from Billy, who’d built a huge reputation as a bully. I longed for the day someone would put him in his place.

  Becoming the quarterback for the North’s varsity team fed right into Billy Wyatt’s aggressor karma and led to another humiliating experience for me in front of almost everyone I knew. The two Middletown football teams had a scrimmage against each other at our home field. Since we had a heated rivalry going, the practice game was well attended. After the scrimmage, we were headed to the locker rooms when I was hit above my ear with a fo
otball. I turned around, and the throng of kids parted, leaving a smirking Billy as the obvious prankster. I searched for the coaches, but they were inside already, so I marched up to him, but before I could say a word, he swung his helmet into my gut. I doubled over, and, like ten years before, had the breath knocked out of me. The humiliation I suffered led me to search for a way to restore my pride, but the opportunity always evaded me.

  The barmaid tapped my shoulder. She took a bottle of Heineken off her tray and held it out.

  I banged my cane on the ground and pulled myself out of the chair and into the tray. As the bottle crashed to the floor, I stormed over to Tony.

  “I wanna go.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, take me home.”

  “But we just got—”

  “Now, goddamn it!”

  Tony threw up his palm, put his beer down, and we left.

  Tony tried to figure out what was wrong, but I wouldn’t open up, telling him I was tired. Quietly simmering as he drove, I fingered the cell phone in my pocket with my trembling hand. I closed the car door as Tony was making plans to visit again. I pulled out the phone on the way to the front door.

  She answered on the second ring.

  Chapter 8

  Monmouth County Prosecutor William Stanley had called a meeting with John Cline, the assistant prosecutor who headed the county’s Major Crimes Bureau, and long-time County Sheriff Bob Meril. A troubling rise in murders to four a month versus only one in years past, combined with an alarming rise in burglaries, were testing their ability to keep the peace. The media were running multiple stories a day, scaring residents, while providing Stanley’s opponents with plenty to campaign against in his reelection bid.

  Stanley, a wiry man with steel blue eyes and a creased forehead, was known as a man of action but also as incredibly stubborn. The prosecutor wanted to tackle the increase in burglaries, which often tracked an uptick in drug use. He flopped open a file.

  “The rise in drug use is almost all attributed to the increased use of crystal meth.” He tapped the table with his forefinger. “This damn meth is wreaking havoc on our communities.” He offered a sheet to his associates. “Addictive Services reports there are no available beds, with a nine-month wait for inpatient treatment and a minimum of four months for outpatients.” Stanley shook his head as the report made the rounds.

  The sheriff slid the report back, grumbling, “I donno how they smoke that crap.”

  Assistant Prosecutor Cline offered, “Well, the traditional law enforcement response would be to increase surveillance, bust street-level dealers—”

  Stanley furrowed his brow. “Sure, choking availability would reduce the meth supply, but it would drive up prices.”

  “And a junkie’s desperation,” Sheriff Meril added.

  “Exactly where I was heading, Bob.” Stanley wagged his forefinger. “Everything we know tells us that meth abusers become psychotic and extremely aggressive. I’m concerned these addicts will get even more violent, desperate in their pursuit to satiate their cravings.”

  Cline nodded. “It’s something I witnessed when I was with the DA’s office in New York. We had a crack cocaine epidemic, and it was nasty.” He shook his head. “Crack heads were popping dealers left and right to get their hands on that junk.” He held up three fingers. “We had three bodies a day to deal with.”

  Stanley shifted in his chair. “I’ve been thinking, maybe we ratchet enforcement up a bit. Hit the projects, parks, wherever the dealers are.” Stanley looked at the sheriff for a second. “Not too much, Bob, just raise it a notch. At the same time, I’m going to lean on the governor’s office for a substantial funding increase in treatment dollars. Anyway we can get these addicts off the street . . .” Stanley left it hanging and searched his associate’s faces.

  “It’s worth a shot.”

  The sheriff grinned. “And the upside is it won’t suck up my overtime budget.”

  “Good, then I’ll leave it to you, Bob. Just not too heavy a hand. If we can tamp this down a notch or two, it’ll fall out of the papers.”

  The group finished the meeting by discussing how most of the new wave of homicides involved robberies, and a fair share exhibited patterns pointing to the possibility that one person or group was responsible for up to a third of the crimes. They agreed to keep a keen eye out for any patterns, and they left Stanley’s office.

  Stanley was hopeful after calling in a favor with the state police to get twenty troopers and their vehicles to patrol in Monmouth. But now he had to go to the freeholders to get the funding for the show of force and increased treatment dollars. He scanned his email before putting on his suit jacket and heading to see two of the freeholders at town hall.

  The structure that housed Freehold Town Hall was a stone-faced edifice set back off bustling Main Street. As he traversed the building’s small plaza, his phone rang. He checked the number before answering.

  “Hey Paul, let me get back to you. I’m heading into a meeting with—”

  “What?”

  “Where?”

  “Damn! Who’s on it?”

  “Okay, I’ll get back as fast as possible.”

  Stanley hung up and hustled to his meeting.

  The news about the latest murder had already beaten him to the freeholders, and though the heat on him increased, Stanley was able to use it to support his cause for more funding. The freeholders agreed to bust the budget but made it crystal clear that results were needed, and quickly, or their political support for his reelection bid would be difficult to maintain.

  Chapter 9

  The patrol car that responded to the 911 call encountered a sobbing woman surrounded by neighbors standing outside a house in spite of a steady rain. The responding officers checked with the throng, drew their weapons, and entered the house.

  Sneakered feet were visible at the end of a small foyer. Eyes sweeping for possible threats, they inched toward the body belonging to the gym shoes. One officer kept guard while the other knelt on the brown carpet and tried to find a pulse on the body. He shook his head and wiped dried-out blood from his finger.

  The officers cleared the rest of the house, called for the homicide detectives, and secured the crime scene. A neighbor, two doors down, offered her Cape Cod house to the woman and onlookers as a refuge from the rain as they waited for the homicide investigators.

  Lights flashing and wipers clearing wind-blown rain, Detective Frank Luca pulled onto Keansburg’s Seventh Street and joined four black and whites at number nine. He pulled up his collar and followed his partner, JJ Cremora, to the officer guarding the front door.

  “Hey, Luca, JJ, we got ourselves another nasty one. Poor guy had his head just about turned to pulp.”

  Luca grabbed the clipboard and signed him and his partner in. “Who’s the responder?”

  The officer stepped aside and called inside. “O’Reilly, homicide’s here.”

  Luca’s blue eyes sparkled as he smiled. “O’Reilly again?”

  Middletown’s skinniest officer waved them in. “Come on in.”

  Luca put on bootees and stepped inside. “We gotta stop meeting like this, O’Reilly.”

  “And how.”

  “What do we got here?”

  “Male, late twenties, name’s William Wyatt. Looks like it was severe head trauma that punched his ticket.”

  “Who found the poor guy?”

  “Girlfriend.” He looked at his pad. “Name’s Mary Rourke. Says she found him lying right there.”

  The detectives exchanged glances and Detective Cremora asked, “Any signs of forced entry?”

  “Not that I saw, but we didn’t comb it over too finely. We secured it and called in the cavalry. Oh, we shut the TV off. That okay?”

  Luca nodded and asked, “Coroner here?”

  “Nah, had something in Trenton this morning.”

  “Check on his ETA for me, okay?”

  Police photographer Stevie Gianel
li was busy snapping pictures of the body and the crime scene with his trusty old Nikon. He looked up at the detectives, who were pulling on gloves, winked a hello and repositioned for another shot.

  “Gianelli, make sure you take a complete video as well, inside and out.”

  The photographer nodded. “Sure thing, handsome.”

  The detectives bent over and examined the victim. Lying on his stomach with his head turned to the left, Billy Wyatt, a man in his prime, had begun to stiffen. A twenty-year veteran, Frank Luca had checked his emotions at the door.

  “No signs of a gunshot wound.”

  “Or knifing,” JJ added.

  Luca felt the victim’s leg and belly. “He’s pretty stiff and ice-cold.”

  “What d’ya think, Luc?”

  “I don’t know, maybe twelve to fifteen hours.”

  “Looks like he was hit from behind, no?”

  “Yeah, maybe. When the doc gets here, he’ll see if there’re any bruises on the right side.”

  “Plus his legs are kinda tangled up.”

  “Could’ve got that way trying to get away.”

  “Other than the head, seems to be no other wounds. You see anything else?”

  Luca shook his head and pulled out a magnifying glass and went over the body again.

  “Nothing under the fingernails that I can see either, but the doc will scrap ’em.”

  Cremora called out, “Yo, Gianelli, you get close-ups and all?”

  “It’s not my first day, bro.”

  The veteran detective pored over the corpse and inserted his gloved fingers in the victim’s back pockets.

  “No wallet. JJ, lift the body a bit. I want to check the front pockets.”

  Luca grunted as he fished out a set of car keys from the right pocket. Cremora lifted the left side of the body enough for Luca to probe the other pocket. He came up with a fistful of cash.

  Cremora said, as he lowered the body, “Guess that rules out robbery.”

  “Maybe.”

  Luca put the cash in an evidence bag, and they stood over the victim for a couple of minutes before Luca took a final survey of the room and corpse.