A Long Way Down

by Randall Silvis

  Fascetti said, “You two rock stars licensed to work in Ohio?”

  The sheriff spoke before DeMarco could. “Their PI applications were endorsed and faxed to ODPS this morning. These two have fifteen and twenty-five years of law enforcement experience respectively. Their records are superlative.”

  Hearing this, DeMarco smiled at his old teammate’s hyperbole. Jayme’s record was superlative. DeMarco’s had a blemish or three, not least of them his recent extended medical leave, which, apparently, the sheriff had not chosen to share with the detectives.

  Olcott asked, “Does this mean you’re done with the staties?”

  DeMarco told him, “We’ll be wrapping that up this afternoon.”

  “What does that mean?” Fascetti said.

  Again the sheriff was quick to respond. “Tend your own garden, Detective. Everybody. Tend your own garden, and don’t be trampling on anybody else’s tomatoes. Understood?”

  “Roger that,” Olcott answered.

  “Yes sir,” said DeMarco, and was echoed by Jayme.

  Fascetti rolled his eyes.

  The sheriff leaned forward across the table. “If four is too many for this case,” he said, “I can make the necessary reassignments.”

  Fascetti’s sagging cheeks glowed red. “I started on this case, I’m going to finish on it. Besides, we’re close. We know who did it.”

  The sheriff looked from DeMarco to Jayme when he said, “We think we know. We just don’t have enough to charge him yet.”

  “We have hair,” Fascetti said. “We have means and opportunity. We can link him to the double homicide in 1988.”

  DeMarco said, “I’m guessing he’d be in jail now if you had DNA.”

  “We have two hair shafts found on the girl,” the sheriff told him. “No follicles, so no DNA.”

  “And even if we did,” Olcott said, and shrugged. “A few years back, the FBI tossed a lot of its database of results from hair analysis. Turns out DNA identification from hair isn’t as accurate as we used to think.”

  “But protein matching through hair is a promising science,” the sheriff added. “Just not promising enough yet.”

  Fascetti said, “We have a witness.”

  Both Jayme and DeMarco reacted to that statement with raised eyebrows. DeMarco was about to ask Then what are we doing here? when the sheriff said, in a slow, deadpan tone, “We have a child who claimed, in 1988, that he saw the subject at the scene around the time the bodies were deposited. But the boy was five years old at the time. Watching from a second-floor window in the middle of the night.”

  “And he’s still around?” Jayme asked. “Still stands by that story?”

  “He’s not so sure anymore,” Olcott said.

  Fascetti said, “The subject knew the victims. He was employed by a rival mob boss.”

  “He was ground floor at best,” the sheriff said. “A glorified errand boy.”

  “Button man,” said Fascetti. “According to Koenig.”

  “And Koenig is…?” Jayme asked.

  “Detective,” Fascetti said. “Retired. He put more bums behind bars than you two rock stars can even imagine.”

  “He led the investigation,” the sheriff explained.

  DeMarco pointed to the box marked Brogan/Talarico 1988. “It’s in there?”

  Sheriff Brinker nodded. “He lives in Naples, Florida, now. You can Skype him if you have any questions.”

  “From what I recall,” DeMarco said, “the Youngstown organization wasn’t into slicing and dicing. Car bombs were SOP. Occasionally a bullet to the back of the head, and on rare occasion a ligature.”

  Jayme glanced at her notes. “I still don’t understand how,” she said, and quickly scanned what she had written. “This guy you’re looking at for the three recent homicides. He would be…how old now?”

  “Fifty-eight,” the sheriff said. “Goes by Freddy Costa, a.k.a. Frederich Constantine.”

  “Is that Russian?” DeMarco asked.

  “Townie, actually,” the sheriff said. “Born and raised. Grandfather was an immigrant.”

  Olcott said, “All in all, there are more differences than similarities between the murders.”

  Fascetti continued to scowl. “It’s the freaking media trying to tie all three together, not us. Sells papers, that’s all. Nobody in his right mind is thinking that the Cleveland Torso Murders are in any way related. Talarico and Brogan, plus these recent three? That’s a different story.”

  Jayme spoke directly to Olcott. “What similarities and differences?”

  “The Torso Murderer had good knife skills,” Olcott told her. “Not so much the 1988 guy. The new guy? A little of both. Brenner’s and Hufford’s decapitations were fairly neat. But his hand seemed to get a little shaky on the female. Didn’t finish the job. Additionally, the Cleveland victims were all indigents and transients. Drunks, vagrants, and prostitutes. The ones from 1988 and now were all middle-class or higher. Several of the first batch were still alive when decapitated. As were Talarico and Brogan.”

  Jayme cocked her head. “But not Brenner, Lewis, or Hufford?”

  “Asphyxiated,” Olcott answered. “Residue from a wide tape such as duct tape or Gorilla Tape was found around the wrists and ankles of the male victims, though none was discernible on Samantha Lewis. A plastic bag was found under her body.”

  “Fingerprints?” DeMarco asked.

  “Plenty. But none in the databases. No signs of recent blunt trauma, no defensive wounds or other signs of struggle on any of the three. We have what appear to be stun gun marks on Hufford, none visible on the other two vics.”

  “That doesn’t rule out stun guns for them,” DeMarco said.

  “It does not. Hufford was by far the biggest of the three, so it probably took multiple and longer jolts to subdue him.”

  “What about the state of dress?” Jayme asked.

  Ben nodded. “Most of the Torso Murder vics were at least partially denuded. Males were often left wearing nothing but their socks, which is exactly how Brogan, Talarico, Brenner, and Hufford were found. All with four limbs and head completely separated from the body. Again, just like the Torso Murders.”

  “Castrated?” DeMarco asked.

  “Yep. All four.”

  “And Samantha?” Jayme asked.

  “Completely dressed, partial decapitation.”

  “Sounds to me,” Jayme said, “like the new guy took more pleasure from killing the males. He liked to see them suffer, and spent some time denigrating the bodies.”

  “So you’re a psychologist now,” Fascetti said.

  She smiled. “Master’s degree. Six credits short of the doctorate.”

  Fascetti turned his head, looked out the window at the green-tinted clouds.

  The sheriff said, “Detective Koenig figured Costa as a copycat. Maybe a fan of the Cleveland murderer. As to why he handled Lewis differently, if, in fact, it was him—”

  “It was him,” Fascetti said.

  “If it was,” Brinker continued, “who knows why he treated her differently? Maybe his paternal instinct kicked in.”

  DeMarco asked, “He’s lived in Youngstown all this time?”

  “Koenig put him away for four years on assault,” Brinker said. “After that it was straight back home again. He lives in a duplex on the north side. Brier Hill, to be exact. Or what’s left of it.”

  “And there have been no similar murders since he returned?” DeMarco asked. “Other than the recent three?”

  “Multitudes of every other kind,” the sheriff told him, “but no, none the least bit similar.”

  Jayme said, as she bent forward over her notes again, “How certain are you that the hairs found on the girl belong to Costa?”

  “They’re a possible match,” the sheriff told her. “Color, age, but without D
NA…”

  “Even with,” Olcott reminded him.

  “So,” she said, “your only evidence against Costa…is hair that can’t be positively tied to him, and the testimony of a man who can’t or won’t affirm what he said he saw as a child?”

  “He freaking cuts his victims to pieces,” Fascetti argued. “MO is just as telling as DNA in my book. It was good enough for Koenig, it’s good enough for me. And would be for you if you’d get your heads out of your asses.”

  DeMarco watched his old teammate take in a long, slow breath. Saw those big hands that used to haul in high passes now go flat atop the table. So DeMarco pushed his chair back, turned to Jayme, and said with a smile, “Sounds like we have a good place to start, partner. Let’s see how the subject and witness react to a couple of new faces.”

  “Show them your press clippings,” Fascetti said. “I’m sure Costa will drop to his knees and confess to everything.”

  Jayme smiled. “He never did that for you, Detective? Must be because you have such a friendly face.”

  Everyone else sat motionless for a few tense moments. Then DeMarco said, “For the sake of clarity, anybody mind if we run through all this one last time?”

  Fascetti grinned. “Memory starting to fade on you, pops?”

  DeMarco returned the smile. “Anxious to hit the playground, junior?”

  “It’s all in the reports,” Fascetti told him.

  DeMarco kept smiling. “I like the sound of your voice.”

  Now Fascetti turned to Jayme. “Did you know his gate swings both ways?”

  “Enough,” Sheriff Brinker said. He shook his head, clicked his teeth together. Then he let out a breath, and turned to DeMarco. “Where do you want to start?”

  “Power tools,” DeMarco said. And to Olcott, “Specifically?”

  “In all likelihood, a reciprocating saw,” Olcott told him. “Long bimetal blade, what they call a demolition blade. Cuts through flesh like butter but can leave a lot of bone fragments behind.”

  “And did you find those bone fragments?”

  “Yes sir. Killer did the butchering, spread the pieces a few feet apart, and drove away. Except, as you know, in regard to the girl. She was the only one intact.”

  “So he didn’t scatter the pieces after dismemberment?” Jayme said. “That’s unlike the ’88 murders, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” Brinker said. “Those bodies were dismembered in the woods, approximately forty yards from where the pieces were then laid out on the short grass.”

  “Why treat the girl differently?” DeMarco asked. “No dismemberment, only partial decapitation. No evidence she was bound before death.”

  The sheriff shrugged. “The blade broke. The battery died. Somebody came along and spooked him. He didn’t have the stomach for chopping up a girl. Maybe he knew her, liked her. Maybe she reminded him of somebody. Take your pick.”

  “If he knew her…” Jayme said.

  Olcott answered. “We interviewed all known associates. But remember, she was a college girl. Over a week’s time she could have come into contact with any one of the thirty-two hundred students, faculty, or staff on campus. Or it could have been somebody from her high school, her hometown. Somebody she used to date. Somebody who wanted to date her but couldn’t get her interest. Could have been a clerk from the damn convenience store where she bought her coffee.”

  “If it was somebody who knew her,” DeMarco mused, “that would change everything. It would make her the centerpiece. The pivot on which all three murders turn.”

  The sheriff said, “We have no way of knowing if it was personal or not, or why she was handled differently. Could have been for a mechanical reason. Could have been as simple as an interruption.”

  “And you can’t find a single thing that ties all three victims to each other?” DeMarco asked.

  “Totally different worlds.”

  Jayme said, “Then it had to have been random. Son of Sam–like.”

  Olcott said, “Except that Berkowitz shot and walked away. Our guy hung around long enough to cut up the bodies. And they were found in places where public visibility at night was very low, but high during the daytime. So that part wasn’t random, wasn’t by chance.”

  “So maybe he picked the victims at random,” DeMarco said, “wherever he saw the opportunity. Then got them into his car somehow—”

  “Ted Bundy,” Jayme said.

  “Right. He got them into his car, used a stun gun, secured them, transported them to places he’d already picked out. And that’s where he killed and butchered them.”

  “Planned randomness?” Jayme asked.

  DeMarco, thinking out loud, said, “He went out to kill. Just didn’t know who. But he already had his butchering place picked out. He just needed to sit and wait, build up his courage, wait for that demented little voice in his head to tell him when to get busy.”

  Fascetti scowled, Olcott sat with one eyebrow cocked, and Sheriff Brinker said, “Could be. Could be. Or maybe not.”

  DeMarco asked, “As far as you can tell, he didn’t take any souvenirs?”

  “Apparently the killing and butchering was enough for him.”

  “That’s unusual,” Jayme said.

  Fascetti told her, “Berkowitz didn’t take trophies.”

  “But he visited the victims’ graves. The graves were his trophies.” Again she turned her eyes to Sheriff Brinker.

  “We have cameras up where we can,” he told her. “Some from a long way off. Still haven’t caught anybody visiting the graves.”

  DeMarco said, “This guy’s a strange one.”

  Fascetti, looking bored, rolled his eyes. “Any nutcase who kills and butchers human beings is a strange one.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” DeMarco conceded.

  “Look,” said Fascetti. “Costa does a job for the mob in 1988. Talarico’s pissed somebody off. The boss tells Costa, there’s too much heat on us already, so make it look like some weirdo did it. So he takes out Talarico. The lawyer’s in the way so he gets the same treatment. And guess what—Costa gets away with it. But maybe, with the beheading and all, he’s gone a little too far even for the mob. They want nothing to do with him after that. Thirty some years later, his life’s shit, he’s turned into a cat lady, and who does he blame for that? The cops. He’s been stewing in that same juice all this time. A couple of months ago he starts thinking, why not have a little more fun before I die? Watch the cops chase their own tails again.”

  “So why pick a girl this time?” Jayme asked. “And why treat her body differently?”

  “Because he’s a twisted son of a bitch, that’s why. My guess is he was going to rape her. Probably hasn’t dipped his wick since the turn of the century. But somebody came along and spooked him before he had the chance to drop his drawers.”

  “He planned to rape her after partially decapitating her?” Jayme asked.

  “What part of twisted don’t you understand?”

  Jayme ignored the remark. She asked the sheriff, “Do we know where she was prior to her death?”

  “We do not.”

  “Her family has no idea?”

  “Brother and father are all she has. And they say no, they don’t.”

  “Have they been told about the gray hair?”

  “We haven’t released that detail. Unfortunately, the decapitation detail leaked out about Brenner. Naturally, the public is assuming it happened to all three victims.”

  “If Samantha’s family was informed about the hairs, it might help them determine where she could have been that evening.”

  Brinker thought for a moment, then said, “If you want to pursue that, discreetly—”

  “Now wait a minute,” Fascetti said. “We can’t be releasing proprietary information to the public just because Nancy Drew here has a question.”


  Jayme turned to him. “You think if word gets out the killer has gray hair, he’s going to start dyeing it? If he has a handful of functional brain cells, he’s dyed it already.”

  Olcott said, “All we can tell from the hair is race. Caucasoid. At least middle-aged. Costa has been asked for a hair sample but has refused. Last time I saw his hair, it was that ugly yellowish red you get from Grecian Formula.”

  DeMarco shook his head. “None of it holds together,” he said. “There’s not a single piece of the puzzle that fits another piece.”

  “That’s why you two are here,” the sheriff told them. “Find the rest of the pieces.”

  Then Brinker turned to Olcott. “You mind giving our new colleagues a hand with these boxes?”

  “No sir, I do not.”

  “Then we’ll leave you to it.” Brinker stood, turned, and went to the door. With a hand on the doorknob, he paused to turn his eyes on Fascetti, who was still stiff in his chair, arms across his belly. “Detective?” the sheriff said, and held the door open.

  By slow degrees Fascetti pulled his arms apart, raised his hands over his head, laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. Eventually he stood and, walking behind Jayme, touched a hand to her shoulder. “Happy reading, Trooper,” he said. “If you run into any big words in there, give me a call. I’ll explain them to you.”

  She reached up to pat his hand. “Very pusillanimous of you, Detective. I’m so pococurante right now.”

  The crooked look on Fascetti’s face made him appear as if he’d just inhaled a rotten frog. It was the prettiest sight DeMarco had seen all morning.

  Olcott was able to stifle his laughter only until his glowering partner was out the door.

  Nine

  They were back inside the car, waiting for the air conditioner to do its magic, the four file boxes lined up on the back seat, when Jayme said, “So what did you think of Fascetti and Olcott?”

  “Fascetti is a real piece of work, isn’t he? He reminds me of that guy from Seinfeld. George somebody. The obnoxious short one who’s always complaining.”

  “You’re lucky there are reruns,” Jayme said, “or I wouldn’t know who you’re talking about half the time.”