by Lou Manfredo
“What do you mean?” Schoenfeld asked.
Rizzo turned half in his seat and winked at the man. “I got a theory,” he said, tapping at his temple with a forefinger.
Schoenfeld reached for the door handle. “Yeah, you got a theory and the other guinea has a hard-on. You work on your theory, I’m gonna go grab Rossi out of that broad’s house before he makes one of his unfortunate emotional commitments. I’d hate to see him with another broken heart.”
With that, he left. McQueen turned to Joe.
“So,” he asked. “What’s the theory?”
Joe smiled. “Suicide,” he said.
Mike looked at him, expecting a laugh. But none came. He saw that Rizzo was serious.
“Suicide?” he asked. “Joe, they searched the whole block, they can’t find a gun. Even assuming the guy blew his brains out, got up and ran to the window and threw the gun out, jumped back into the tub and died, they would have found the gun.”
“Murder just doesn’t add up, Mike.”
McQueen shook his head. “I think suicide doesn’t add up, Joe.”
“Mike, you heard McLoughlin. He talked to the landlord, this guy, Natale Catanzaro, he spent his whole life taking care of his brother. The older one, Vincente, he never held a job, never could work, he was too screwy. Natale, he took care of him back in Italy, got him over here and then took care of him some more. Gave him a place to live, food on his table, and a family around him. These are religious people, Mike. You see these statues all over the place, the Jesus on the door. I saw Natale’s living room, there’s a friggin’ altar in there. You commit suicide, the Catholic Church won’t give you a funeral mass. Won’t even let the casket sit at the altar. You commit suicide, you’re in big trouble with the Church. You think Natale would allow that to happen to his big brother? After a lifetime of looking out for him, you think he’s gonna let him down now?”
McQueen pondered it. “So you figure the guy climbed into the tub, blew his brains out, and then his kid brother finds him, grabs the gun, calls the cops, and says it’s murder?”
“Bingo,” Joe said, reaching for another Chesterfield.
“Based on what, Joe? A guess?”
“No, not just a guess. You saw the apartment. This guy’s a bachelor all his life and my mother’s kitchen isn’t as clean as his, and she’s half a nut herself. You saw his closet— the shirts all lined up: blue shirt, blue hanger, white shirt, white hanger. The guy cleans the inside of his ketchup cap, for Christ sake.”
“And that’s it? You get suicide and cover-up from that?”
Joe shook his head and lit the Chesterfield. “No, of course not. I get suicide from the shoes, mostly.”
McQueen frowned. “The shoes? The ones on the shelf in his closet? The ones all lined up?”
“No, not those. I mean the shoes outside the tub. Remember how the guy was dressed? He’s up at seven in the morning, no job to go to, nothing to do all day except line up the turds in the litter boxes. Then he puts on his neatly pressed pants, irons a shirt, polishes his shoes, and decides to kill himself. Ever roll up on a suicide by gunshot when you were in uniform, Mike?”
McQueen flashed back to the small basement apartment, Greenwich Village, four years ago.
“One,” he said.
“Where’d you find the guy?”
McQueen’s mind recreated the image: living room. On the sofa. “
Let me tell you,” Rizzo said before Mike could respond. “In his bed. Or on his sofa, or big, comfortable easy chair. Right?”
“The sofa.”
Rizzo nodded. “That’s where they do it. Or down in their basement workshop or out in the garage. Someplace they feel safe, comfortable, peaceful. They look for some security to give them that last little bit of strength so they can pull the trigger and get real comfortable, real peaceful, forever. That’s the plan.”
McQueen looked puzzled. “So how does your theory fit in here with the tub? The guy was a cleanliness freak, so he was comfortable and secure in the bathtub?”
Joe smiled and blew cigarette smoke into the dash.
“No. He was a cleanliness freak so he did it where he’d make the least amount of mess. Now Natale just has to hose down the wall, pour some bleach into the tub, run the water, and five minutes later he could rent the place out. No muss, no fuss. Nobody shoots themselves in the tub, Mike, except for our man Vincente. And while we’re on the subject, who comes into somebody’s house, puts them in the tub, and shoots them? Think about it.”
Mike did think about it. “Wouldn’t a guy like this leave a suicide note? Tell his brother where the checkbook is, where the keys to the apartment are, when to ditch the milk in the fridge, stuff like that? We went over the place pretty thoroughly, I didn’t see any note.”
Joe responded. “You’re absolutely right. Guy like this would leave a note, probably with a photocopy or two. So when Natale grabbed the gun, he grabbed the note. And don’t forget about the shoes, Mike. The shoes.”
McQueen shook his head. “What goddamned shoes, Joe?”
Rizzo laughed. “The shoes. The ones by the tub. Don’t you see it yet? If somebody did decide to whack this guy in the friggin’ tub, they would have just told him to get in and then shot him. But Vincente put himself into that tub. And he figured when the bullet tore through his brains, his body might jerk around a little. So what does he do? He takes off his shoes, lines ’em up outside the tub, nice and neat, and climbs in.”
“Why, Joe? Why? What does that even mean?”
“It means he didn’t want to scuff up the nice shiny porcelain, maybe even chip it, that’s what it means. The blood and gore you can wash away. Black scuff marks, on the other hand, you got to rub at those. And chips would be a disaster. Only an inconsiderate slob could do something like that, but not our boy Vincente.”
McQueen thought it over. As much as he found himself wanting it not to make sense, he did see the logic in it.
“So that was it, Joe? The shoes tipped you to this?”
“Well, not at first. The litter boxes were what first got me thinking. What single guy living alone with three cats has clean litter boxes? I started to think that since the place was so clean, the whole bathroom all shiny, that he cleaned everything just before he shot himself. So when we got here the place wouldn’t be a mess. But after I saw his bedroom, that’s when I took another look at the shoes. This guy had cuff links lined up in his jewelry box so perfectly he must have used a ruler.”
They sat in silence for a while. Then Mike spoke.
“What now? How you going to play it?”
Rizzo shrugged. “It’s probably a slam dunk. I get the M.E. to run some tests on Vincente. That’ll show if he fired a gun recently. Angle of entry should help, too. You shoot a guy who’s down in a tub, entry will be from above. Guy shoots himself, it’s an upward or near level entry. We can go forensic on this, but I’d like to try and let Natale off the hook. If we have to spend a lot of tax dollars on this thing, the D.A. is going to want obstruction charges, maybe even a promoting a suicide count against the guy. I’ve avoided talkin’ to him until I had this figured out. It may come down to who scares him more, the cops or the Church. Maybe I can get him to fess up and hand over the gun and the note, if there is one. We’ll see. Otherwise, we sit on him and get a warrant for the house. I’ll go talk to him now. Come on, those blue eyes and pale skin of yours should rattle him pretty good. Probably remind him of the mick immigration officer that robbed him when he first got off the boat.”
*
THE NEAT, sun-splashed living room, located at the very front of the house, had three leaded stained-glass windows that opened out over the front porch and street. McQueen, Rizzo, and McLoughlin sat together on the long couch, a mahogany coffee table before them, Natale Catanzaro to their right in a formal, pleated chair.
Natale was a small man, five-six, with the weathered, leathery face of an out-of- doors worker. His hands were callused and strong, and despite his a
ge, Catanzaro still worked part-time as a laborer for a local construction firm. His eyes, although saddened by the day’s tragedy, were bright and alert. And as he looked from the face of one cop and into another, a distrust began to nudge at his expression.
Rizzo, by unspoken understanding, would take the lead in the interview.
“Mr. Catanzaro,” he said, leaning casually forward, elbows on knees, fingertips touching, “I’m sorry we need to do this. I hope you understand.”
Catanzaro held Joe’s eyes as he answered.
“Si,” he said. Then, with a small shake of his head, “I’m sorry. I meant to say, ‘Yes.’ ” Despite over thirty years living in Brooklyn, his voice still held a strong Italian accent, and he made no attempt to lessen it.
Rizzo smiled.
“Non c’e’ bisogno di chiedere scusa amico mio. Amo sentire la lingua italiana, anche se solo una parola.”
The man let some seconds pass in silence before answering.
“Bene. Ma per i nostri amici americani parliamo in inglese.”
“Of course, we’ll speak in En glish.” Rizzo smiled first at McQueen to his right, then at McLoughlin to his left. “I was just tellin’ him how I love to hear the Italian language spoken. But he suggests we stick to English so you two Americanas can understand.”
McQueen smiled his response. McLoughlin scowled his. “What ever you want, Joe,” the lieutenant said.
“I want you to find the man who murdered my brother,” Catanzaro interjected. “I want him to be punished. My brother was a good, gentle man. This should not have happened.”
Rizzo nodded. “No, it should not have happened. But it did.” He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a notebook. Opening it, with his eyes downward and scanning his notes, he spoke to Catanzaro.
“What makes you think it was a man? Did you see him?” Catanzaro’s face, Rizzo noted as he lifted his gaze, showed no emotion.
“No. I did not see anyone. But a murder like this, only a man could do. Don’t you agree?”
Rizzo smiled once more. “I wish I could. But the truth is, anyone could have done it, man or woman. Right now I see five possibilities. One: somebody broke into the house and killed Vincente for what ever reason. But, you know, we had five guys search around, and they can’t find any sign of forced entry. And you told Officer Silva you had locked the house up last night before going to bed, then left through the back door this morning and locked it behind you. You were very certain about that, Silva said.”
“He’s right. I am positive.”
Joe nodded. “That brings us to the second possibility: Vincente let the killer into the house. That would mean he knew him or her, or else someone conned him into letting them in. But from what Detectives Rossi and Schoenfeld told me, that’s not likely because Vincente never answered the door, not even for a neighbor. If you weren’t home, the door just didn’t get answered. Is that correct?”
“Yes. Vincente is … was … he was shy. He didn’t like to get involved with people.”
“Okay then. Next possibility: someone who has a key let themselves in. A friend. A neighbor. Maybe a family member.”
Catanzaro’s eyes flared slightly, and his voice was hard when he answered.
“There are no murderers in this family, Detective Rizzo. My son is a vice president of Johnson and Johnson, and my daughter is a doctor at Mount Sinai Hospital. There are artists and teachers in our family, but there are no murderers.”
“I didn’t mean any offense,” Rizzo said, raising his right hand to shoulder level. “I’m just running it all down for you.”
The man seemed to ponder that for a moment, and they all saw his face relax slightly as he spoke again.
“I understand,” he said.
Joe smiled. “That’s interesting. About your daughter, I mean. My oldest girl is at Cornell Medical School. She has two years to go.”
Now Catanzaro relaxed more fully and, for the first time, smiled. McQueen was envious of the perfectly set, pearly white teeth of the older man.
“You have my sympathy, Mr. Rizzo. For the tuition, I mean.”
Rizzo laughed. “I just thank God my wife works,” he said.
They sat in silence for a moment, then Catanzaro spoke.
“There is no one else with a key to this house. Only my family, and I have explained that to you.”
Nodding, Rizzo glanced back to his notes. “Okay,” he said. “Fourth possibility.”
Catanzaro sat passively. Rizzo held his gaze. The man did not look away. Rizzo waited for a question to come from Catanzaro. When, after ten long seconds had passed and none had come, Rizzo spoke again. He kept his voice low.
“Vincente was killed by someone who lives here.”
Catanzaro did not respond but still held Rizzo’s gaze.
“Who lives here, Mr. Catanzaro? You, your wife … anyone else?”
Catanzaro echoed Rizzo’s flat tone. “No,” he said.
Rizzo sat back on the couch. He shook his head slightly and glanced at McQueen, his eyebrows arching slightly.
“Well,” he said, again facing Catanzaro, “I gotta tell you, something you told the uniformed officers just doesn’t make sense to me. Assuming they got it straight, of course. And assuming I got it right from them.”
Now it was Catanzaro who leaned forward in his seat, his powerful hands dangling between his open knees.
“Please do not assume, Senore Rizzo. Make your accusation. If you are evil and ignorant enough to imagine such a thing, then be honest enough to say it. Don’t worry, you are safe: I cannot murder you as well. You have your policeman friends all over my home.”
Joe raised both hands, palms outward. “I’m making no accusation, Senore Catanzaro.” He slowly lowered his hands and gave a tight smile. “But be assured, sir, if one needs to be made, I’ll have all the honesty you require.”
They sat in silence for a moment, and Catanzaro’s gaze turned slowly to a glare. McLoughlin cleared his throat and spoke for the first time since the introductions.
“Alright, gentlemen. No one likes this. Let’s just get on with it and get it done. Joe, do you have a point to make here?”
Rizzo nodded, his eyes not leaving Catanzaro’s.
“When you came home, you put the car in the garage, then closed the garage doors. Right?”
“Yes.”
“Your wife was with you, in the driveway out back?”
“Yes.”
Rizzo shook his head. “See, here’s the first part I don’t understand. It’s seven in the morning, you’re in your own driveway and you hear what you believe is a shot. From upstairs. Right away, you tell your wife, ‘Go call the cops, get an ambulance.’ ”
Catanzaro frowned. “And that is odd to you? What should I have done?”
“Well, I don’t know. Most people hear a sound like that they just keep listening. They say, ‘What was that?’ Then they listen some more. If they don’t hear anything else, they forget about it. Believe me, I’ve been out to more than a few shootings. One shot, no call. Two or three shots, twenty calls. But you, right away, you knew it was a shot. Not a backfire, not somebody dropped something, not a firecracker— a shot. Yet you told Silva there’s no gun in the house, and we checked: no one here has a pistol permit. Someone who keeps a gun in the house, they come home, they hear a noise like that, they might immediately think ‘gunshot.’ But you say there is no gun in the house. Still, you not only knew it was a shot, but you knew that it came from upstairs. Where your brother was. And that bathroom, it’s way up near the front of the house. And judging from the exit wound, I’d say it was a relatively small-bore gun. Not very loud, not really. So, you barely heard a noise, instantly identified it as a shot, determined the location, and got the wheels turning to get some help. That’s pretty remarkable, Mr. Catanzaro, I gotta tell you.” Now Joe paused, smiling slightly. “You know, just to be honest and all.”
Catanzaro looked first to McLoughlin’s face, then McQueen’s. He coul
d read nothing in either.
“Is there more?” he asked.
“Well,” Joe continued, “you said you thought there might be an intruder in the house, someone firing a gun, and so what do you do? You go running right in. That’s pretty heroic of you.”
Catanzaro’s smile was without mirth. “Or foolish,” he said.
Rizzo nodded. “Yes. Or foolish. But you did run right in. Right through your apartment, right past the still closed front door of the house and right up the stairs. Right to Vincente.”
“And from all this, I see that you think I killed my brother. Is that what you have decided? That I killed my older brother, like a savage animal, and that my wife assisted me?”
Rizzo didn’t answer. Catanzaro looked from one cop’s face to the other. They were stoic and unyielding. Catanzaro sighed before speaking.
“It must be very sad to live your lives. To have such thoughts occur to you all the time. It must make it difficult for you to love anyone.”
The silence now, at least to McQueen, became so uncomfortable that, despite not being sure he should, he decided to speak, just to hear the sound and to break the scream of the stillness.
“You said five possibilities, Joe. I think you only covered four so far.”
Rizzo smiled and glanced at Mike. “That’s right,” he said, and turned back to Catanzaro. “You want to hear the fifth possibility, sir?” he asked, his voice suddenly more gentle.
For the first time, Catanzaro looked away from Rizzo, turning his eyes to the small altar at the far end of the room. A statue of the Blessed Virgin, her hands clasped over her heart, eyes downcast, stood framed by two votive candles that flickered and danced in memory of Vincente.
“No,” he said, a hoarseness in his voice.
Rizzo stood slowly and crossed the room to the altar. He produced the scarred Zippo from his pants pocket and sparked it to life. Slowly, he lit a third votive: as it first flared and then steadied to a stable glow, he made the sign of the cross and stood silently for a moment. Then he crossed the room to the far corner, diagonal to Catanzaro. Sitting heavily in the high-back chair, he spoke across the room.