“Perhaps that’s the answer,” said Dominic softly.
“It could be,” agreed Wiley. “But I’m not competent to determine his possible aberrations. Nor can I honestly consider him incapable of such an action.”
“Were you anyone else, I would call that hedging.”
“Thank you. Unfortunately, you are quite correct. School teachers are notoriously spinsterish. Give us a solid rumor to debone and we’ll put a pack of greedy hyenas to shame. But when it comes time to stand up and be counted, we prefer inserting our noses between two pages of a musty instruction book.”
“Do you know Cotarro’s full name? And where he can be found?”
“Just a moment.” Wiley rose and searched among the shelves of books. Pulling one out, he brought it to his desk. “The Class Yearbook,” he explained. He filed through the pages until he found the listing of the graduating class. “Felice Cotarro,” he said. “I don’t have the foggiest notion where he is now, but it shouldn’t be hard to learn.”
“The doctor who treated him. What is his name?”
“McDonald, Albert McDonald. He still practices, but has given up the school contract. The city doesn’t pay very much, so once a doctor is established, he usually gives up the schools.”
Dominic and Junior rose. “Thanks very much, Mr. Wiley. I’d appreciate it very much if you kept our visit confidential.”
Wiley nodded, and showed them out of the house.
“Where do you want to go now, Uncle Dom?” asked Junior when they were back in the car.
“Let’s go home. Maybe Uncle Tony has some input for us.”
“That Bonazzi must be crocked, biting Cotarro like he did.”
“It does appear that he may be missing some marbles.” As the car took off, Dominic looked at his watch. “Kick her along,” he ordered Junior. “It’s nearly time for supper and I’m famished.”
“Okay. How about it, Uncle Dom. Do you think it’s Bonazzi?”
Dominic gazed out of the window, his thoughts flashing back to his beloved Maria, and his face grew taut with fury. “I don’t know,” he replied thickly. “But God help that bastard if he is the one.”
Everyone was assembled in the living room when Dominic and Junior returned. Ettore was seated in his huge, horsehair chair, a glass of cognac on the table at his elbow. Vincent and Anthony were deep in conversation about the trend of morality in universities. Vito, Michael, Rose and Carol were talking of people they mutually knew. Bob, Eleanor and Bert were looking over a magazine advertising the latest pop records and writing down the titles of those they planned to buy. Through the open double doors leading into the formal dining room, Dominic saw the long table set for supper.
Ettore sat up straighter when Dominic and Junior came in. “Did you learn anything?” he asked at once. The others quieted to hear the report.
“Mr. Wiley, the homeroom teacher, remembered Bonazzi very well, even though it has been almost ten years ago that he had him in class. Bonazzi was a good student, as far as manners, studies, sports - the usual thing. However, there was a rumor that he bit a chunk out of a kid’s arm during a fight.”
Dominic saw all eyes shift towards Anthony. “Do you have something Tony?”
“Yes, I do. I visited the Sacred Heart High School this afternoon. Bonazzi had been a student there until the beginning of his senior year, when he was transferred to Mr. Wiley’s school. There was a degree of reluctance on the part of the officials to discuss the matter, but I was able to learn that he was basically the same sort as Mr. Wiley said - a hard working, studious, well behaved youth who was adept in sports and considered highly by the priests and his fellow students. It seems that he was injured while playing hockey when he was fourteen years old. He ran into one of his teammates and both were knocked unconscious. I was given the name of the physician who attended the boys and turned it over to Mike to contact him.” He took a sip of the fine French cognac that Ettore bought by the case and dabbed his lips.
“I’m to meet him tomorrow,” said Michael. “A Doctor Franchelli.”
“Go on,” said Dominic, sensing that Anthony had more to say.
“Strangely enough,” continued Anthony, “Caesar was involved in certain incidents similar to the one you mentioned. The year after his injury, he was taunted by three or four children while on his way home. He joked with them for a while, then took offense. He caught one of the youngsters who came too close and boxed his ears. You know what I mean, the way we were punished when we did something wrong. He must have cupped his hand when striking the child, or perhaps struck him with full strength, but the result was that the child suffered ear damage.”
“Vince,” called out Ettore. “I want you to check out whether there was any legal action because of that.”
Vincent took out a gold-trimmed notebook and wrote it down. “All right, Papa, I’ll get together with Tony and Mike for the facts, then ask around.”
“His father would have settled that kind of affair quietly,” said Dominic, pouring two glasses of the ordinary red wine. He handed one to Junior, then leaned against the fireplace mantel, sipping at his own.
“It’s possible,” replied Vincent. “But regardless how he may have settled the case, it certainly would have been negotiated between attorneys.”
“Maybe his father decided to let him pay the piper,” called out Bob. “As a lesson,” he added. Eleanor and Bert began laughing.
“Maybe so,” said Rose. Mario came to the dining room door and made motions that dinner could be served whenever they wanted. Rose signaled to hold it a bit longer. “After all, part of the training of a boy is to teach him responsibility.”
“Not Bonazzi,” said Ettore flatly. “He would have whaled the hide off the boy, but he wouldn’t have left him to shift for himself. But we’ll check that out. Go on, Tony, tell Dom what else you learned.”
Anthony drained the rest of his cognac and nodded his thanks as Junior stepped over to refill his glass. “The incident of boxing the child’s ears took place when Caesar was in the tenth grade. During the eleventh grade, the year before he was transferred to Mr. Wiley’s school, Caesar was involved in another of his fights. It took place during a football game with Kingsley High School. Caesar was a quarterback, and a rather good one, from what I heard. Two of the Kingsley squad decided to rough him up and piled on unnecessarily when Caesar was tackled. I suspect they did more than just pile on, such as chop a muscle or twist an arm or leg. Whatever they did, it triggered a rampage by the boy.” Anthony paused to give more expression to his comments. “He bit severely a finger of one of the Kingsley boys and bruised his eye with a thumb. There seems to be little doubt that he was trying to gouge it out. Then he turned on the second boy and......” Anthony took a slow breath...... “tried to strangle him.”
Dominic straightened up so suddenly that he jarred his glass resting on the mantel and spilled some of the wine. He ignored it. His eyes were afire with anger.
“Take it easy, Dom,” cautioned Anthony. “It isn’t conclusive.”
“Perhaps not to you, Tony, but it certainly is to me.”
Ettore cut into the electric atmosphere. “He’s not done yet, Dom. There’s more. Go ahead, Tony.”
“Just a minute, Papa,” said Michael, holding up his two hands as a warning. “You know Dom - he’s ready to explode. If you feed him two probabilities, he will instantly convert them into actualities. So let’s just listen to the rumors and prepare to gather more information before reaching conclusions, and not make a split second judgment.”
“I’ve learned how to add two and two a long time ago, Mike,” growled Dominic, still boiling with fury.
“I know that. But finding out who murdered Maria is only the first step. The why is equally important.”
“She was raped. I would regard that as an adequate why.”
“Dom’s right,” said Ettore. “The trouble with the world is that everybody tries to explain away the basic facts. By the time the psychiatri
sts finish analyzing a cold-blooded killer, he’s an innocent angel who turned to slaughter because his parents wouldn’t allow him to suck his thumb.”
“I wish it was that simple, Papa,” said Michael. “I deal with sick people every single day. As a surgeon, I’m concerned with tangibles. A kidney is merely a great filter and the heart an unusually well-constructed pump. If the kidney is badly diseased, snip-snap, out she comes and, stitch-switch in goes a replacement from the second hand shop. But the mind is an intangible. There’s nothing on which to hook an instrument to get a reading. If an organ is sick, there’s no sense making repairs or changing it until we first diagnose what caused the ailment. Quite often it’s something else which is the problem.”
“What are you getting at?” asked Dominic.
“May I answer that?” asked Anthony. Michael nodded. “Whoever is responsible for the death of Maria is a very sick person. Our first objective, once we’ve found that unfortunate individual, is to determine exactly what is wrong with him.”
“Then have Mike stitch-switch in a new brain or something and declare him cured,” said Dominic hotly.
“That’s exactly what Mike meant when he said it’s absurd to tamper with a defective organ before determining the cause,” answered Anthony.
Dominic snorted. “Bonazzi has bitten and broken an arm. It wasn’t a big deal, so it was papered over. Next we hear that he almost put out the eye of a second fellow, besides nearly chewing off his finger, and tries to strangle another boy. What was done about that? Nothing. Another wallpaper job. Then he rapes and murders Maria. Madre Mia, are we to discuss this like a merchant weighing a pound of flour? That bastard doesn’t deserve an instant of consideration. He deserves only to be destroyed.”
“For vengeance?” asked Anthony quietly.
“Why not?” thundered Dominic. “It certainly tastes better than wasting a guy for money or because he stepped on my toes.”
“Vengeance is Mine, saith the Lord,” said Anthony.
“Fine. Great. It appears to me that the Lord acknowledges the fact that vengeance is a permissible form of punishment. Think on that, Tony. Vengeance is okay. It’s merely a matter of who hands it out.”
“Then leave it in the hands of the Lord.”
“In this case I’m the handyman of the Lord.”
Anthony got out of his chair, a black cloud covering his face.
“Hold it, Tony, Dom,” called out Vincent. “We’re getting back to the argument at the table. We agreed to find the murderer of Maria first. Then, and only then, were we to discuss the next step. Let’s not cross any bridges yet. Tony, sit down and tell Dom what else you learned. And you, Dom, settle down. As of this moment there isn’t the first bit of evidence that Bonazzi is the murderer. And leaping to conclusions is no substitute for proof.” He turned to Ettore. “Papa, we made a deal. Let’s live by it.”
“All right, Vince, you’re right as always. Dom, you’re also very right, but we’re going to do as we agreed. Now, Tony, go ahead with your report.”
Anthony sat down. “Directly after I left the Sacred Heart, I received a call from a Father Brennan. He is a young priest who graduated from my university a few years ago and has been with the Sacred Heart for a month or so. He had read about Maria’s unfortunate death and phoned to offer his condolences.” Anthony took a long second to clear his throat and settle himself more firmly in his chair. Dominic came wide awake. Since boyhood, Anthony had signaled a subject of extreme import by these very actions. “The grapevine at the Sacred Heart must have been working overtime, because Father Brennan said he had information for me - that Caesar had gotten a girl from Our Lady’s in trouble. The girl was only fifteen at the time. She left Chicago to have the child, and has not been back since.”
“How did he learn that?” asked Dominic. “From confession?”
Ettore and Anthony rose from their chairs together, their faces reflecting shocked anger. Ettore recovered first. “Sit down, Tony,” he growled, pointing to the chair to punctuate his order. He turned to Dominic. “Dom, if ever you say a thing like that again within my hearing, I will personally whip you to an inch of your life.”
Dominic stood his ground. “That story of Bonazzi getting a girl in trouble is not earth-shattering news, but Tony’s actions are a dead giveaway that he is thoroughly upset. That means he is unhappy about the way the information was obtained.” He looked at his brother. “How about it, Tony? You tell me.”
“Father Brennan did not get this information from confession,” said Anthony stiffly.
“All right, I’ll believe that. But did he get it as a result of a confession?”
“That’s none of your business!” snapped Anthony, resuming his chair and sitting up erectly.
“What difference does it make?” asked Michael. “Frankly, I don’t see what it has to do with Bonazzi’s odd behavior.”
Vincent was eyeing Anthony and Dominic closely. “I think I see what Dom is getting at,” he said slowly. “If it did come from a confession, there’s something more here than just a girl becoming pregnant.”
“Exactly,” said Dominic.
“You are both mistaken,” said Anthony. “There was nothing more to it. It seems that Caesar and the girl thought they were in love, made a terrible mistake, and the girl went away to have her child to conceal the shame.”
The room fell silent. Ettore emptied his glass of brandy. “I think we should check that out a little more closely. Dom, you handle it.”
Rose stood up. “Let’s go in and eat. I hope supper isn’t cold.”
CHAPTER 6
Vincent and Bob stepped off the train at Wilson, North Carolina. Vincent stretched his back, grateful for the relief from the full day ride. He disliked trains intensely, especially since they had degraded to nothing more than filthy carriages which never ran on time. But the plane connections were out of the question, flying to Washington, then changing to a local to Raleigh, and finally a train to Wilson. Bob wanted to drive, but Vincent had never really gotten over his aversion to cars since his wife, Bernice, and his twin sons had been killed.
It had actually turned out to be an agreeable trip in one respect; it had provided him with the first real opportunity of getting to know Rose and Vito’s oldest son. Bob had always been the quiet one, very much like his father, but it was evident that he would be the largest of the DiStephanos once he got a bit more flesh on his bones. He was studying pre-law at Harvard, and had kept his uncle talking shop since leaving Chicago. Vincent had been pleasantly surprised at the gut-deep questions asked by his nephew, and the mature insight displayed when Vincent had fielded some of the questions and rifled them back.
“There’s a whole world of people to help out there,” Bob had said with his quiet earnestness. “Black people, Indians, Mexicans. Attorneys should lead these programs, not ultra rightists and leftists. There will be an explosion if some hard-hatted labor union types decide to take the lead.”
“There are presently quite a number of lawyers involved,” replied Vincent. “I daresay they blanket the entire shebang.”
“Young fellows, just out of school. What we need are professionals who care more about people than massive incomes.”
“Well, everyone would like to see that, but human nature cannot be overlooked. Most attorneys, by the time they pass the bar, are smack in the middle of their acquisition period of life. They’ve spent ten years or more, and a whale of a lot of money, to prepare themselves. Now they have to acquire a wife, house, car, office, furniture, kids - and God knows what.” His eyes twinkled. “Most of them don’t have rich dads like you and me.”
“I find nothing wrong with that, Uncle Vincent. What I do find wrong is that most of them see only the dollar. They can still earn an adequate income and help people. Look at you and Uncle Michael. I know you made scads of money in private practice, but gave it up to take the bench. And Uncle Michael could triple his income if he did less work for the hospital.”
“A
good man deserves a little extra.”
“Okay, give him a bit extra. But who needs these absurd earnings. I’m speaking of those making a hundred thousand and more. They can live quite satisfactorily with twenty or thirty thousand and devote part of their time to causes and people who need their expertise desperately.”
“They are professionals, Bob. Professionals are worth more than that.”
“What about Uncle Paul? He’s a real professional. His salary isn’t more than twenty thousand a year, yet he gives his all anyhow.”
Vincent found that he could easily agree with the boy. However, Wilson, North Carolina had been called by the conductor, so he shelved the discussion for the trip back.
They checked their bags at the station, entered a taxi, and Vincent gave the driver an address. In just minutes the taxi stopped on an oak-lined street in front of a large building. It had once been a lovely house when built sixty or seventy years ago, but had been converted into apartments during the thirties. Time had taken a heavy toll of its former beauty. Vincent paid the driver, then he and the boy walked up the steps to a wide veranda and into a high hallway. Vincent slipped on his reading glasses.
“Here it is,” said Bob. “Mr. and Mrs. Howard Beaker.” He motioned down the hallway. “They have Apartment Three.”
At the entrance to the apartment, Vincent rang the bell. “Coming,” called a woman’s voice, and the door opened. She was in her mid-twenties, so completely Italian that Vincent found himself thinking of the words he was about to say in that language. She was short, buxom, olive skinned, with dark brown hair and eyes, and the full lower lip which is so characteristic. She was a very pretty woman, radiating warmth and good humor.
“Mrs. Beaker?” he asked.
“Yes.” She eyed him levelly, recognizing their Italian blood as readily as they had hers.
“I am Judge Vincent DiStephano, of the New York Supreme Court.” Vincent felt a qualm at using his title, but he had to overawe her quickly. Her eyes widened for an instant, then narrowed. Like all Italians, she was going through the usual conflict of respect for a professional and reticence before authority. “This is my nephew, Robert Donini. We would like to speak to you about a personal matter.”
I Contadini (The Peasants) Page 10