All the Dead Fathers

by David J. Walker

  Meanwhile, Carlo—the brother for whom Debra had shown a weird, domineering, sexual affection—hadn’t run anywhere, because in the struggle that night he took a bullet in the thigh. Later, in custody and awaiting trial, he lost the leg in surgery. He’d still been in the hospital attached to Cook County Jail, learning to walk on crutches—or should have been—the night all hell broke out in the jail, and Carlo’s throat was slit.

  The feds had been trying to turn him. They were after his mobbed-up uncle, Paolo Morelli. Paolo was called “Polly”—no one joked about that in his presence more than once—and Carlo and Debra had been cheating him in a poorly concocted drug scheme, the darker side of Larry Candle’s “simple” case. The scheme failed, and the feds thought Carlo might like to help send Polly on vacation. He should have been safe in the hospital while the Justice Department jumped through the necessary hoops to get him transferred to federal custody, but a guard took him across into the jail itself. Interestingly, the guard was the only one killed that night.

  Carlo survived his razor wounds, but never again spoke above a hoarse whisper. The feds didn’t take him and he eventually cut a deal and went to state prison. Meanwhile, Polly Morelli continued to thrive in his mansion in Forest Park, and Debra Morelli remained among the missing.

  * * *

  Kirsten stopped for a sandwich in Ann Arbor and only then remembered she’d gone into the eastern time zone and it was an hour later than she thought. By the time she got to Detroit and found the police station on Clinton Street she was afraid she was too late to catch the detective she wanted to talk to. His name was John Frontera, and he was waiting for her.

  “And,” he said, eyeing her with frank admiration, “I’m so glad I waited.”

  He was a handsome, heavyset, ebony-skinned man, with a shaved head and a tiny diamond in one earlobe. The appraising look he gave her would have been offensive from anyone else, but his tone and his smile were so engaging she couldn’t get properly pissed off.

  After Debra fled that night in Chicago and couldn’t be found, Frontera and his partner had been assigned to see whether she’d show up in Detroit. Kirsten had spoken with him on the phone several times to follow up, the last time about two years ago. He had the deep resonant voice of an opera singer, and he always sounded easygoing and charming—even flirtatious. He was cooperative, too, even though he knew she wasn’t a cop. That’s why she’d called and left word that she was coming to Detroit and would appreciate a meeting.

  “I got your message,” he said. “And if I’d been here, sugar, I’d have told you it’s no sense driving clear over here if it’s about Debra Morelli.” He called her “sugar” easily, as though they were old friends, and she followed him to an interview room where the walls were a dirty gray and the table between them was bolted to the floor.

  “Thanks for seeing me, anyway,” she said. Besides the fact that a personal visit made almost everyone open up more readily, Frontera in particular was clearly the sort who enjoyed giving attention to—and getting it from—the ladies. “I’m sure if you had any news about her,” she said, “you’d have notified Chicago.” He nodded, and she added, “But they wouldn’t have told me.”

  “Hey, you don’t think I’d have called you myself? Just to get to talk to you?” He smiled. “Anyway, there’s been no sign of her. Of course no one’s looking for her, either. We’re not short on things to do here.”

  “I understand,” she said. “And all I’m asking is for you to maybe point me in the right direction, and … well … I’d like to keep what we talk about quiet, between you and me.” His eyes widened slightly. “That is,” she added, not wanting to lose him, “if I say something you need to talk about, you talk. I understand that.”

  “Right,” was all he said, but she could tell he was intrigued.

  “I’m reaching here,” she said, “with nothing solid to back up what I’m thinking. It’s about the murders of those Chicago priests, and when I mention it to the cops at home all they do is roll their eyes. In fact,” and here she lowered her voice, “if it comes out I’m poking around in this, after a couple of asshole FBI agents warned me not to…” She spread her hands out, palms up. “Well … you know. It’s probably a cage in Guantanamo for me. No lawyer, no bail.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “I know what you mean.” She had his total attention now. Cops love to hate the FBI.

  “I have this belief.” She shook her head. “No, really just a suspicion. I think Debra Morelli may be killing those priests.”

  “Ho-ly Christ!” he said. “I mean … when we were watching for her I read every old report I could find that had anything to do with her, and let me tell you … if that woman’s alive, she’s fucked up enough for anything.”

  “Right. Enough to kill her own father, I understand.”

  “No proof, but she did it all right. Jump-Joe Morelli. She got hold of a sawed-off somehow and blew his head from here to Windsor, and never batted an eye the whole time our people pushed her on it. And she wasn’t but fifteen back then. That brother of hers … Franco, was it? He—”

  “Carlo.”

  “Yeah, Carlo. Equally fucked up. But a couple years younger and under her thumb. Word was the two kids were gettin’ it on together.”

  “I saw them together,” she said, “and it looked that way to me, too.”

  “Anyway, the dicks figured Carlo as an accessory, but not the shooter. Of course, no one gave much of a shit about the victim. They called him Jump-Joe because he’d jump any female in sight … even his own little girl, I guess. The guy was an animal, and he died like one.”

  “The mother’s dead, too, right?”

  “Liver cancer. Around a year later. I guess she was a trip, too. She—” Something beeped and he stopped to check a pager at his belt. “They’re after me, and probably need this room,” he said, but he didn’t make a move to go anywhere. “So tell me, sugar, what is it you want, in particular?”

  “Two things. Everyone seems convinced Debra’s father abused her. But I wonder if there’s any evidence of sexual abuse by a priest, too. That’s one thing. The other is any suggestion about where she might be hiding if she’s around. I mean, did her family have property, like a house? Does she have relatives somewhere? Anything at all. Maybe I could find something in those reports you mentioned that—”

  “No way. I’m not gonna dig out any reports and hand ’em over. It’d be my ass if I did. Not unless you got proof this whacked-out bitch is alive and can pin a string of murders on her, and you wanna give me the arrest.”

  “I don’t have that,” she said. “All I have’s an idea. But if I do turn up something—and it’s around here?—I swear you’ll be the first one I go to.”

  “Yeah, well…” He stood up and opened the door and yelled at someone that he’d be a few minutes longer, then closed the door again and sat down. “As to priests? There is something. A couple of years after her father tragically lost his head, Debra was wanted in Cincinnati for questioning in connection with a homicide there. The victim was a priest named Lasorda. I guess the killing was all over the papers in Cincy. Guy was cut up pretty bad.”

  “So what happened?”

  “With Debra? Nothing. She gave a statement. She was about seventeen then, and she came in voluntarily. No fuss about its being an out-of-state warrant. They wanted to talk to her because the priest was known to have been a friend of the Morelli family when he was in Detroit—weird in itself for a priest. And it seems he was shipped off to Cincinnati after rumors started spreading of him messing around with little girls here. Anyway, they asked Debra and she said the rumors were ridiculous, that everyone knew he was a holy man. That was it. She was never officially a suspect. Do you think—”

  “Anything’s possible, but if they couldn’t tie it to her at the time…” She paused. “The name was Lasorda?”

  “Right. Same as the Dodgers’ ex-manager. That’s why I remember. First name Gene, or Gino or something.”

  S
he wrote it down, then said, “So … any ideas where Debra might hole up?”

  “Not a clue. The house she was raised in was where she and Carlo lived with an aunt after their mother died. Carlo quit school and basically moped around until Debra took him to Chicago. That’s after she went to college … and then law school, for chrissake. A very bright, very whacked out young lady. Somewhere in there the house was sold, and that whole block’s been bulldozed since then. The Outfit guys her father hung with are scattered. You already know about the uncle in Chicago, Polly Morelli.”

  “Yeah, but she wouldn’t go there. She and Carlo were cheating him on a drug deal when they got caught.”

  “That I don’t know about, but he might have finally realized it was her who killed his brother. When it happened he insisted it had to be some local rival. Anyway, no one thought she went to Polly. She might have gone to Italy for a while, but that’s not for sure. And there’s no sign of her ever coming back into the country. Which doesn’t mean she didn’t.”

  “Coming and going was easier back then,” Kirsten said. “Before nine-eleven.”

  “I guess. Anyway … property? None I know about. The aunt who took care of ’em for a while had a place in Sanilac County … up in the Thumb?… and went back there when the kids got older. My partner and I went to see her when Chicago first called. Near a town called … what?… Water-something. I don’t even remember going through the town. He drove and I slept the whole way.”

  “Water-something?”

  “Yeah, like Waterville, Waterford … something like that. I only remember that much because it rained like hell that day. Anyway, it was a rundown house on a rundown farm. Not worth shit. What the aunt—her name was Angela, I think—what she was doing way up in the country I don’t know, but she was a Morelli, and as mental as the rest of ’em. Old hag, three hundred pounds easy. Could hardly walk. Told us she’d ‘cut the fucking slut’s heart out’—those were her words—if Debra ever showed up there. The last time you called, I had someone check her out again. She went into a nursing home and her place was sold. I guess to pay the bills. She’s probably dead by now.” He shrugged. “’Fraid that’s it, sugar. Sorry.”

  “Well, it’s way more than I knew before,” she said. “And I really appreciate it.”

  By this time he was standing again. “Look here,” he said, “if you’re staying in town overnight and you’re free about eight, there’s a new Japanese restaurant over on—”

  “Y’know, you’ve been great and I’d love to,” she said, “but—”

  “Yeah, I thought so.”

  She smiled. “Right. And thanks. I mean it. Thanks a lot.”

  40.

  Debra identified herself as “Deirdre Anzelmo” and gave her phony story. The woman on the other end of the line—“Mollie” something—sounded halfway intelligent, but Debra had her script well thought out and stayed one step ahead of her. Pleasant but insistent, that was the approach to take.

  “Maybe you don’t understand,” Debra said. “I’m a lawyer, and my client lives here in Hartford. But her brother lives in Chicago and he suffered a serious spinal cord injury in an accident there, and my client just discovered that the lawyer she retained in Chicago has done nothing at all on the case. Nothing. This is a major, major case, and the statute of limitations will expire in six months.”

  “You’ve said all that already, and I do understand, Miss Anzelmo. If you’d give me your number, one of the attorneys in the firm will get back—”

  “I told you, I don’t want ‘one of the attorneys.’ The man who suggested your office said to speak to the head of the firm.” Pleasant but insistent. “I’ll call back,” she said. “When will he be in?”

  “He’ll be out all week, but one of other lawyers, Mr. Candle, can—”

  “I suppose I’ll have to try a different firm.” She paused. “You mean there’s nowhere he can be reached, even on the phone?”

  “He’s at a trial lawyers’ conference in Asheville, Miss Anzelmo. He does call in for messages, so if you give me your number maybe he can call you back.”

  “I’m a sole practitioner, and I’m in the middle of a trial, and you know how that is. I’ll be in court all day. If I could just call his hotel, maybe sometime this evening? If he doesn’t want to take the call or call me back, so be it. It’s not like I don’t have other names I’ve been given. But I have to get moving on this.”

  In the end Debra got the name and number of the hotel, and was sure it was the threat of their losing a “major, major case” that had tipped the scales in her favor. When she didn’t call him that night they’d think she’d gotten impatient and contacted a different firm. There’s no reason they’d be suspicious.

  He was “at a trial lawyers’ conference,” and she could easily find out from the hotel exactly what “all week” meant. Circumstances were again causing a change of plans. One had to be both strong and flexible.

  * * *

  Dugan called Mollie to make sure the ship was still afloat. “Any calls?”

  “Pretty slow for a Monday,” Mollie said, and read him a list of about a dozen people.

  “Larry can handle all of those,” he said. “Anything else?”

  “Some lawyer from Hartford, Connecticut, called about a case she wants to refer. A ‘major, major case,’ she says.”

  “Yeah, right,” he said. “Aren’t they all.”

  “This is such a major case,” Mollie said, “that the first lawyer the family hired didn’t do anything on it at all, and now the statute of limitations is about to expire. The name of the lawyer who called is Deirdre Anzelmo and I think she’s a little flaky.”

  “Have Larry call her,” Dugan said.

  “Said she was on trial and couldn’t be reached on the phone. But she did say it was a spinal cord injury, so … who knows? I gave her the name of your hotel. I did not promise you’d call her back. That’s up to you.”

  “I won’t,” he said. “Anything else?”

  “Nothing going on here but work,” she said, with the clear implication that he was neglecting the office.

  “Yeah, well, same thing here. We’re on the go from early morning till late at night. These kids are sharp. You should see how—”

  “Y’know,” Mollie said, “I got two calls waiting, so…”

  He hung up.

  Even if the case that damn Hartford lawyer called about did involve a bad injury, it was an old case. Stale. And probably a case where proving fault on someone’s part was impossible, or where the guilty party had no insurance. He didn’t need another headache.

  This damn workshop was enjoyable, but it took a lot of intense work. What he needed right now was a fifteen-minute nap.

  He put the Hartford lawyer and her bullshit case out of his mind.

  41.

  Leaving the Clinton Street police station, Kirsten hurried back to the Impala. At this point she wouldn’t bother with newspaper archives about the murder of Father Lasorda. Frontera’s statements that the priest was cut up pretty bad, and that there were rumors of him messing around with little girls, seemed to tell the tale. Besides, right now the big questions were: Where was Aunt Angela’s farm? Who owned it? Who sold it? And to whom?

  It was just past six o’clock. Traffic was heavy and it would be getting dark soon, so she just headed out of town as fast as she could. She’d never heard of Sanilac County, but she knew the “Thumb” of Michigan was straight up from Detroit.

  She took I-94 northeast, got off when she’d left the city behind, and cut back west and then north. At I-69 she stopped for gas and a look at the road atlas. She found Sanilac County, and then Waterton, which had to be the town Frontera meant. It was a dot on a thin gray line with no route number. North of Decker, which was west of Sandusky. Those last two towns sounded familiar for some reason, but she couldn’t think why they would.

  Probably the easiest way to find Debra’s aunt’s old farm would be to talk to local law enforcement at Waterton
. Except they’d want to know what she was up to, and word might get back somehow to the FBI and she didn’t want those two idiot agents trying to get her PI license pulled. She had a little clout of her own, and didn’t know how easily they could do that, but since 9/11 and the Patriot Act the feds had more power than ever and she didn’t want to take a chance. So, no cops.

  She had over fifty miles still to go. By the time she got up there it would be dark, and most people more easily put up with annoying questions from strangers in the light of day. The best time was in the morning, when the whole world seemed a little more open and optimistic, and a little less suspicious and hostile.

  Actually, she thought, maybe all that time-of-day stuff was in her own mind. But at any rate, she was tired of driving, and she wanted a comfortable place to call Dugan from. She didn’t plan to tell him where she was. He didn’t have to know everything that was going on.

  There were several motels near the interstate and she picked a Red Roof Inn.

  * * *

  It was a warm, sunny morning. Waterton was a bigger town than Kirsten had expected. The downtown was an old-fashioned square. She drove the perimeter, with stores on her right and a well-kept plot of grass with a statue of a soldier and some benches on her left. A lot of the stores were vacant, but there seemed to be a resurgence trying to take place, for the most part cutesy gift and antique stores. There was, though, a real grocery store—a Kroger’s—and a drugstore, an appliance store, a diner, a hardware store, and … yes … a real estate office.

  BAGGS’ REALTY was painted in an arc on the window and there were a dozen photocopied notices of properties for sale, with fading black and white pictures of houses and farm buildings taped to the glass facing the sidewalk. The front door was held wide open with a piece of clothesline looped around the handle and then over a hook in the wall.