The kids came home, looked in the refrigerator and went to bed. Kelley said goodnight, and I sat in the den, in my own personal darkness as always, and thought about things, the radio on low, a sports station, callers nattering on about the season, my mind elsewhere. I had no idea of the time when the phone rang.
“Hello Mr. Doyle,” Leon said. “Day of rest, almost over.”
“What do you want, Leon?” I said wearily. It seemed I was forever asking him that question.
“Just to talk, Mr. Doyle. For now. Just to talk.”
“What do you want to talk about, Constance Delavaria and how you hated to kill her? Or do you want to tell me why you killed Bobby Micelli?”
“No, not Constance, or Bobby. Bobby was necessary because he had seen me, I had talked to him about Maureen. No, I want to talk to you about Jennifer. Do you remember Jennifer? Fifteen years old? Pretty little girl, a lot older than fifteen in many ways. That was no kind of life for her, Mr. Doyle.”
“It isn’t up to you to decide what kind of life a person has, Leon.”
“You’re right, it isn’t. But it isn’t I who decides.”
“Who does decide, Leon, your neighbor’s dog?”
“Think I’m crazy, don’t you? I am aware of the reference. No, I don’t talk to my neighbor’s dog. I do what is necessary, I do what is good for the community. There has been a shocking collapse of moral values, Mr. Doyle.”
“Whores have been with us from the beginning of time, Leon.”
“That is correct, and look where we are, look at the state of moral decadence we are in.”
“I’m getting tired of this, Leon. Why are you trying to justify yourself to me?”
“I’m not trying to justify anything to you, Mr. Doyle. I’m just playing the game, a game that is now coming into focus. It won’t be long, Mr. Doyle.”
He hung up and I sat there for quite some time waiting for the pictures I knew would come, pictures that have never really gone away. Jennifer Colzig. Fifteen years old, same age as Carol. A strung out Atlantic City streetwalker, taken to a run down motel on the mainland, trussed up like a Christmas turkey, throat slashed just like all the others.
Atlantic City peedee called when they found her, knowing we’d had a couple of similar cases in the past few months. Jennifer Colzig made four; Maggie Swain, Constance Delavaria, Aretha Warburton, and now a fifteen year old.
So far the killer had been consistent. All were prostitutes, all were killed in a motel room, the only difference Warburton was black, the others white.
“Makes sense, partner,” Frank said as we drove to Jersey. “What better place to take a whore than to a motel? Completely expected, normal even. She’s not expecting anything else. Tie you up? Sure, that’ll be extra. She lets him tie her up, still not suspecting a thing. Just another day at the office. She has no idea what’s coming.”
The motel was in Pleasantville, and when we pulled up there were four or five squad cars still there, along with a couple of other official looking vehicles. A man came over as we walked into the room.
“Bob Turnower,” he said, extending a hand. “This looks like your guy. Rubber spider and everything. As soon as we get everything written up we’ll fax it to you. Lab work will take a little longer.”
“Do you mind if we talk to the manager?” Frank said.
“Not at all. Man named Feliciano. We asked him not to leave the office till we’re finished up here.”
The memory faded, but not the smell. Jennifer Colzig had lost control of her bowels, just like Swain. Eventually that went away too, and I was back in the den, the radio still on, still talking sports.
Poor little girl. Fifteen and strung out on dope, an Atlantic City streetwalker. She came from a little town in Ohio, Warrenville if I remember, and we talked to her devastated parents. Nice people, tried to help her, but to no avail. Once she climbed aboard the horse it was all over.
I turned the radio off and turned the pictures over in my mind. Was there a connection, or did Leon select his victims at random. We had wrestled with that very question for years. Eight on my watch eight years ago, and now three more, seven white, two black and two Hispanic. Fifteen to forty-seven. All but Maureen found in motel rooms. Maureen was an aberration. Maureen was an impulsive kill. But why? Why step out of character? He said it was my fault, but how?
The hall clock chimed. Two o’clock. Time to put the pictures to bed, and me along with them.
Monday morning arrived, as Monday mornings tend to do. Buster and I took the subway into town, Kelley staying home to clean, saying even the bugs had trouble keeping their footing on the kitchen floor. The day passed uneventfully, thank goodness. No killings, no phone calls from Leon. I whiled away the hours trying not to think of Leon. At lunchtime I got a sandwich and a container of milk from the lobby shop and called it a day a tad earlier than usual.
Tuesday morning Lori Shaeffer called to say she’d had a tip Tamika Johnson had been seen. Kelley sighed and headed again for North Philly. “If I never hear the name Tamika Johnson again, it won’t be soon enough.”
“There, there,” I said, “the good people at the Public Defender’s Office pay the bills.”
“I’d throw something at you, but I’d probably miss. See you when I get back.”
I was thinking about Leon when Eddie Westphal came in.
“Got a few names for you, Matthew,” he said, pulling over the client chair. “Verizon only, but it’s better than nothing. I’m still working on Comcast. Surprisingly, there were still a few people on AOL.”
“How’d you do it? Wave a wand?”
“Better than that. I waved Mrs. Latham’s ten thousand dollars. Reward money stimulates people, Matthew. There was also a promise of up front money, but I’m sure Mrs. Driscoll is good for it. But don’t ask any further. I can’t tell you how, I can’t tell you who.”
“Mum’s the word. How many names are there?”
“Fourteen, all contacts occurring in the two weeks prior to her death. We’ve listed them by date, working backward from the day she died. My man tells me if we need it he’ll go back further. I’m not so sure about this, Matthew. Frank has the lists and he’ll find all these people faster than we can.”
“Not the way they have to work it. It’ll be weeks before they narrow it down.”
“All right,” Ed sighed. “But I’m not happy about it, stepping on toes like this. Working backward, the first name is a Randolph Manniton, username Rodolpho. He talked to her two days before she died.”
“He actually talked to her?”
“A figure of speech, Matthew. He sent her e-mail.”
“Any indication she sent him anything?”
“Not in response to his latest, but she sent him something two weeks before she died. I have her outgoing stuff, and it has the username and service she was sending it to, so I was able to cross check incoming usernames with outgoing usernames. She got over seventy responses from Verizon users in the last two weeks, but only responded to these fourteen.”
“The woman was busy. I gather there was no one named Leon.”
“No Leon, either real or username.”
“Anything stating time and place for a meeting?”
“Not with any of these fourteen. If she arranged to meet any of them, she must’ve deleted the message, and Frank probably has all her deleted stuff by now.”
“All right, Ed, thanks.”
I told him about Arthur Donaldson, Sissy Pagano and Big Annie.
“Have a composite, do we?” he said mildly when I’d finished. “It’s only a matter of time, now. I think we ought to let this one rest, Matthew. The cops have all Driscoll’s e-mail files. The killer is in those messages. We have to let Frank Kopf handle it from here on. We’re looking at a tiny fraction of the names in her file, and only Verizon names at that. Calling these people, listening for a voice only you’ve heard, is just spinning our wheels, and stepping on toes besides.”
“You’re probably
right,” I agreed, “but I’ve started and I don’t like to stop something I’ve started until I’ve finished.”
“All right,” he sighed. “I know a guy at Comcast. I’ll see what I can do.”
Ed left and I got to spend the next thirty minutes with my thoughts. I was about to do something I would not ordinarily have done. I was going to step on Frank Kopf’s toes. Those fourteen names were on his list, and even though I would never give my name, and he would never find out I’d called them, still it was something I knew I shouldn’t be doing. On the other hand, maybe I’d get lucky. Maybe Leon would answer the phone.
Just before lunch Frank Kopf called. “Nothing much going on, partner,” he said. “Leon’s been quiet since he did the Pagano woman. I talked to a couple of doctors, and they say something must’ve triggered it for the man to have such rage. Has he called you again?”
“Called again Sunday night, wanted to know if I remembered Jennifer Colzig. Did you get your flyers out?”
“The papers, the TV, even got a billboard in the works. Plastered his mug all over town. We been flooded with calls, none of which have panned out so far, but it only takes one. Incidentally, the reason I called, I understand Eddie’s been talking about Leon on the Internet, asking about similar ladies with rubber spiders. I think Eddie oughta stop talking about it. So far we been lucky, the media don’t know about the spiders, but if a reporter found Eddie’s discussion group, I hate to think what’s gonna happen. We’ll have all kinds of nuts doing copycat work.”
“There’s always the DNA to separate them out,” I said, “but I’ll pass on your concerns. Speaking of which, what about Eddie’s similar incident in Cleveland? Did the DNA match up?”
“Don’t know yet, the Driscoll DNA isn’t back yet. But if it does, it kinda puts the old quietus on the search for somebody recently released from jail. Still, you have to do it, because you never know. We’ve got eight people working on it, doing nothing but checking the records, contacting other jurisdictions. Probably all for nothing if the guy was in Ohio all this time. Still, we’re working all kinds of angles. He’s on the list, and with the composite and all it’s only a matter of time.”
“Eddie said he was gonna use the Internet to check around, see if any similar incidents occurred elsewhere.”
“Yeah, I heard that. Haven’t seen anything come of it yet. And of course we’ve been checking that out too. If the guy didn’t spend some time in jail, I got a feeling there’s more than one dead little girl we don’t know about.”
That evening, from home, Kelley read me the numbers and I dialed the fourteen names on my list, beginning with Mr. Manniton. The voice was all wrong, and I apologized for dialing a wrong number. Over the course of the next hour I called everyone on the list, with unsurprising results. Eleven wrong voices and three no answers, probably an office phone. A complete and total washout.
“The fallacy in this approach,” Kelley said, “is you’re assuming Leon will answer the phone. But what if he has Caller ID? He knows our home phone number, he’s called you here. And even if he doesn’t have Caller ID, what’s to say he’s even home to answer it? You had three no pickups, and one of them could’ve been Leon and you would never have known it.”
“You’re right, babe, I didn’t think it through. Stepped on some toes for nothing.”
In bed, talking of things husbands and wives talk about, the phone rang.
“Hello, Mr. Doyle,” Leon said. “How was your day?”
“Goddamit, Leon, I’m tired of this.”
“You remember the itsy-bitsy spider, don’t you?”
“Leon,” I said wearily, “I was almost asleep.”
“I have another one for you. To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. A time to live, and a time to die. A time to kill and a time to heal. A time to weep and a time to laugh. Ecclesiastes.”
“What do you want, Leon?”
“Maureen is dead because of you, Mr. Doyle. You have had your time to live, and soon you shall have your time to die. But first, of course, you will have your time to weep, as I have had my time to weep. I weep for Maureen, Mr. Doyle. The only woman I have ever loved, and I never had the chance to tell her, because of you.”
“We have you, Leon, we know who you are.”
He laughed softly. “No you don’t. Not yet you don’t. But soon you shall know me. Goodbye till then.”
I hung up and Kelley said, “What did Leon want?”
“He said he was sorry about Maureen.”
Later that night, lying abed, staring into the dark, listening to Kelley breathe and Buster snore, I tried to visualize Leon’s face, but couldn’t get it to keep still, couldn’t get it to stay in one place long enough to get a good look at it. All I heard was that whisky soaked voice.
Yes, Frank had all the names, and good, patient police work would find the killer. But Leon was wound up, he’d called and told me it was time for me to weep, and then it would be time for me to die. I believed him. I had to find him, and find him fast.
Wednesday dawned on schedule. I spent the morning waiting for Leon to call again, but it never came. There were no further killings, either. Leon was apparently spending a quiet few days somewhere, no doubt enjoying himself.
Leon had Kelley so upset she wanted me to be with someone at all times, preferably Eddie Westphal, and I wanted her to stay in the office and not be wandering around the underside of the city, but neither of us wanted to give in to fear, neither of us wanted Leon to tell us how to live. So we continued to go about our business as we’ve always done, foolishly, as it turned out, but in our defense we thought Leon was occupied, since the cops were concentrating on finding him, armed with Driscoll’s e-mail list and Annie’s composite. Leon must’ve seen his face plastered all over town, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had taken off for parts unknown.
I called Frank and told him I’d called fourteen of the names on his list, and he listened in silence. I told him why I did it, and when I did it, and there was a longish pause before he answered.
“Don’t ever let it happen again,” he said softly.
The problem was, in spite of the computer lists, in spite of the composite, the only thing anyone knew about Leon was he had a whisky voice, and occasionally had a drink at Jack’s Place. The cops had Jack’s Place covered, but since Bobby Micelli was the only one who had actually seen the guy who called himself Leon, and I was the only one who would recognize his voice, nothing came of it. For all I know, Leon walked in and out of Jack’s Place every night, laughing it up and buying drinks for the house. I wouldn’t put it past him. All in all, a fairly routine and satisfyingly dull morning till Sammy Weese called to tell me the news.
“Just talked to Irene DeMarco,” he said. “She’s at the Roundhouse, she’s just been arrested for her husband’s murder.”
“Surprised, but not startled,” I said. “I didn’t hear a word, but Acker must’ve looked into it, like he said he would.”
“I guess so. She just called, and I’m heading down there to talk to her, arrange bail, that sort of thing. I have an idea I’ll need you, and I’m giving you a heads up.”
“We’ll be here,” I said.
Ed came in and pulled up a chair. I told him about Irene DeMarco.
“Has she given them the shooter yet?” he asked mildly.
“I don’t know, but I’m sure she will. She’s got something to trade, and Sammy’s been at this a long time. Incidentally, I told Frank I stepped on his toes. He didn’t like it, but I don’t think it caused any lasting ill will. You better cancel all further activity with the Driscoll list.”
“Way ahead of you, Matthew. If nothing else is doing, I’ll head on home and fire up the computer. Found a few new pen pals. Interesting folks. Wouldn’t think anything interesting crime-wise would be happening in the Fiji Islands, would you?”
I heard him push his chair back, heard the door close softly behind him. Good old Ed! Still
as good a cop as ever, as good a cop as ever was.
All was quiet for two days, no more killings, at least none by Leon, and when Sammy called he sounded tired
“All right,” he said, “she’s out on bail. I want to interview her, and I want you to do it.”
“Tell me where and when.”
“Tomorrow morning, nine o’clock, my office.”
“We’ll be there. Kelley’ll take notes.”
Kelley came in and we headed home. July was winding down, heading into August, and the city was sweltering. A maniac was loose, the papers were screaming for the commissioner’s head, and you’d have thought people would be talking of nothing else. Not so. Everyone went about his or her business, unconcerned and not very interested. Everyone but Kelley, Frank, Ed, the city’s whores, and me.
The next morning Kelley and I arrived in Sammy’s office at the appointed time, Leon forgotten for the moment.
“Mrs. DeMarco’s out on bail,” Sammy said. “I need her debriefed, I need to find out exactly what happened to her husband. I don’t like to be surprised when we go to trial. She gave the cops the shooter, and after we talk to Mrs. DeMarco we need to talk to him.”
“Who was the shooter?”
“Kid named Vinnie Galzorano.”
“Is Mrs. DeMarco here?”
“She’s waiting in the conference room.”
When we were seated, Sammy said, “Mr. Doyle will take you through the events leading up to your husband’s death, Mrs. DeMarco. Please answer him as truthfully and as fully as you can.”
“I understand,” she said, in what I thought was a rather subdued, emotionless voice. She was wearing a scent today, though I couldn’t identify it.
“Mrs. DeMarco,” I began, “did you kill your husband?”
“No.”
“Did you engage someone to kill your husband?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Vinnie Galzorano.”
“Do you know Vinnie’s address?”
“Somewhere on Fourth Street, I don’t know what hundred.”
AND A TIME TO DIE Page 18