Johnny Blade

by Phillip Tomasso

“All I’m saying is the guy has a reason for killing these girls. Let’s just hypothesize for a minute, all right?”

  “Can we do it while we walk? I’ve got to eat something,” Cocuzzi said, making his way out of the precinct to the back parking lot. Cage, on his heels, hammering out his theory.

  “Buzzelli wants to make a splash, wants to be a star again, right? Of course right. Being a journalist is like being an actor. These kinds of people need to be in the limelight. They need that byline the way a junkie—”

  “Quit using the metaphors. All right? They suck.”

  “Whatever. My point is simple,” Cage said.

  “I know your point. Your point was clear the minute you started talking. You think Buzzelli killed a prostitute—and why not a prostitute, who’s gonna miss one—so that he could cover the story, right?”

  “Bingo.”

  They stood by the trunk of Cocuzzi’s car. For once the sun was out and shining brightly. Though it was still cold, without the wind blowing, the temperature was tolerable.

  With his hands in his pockets, Jason Cocuzzi asked, “Did he kill Hawthorne and Vorhees, or did he just kill Vorhees—to get in on the action?”

  “Good question.”

  “If he killed them both, and he starts covering the story, where is the resolution if no killer is caught?” Cocuzzi cocked his head to the side. “If he read about Hawthorne’s murder, took the job at Jack’s Joint, hoping to get a story—then decided to kill Vorhees to keep up the action . . . ”

  “Now you see where I’m going? Either way, he’d have motive,” Cage said.

  “But it’s weak,” Cocuzzi said. “It still doesn’t sit right with me. Suppose most of that entire scenario is true, right down to the profiling you did. What makes him a killer, instead of an ambitious journalist working two jobs trying to get a story break.”

  “Like the way Buzzelli explained it?” Cage asked in disbelief. “No way. Too simple.”

  “But like you said, if it looks like crap and smells like crap, right?”

  “So you think Buzzelli was telling the truth? That he took the job hoping to get some stories to impress his editor—and that’s it?”

  Cocuzzi nodded. “It’s just as possible, and as plausible as the conspiracy theories you’ve been spinning. My point? Let’s just keep an open mind, all right?”

  Cage shook his head. “Want to make a bet on this?”

  Cocuzzi thought he had been doing pretty well. He had all but ignored his inner instincts, and had been friendly to Peter Cage all night and all day. He had let the man’s insistent babble and prejudices go in one ear and out the other. Every man reaches a point, however, where holding in feelings serves no useful purpose. “This, Cage, is not a game. This is not a horse race. I will not wager bets on who is right. If you’re right, then I will be thrilled when we nail the suspect. If you’re wrong, I will not try collecting money from you. What the hell do you think is going on here?”

  “Look, I was just trying to add some excitement—”

  “Don’t we have enough? We have two bodies—and only a paper-thin lead.”

  “I don’t think it’s paper-thin.”

  “Good. I hope you’re right and we can wrap this sloppy mess up before the weekend’s over,” Cocuzzi said. The two stood staring at each other. Detective Cocuzzi had seniority. They were investigating the murders on his playing field. Everything must feel awkward to Detective Cage, coming across the river to work the cases with him. Cocuzzi knew a crap load of police officers. Many of them thought and behaved similarly to Cage when they started out. After a few years on the job, they lost the 'hot dog' attitude. “Want me to drive? I thought we’d go to this bar-b-que place.”

  “Dragon’s?” Cage smiled.

  “Know it?” Cocuzzi returned the smile. They were going to fight, he knew, and disagree. Together, he also knew, they would solve these murders. Cage had enthusiasm, drive and desire. A fire, that only dedicated police officers ever experience, must burn in his belly.

  “Know it? I’m there so much, I rent a booth.”

  Chapter 28

  By five o’clock, Michael knew he was in trouble. “You know how long it’s been since I’ve slept?” They were in Michael’s bed. It looked as if a tornado had passed through, shaping the sheets and covers into a pretzel twist at the foot of the bed. “I’ve got to be in to work in a few hours.”

  “Call in sick,” Felicia said, her head resting on Michael’s chest playing with his hairs, using her fingers like a fork twirling spaghetti onto the tines. “We can rent a movie and hang out all night together.”

  It sounded wonderful, a perfect plan. “I can’t.”

  Propping herself up onto an elbow, Felicia gave Michael puppy-dog look. “Why not?”

  Why not? “Because, that’s why. For one thing, Murphy is depending on me to be there. I can’t mess this job a few weeks into it.”

  “No, I guess you can’t,” Felicia said. She slid out of bed. “Where are my clothes?”

  “The parlor. You don’t have to leave.”

  “You need your sleep for work. I don’t want you to be too tired to cook tonight,” Felicia said, leaving the room.

  Michael got out of bed. He took his bathrobe off a hook on the back of his door. He put it on and tied the rope around his waist as he walked into the parlor. “I don’t want you to go, Felicia. I don’t.”

  She looked as if she might begin to cry. “This sucks, you know.”

  “What does?”

  She looked around the room, extending her arms, panties in one hand, shirt in the other. “This, all of this. You. You suck,” she said. Now she was crying. Black mascara tear drops rolled down her cheeks.

  Michael almost laughed. “I don’t get it. I thought we had a great afternoon. I mean, I could still go for some pizza . . .”

  She pushed his stomach with both hands and smiled, but did not stop crying. “I don’t want to see you anymore.”

  Michael laughed.

  “I’m not joking, Michael.” She put on her underwear, her shirt. She bent over and picked up her socks and pants.

  “What?”

  She sat at the kitchen table, put on her socks and pants. “I had a good time today. But that’s all it was. A good time. It’s nice not to have to do that for work, but to just do it because I wanted to do it.”

  “That’s all this was? All you wanted was to get screwed—on your terms?”

  His words had the effect of a face-slap. She looked stung. She did not deny a thing. She stood up and went to the door. She kneeled down and put on her shoes, tying the laces. “You can keep the pizza.”

  Michael grabbed her arms and pulled her up. He spun her around so that she stood facing him. “Do I look dumb?”

  She did not answer.

  “I’m not dumb,” he said.

  “Oh no?”

  “No. You’re pulling, like, a psychology one-oh-one, here. The first time I ever saw it performed was in that movie with Ricky Schrodder and John Voight, The Champ. It’s a classic scene. Ever seen it? Voight’s a single parent, a washed-up boxer. The boy’s mother, Faye Dunnaway, is rich—but wants nothing to do with the child, until she sees him at the horse races eight, nine years later. So it’s the part where they’re in the stadium bleachers and Voight tells his son to get lost—see, he’s not doing it to be mean, he’s doing it because he can’t take care of him as well as the mother can. And even in the movie, the little boy knows what his father’s doing, until the father’s standing there with a hysterical child, who is begging to stay. So he slaps the boy, calls him a pain in the ass,” Michael explained. “And at that point, still knowing what his father’s up to, the boy says fine. He’ll go with his mother.”

  “I saw the movie, Michael.”

  “So why didn’t you stop me?”

  “Because you’re a pain in the ass,” Felicia said. “Fine. You want to be right, you’re right, Champ. I want you to get lost, all right. I’m tired of you hanging around.�
�� She slapped him hard across the face. “Take it any way you want. I don’t want to see you again.”

  She opened the door and left quietly. Rubbing his face, Michael cursed. “Damn. That hurt.”

  _____________________________

  Marcus was back in town. Michael noticed him as soon as he walked in from the back room. Murphy was behind the counter, cooking up some burgers. Michael said hello to Fatso.

  “See the paper today?” Fatso asked. He took a moment to shake out the creases so the paper could fold naturally.

  Michael took the paper and stared at the front page headlines: JOHNNY THE BLADE STRIKES AGAIN. Catchy and cute, Michael thought. Matthew Sinopoli may be old and he may be lazy, but he still knew how to work well with words. Giving the killer a nickname, especially one like Johnny the Blade, would sell papers. It could also send people into a panic. “Says police have some leads, but are not releasing any names at this time.” He pointed to himself. “What? Am I one of the leads?”

  Fatso, smiling, shrugged. “I like the name, Johnny Blade. Menacing, isn’t it?”

  Murphy was standing next to Michael with his hands on his hips. “Police giving you a hard time?”

  “They were. I think things were squared away this morning. I had to go down there. They didn’t like the fact that I remembered so much about last Friday night,” Michael said, casually aware that he had Marcus’ attention. “It’s nothing to worry about, Murphy.”

  “You may not think so. This place is no gold-mine, but if my customers think Johnny Blade is slinging hash, they aren’t going to be too happy,” Murphy said.

  “Nothing to worry about,” Michael said, again.

  “Not exactly denying anything with that statement,” Murphy said. “Are you?”

  “It’s not me. I’m not him,” Michael said pointing at the newspaper headlines. “The police are just digging. That’s all.”

  Murphy clapped Michael on the back using both hands. “I hope so.”

  When Murphy walked away, Michael lit up a cigarette. “You know, Fatso, this is nuts. Can I help it if I remember things that happened last week? I have that kind of mind, you know. I pay attention to the details. The police think I know too much so I have to go down for questioning, only they referred to it as ‘having a conversation’.”

  “How’d that go anyway?” Fatso asked. Michael gave him an edited version. “See how they do that, playing with your words, twisting them to make them out to be something they’re not?”

  “That’s exactly what they tried to do, too,” Michael said. Leaving out the part about him working at the paper had made most of the ‘conversation’ seem weak and less important. “I’m not worried. I’m more annoyed than anything.”

  As if on cue, Detectives Cocuzzi and Cage entered Jack’s. Neither looked happy, yet they both looked relieved to see Michael Buzzelli once their roaming eyes settled on him. “Ah, shit,” Michael murmured. He was innocent. He knew he was innocent. He did not experience blackouts. No dogs spoke to him, telling him to kill people. He did not worship the devil. “Are you guys looking for me?”

  “Mr. Buzzelli,” Detective Cage said with a sneer. He spoke loud to ensure everyone in the diner could hear him clearly. “How’s our little writer, friend?”

  Michael cringed, wondering who might have caught on to what cage had said.

  Murphy stood next to him. “What can I do for you guys?”

  “We were wondering if Michael wouldn’t mind helping us out some?” Cage asked, talking to Murphy, but staring directly at Michael Buzzelli.

  Michael turned to look at Murphy, who shrugged indecisively. “What do you have in mind?” Michael asked the detectives, acutely aware of the people watching and listening to his conversation.

  Cage puckered his lips and shook his head. “How about you come with us for a little ride? That sound all right?”

  Michael looked at Murphy, again, who said, “Take the night off. I’ll handle things here. If you finish with the police and want to come back, fine. If after they’re done, you just feel like going home, then fine.”

  Chapter 29

  “Long day for you guys,” Michael said as he voluntarily climbed into the back seat of a white, unmarked police car. Jason Cocuzzi sat in the driver’s seat. Cage sat in back, next to Michael.

  “We have a demanding job,” Cage said. Michael sensed the detective did not like him. He wondered why. Was he despised simply because he was ‘suspected’ to be a murderer? They had no proof to tie him to any crime. No proof, none whatsoever.

  “We have some evidence, Mr. Buzzelli, that was recovered from the second victim. After the killer murdered the first woman, he took careful precautions to protect himself. Deranged serial killers will do that, you know,” Detective Cocuzzi announced.

  “Yeah, you know you have a lot against you,” Cage said. “You’re white. You are in your mid-twenties. I don’t think you’re insane.”

  “Well thank you for the back-handed compliment,” Michael said.

  Jason smiled. “When you profile a serial killer, you’ll find more often than not the person committing the crime is a white male, between the age of twenty-two and fifty. Rarely are serial killers crazy. In fact, they are often times the exact opposite.”

  “I doubt very much you’re a genius,” Cage said to Michael.

  “Ah, thank you,” Michael said, pretending to sound emotionally stung by the detective’s comment.

  “We saw your ex-girlfriend today,” Cage said, with heavy emphasis on the ‘ex’ part of ex-girlfriend. “You never got around to telling us the reason why the two of you broke up.”

  “I didn’t see how it could be any of your business,” Michael said. He had had enough. No way could the police have evidence against him. How could he be implicated for a murder he knows he did not commit?

  “How about we believe you’ve been screwing that prostitute with the red hair,” Cage said, yelling. His face was less than an inch away from Michael’s.

  “Cool it,” Cocuzzi said. “Look, Michael, you may not think this is any of our business—”

  “You’re right,” Michael said.

  “You’re wrong,” Cage interjected.

  “Let me tell you this Michael, we are not arresting you. Notice, we are not reading you the Miranda rights, okay? However, we want you to submit a semen sample, a pubic hair sample and give us a set of prints,” Cocuzzi said calmly, making a left hand turn. They were headed south down Lake Avenue, heading in the general direction of the police station as the car bounced on the pitted road.

  Cage had a drunk-looking smile as he bounced with the worn shocks. His eyes were open wide with anticipation making him look crazy. If this were a movie, Michael thought, he would know exactly who the killer was. Crazy Cage. Yet, a fisted knot formed in his belly. He could not help but begin to wonder why the police were so intent on fingering him as the murderer. There were innocent people in jail. Things like that did happen. People have been railroaded by the police; prosecuted, convicted and sentenced. Was this how something like that could happen? He knew DNA testing was accurate and the results presentable in trials. Providing a sample of his semen suddenly made him apprehensive. How in the world could his semen match the semen found on Vanessa’s body? It could not . . . could it? Why did the police keep coming back to him?

  “You got a little sloppy this time,” Cage said.

  “Excuse me?” Michael was quick to object.

  “I apologize,” Cage said with mock-sincerity, holding his hands up and backing away from Michael. “The killer got sloppy this time. First whore he sliced up, he did a good job of cleaning the body before dumping it.”

  “The M.E. was pretty sure a condom had been used, both for oral sex and vaginal sex,” Detective Cocuzzi said. “However, aside from the knife wounds, and traces of metal from the blade on her rib bones and on skin tissue, the assailant was careful to wash away any fingerprints, hair. Nothing.”

  “But Vanessa had semen, pubic hai
r and finger prints?” Michael asked, the reporter in him stepping up to the plate. He had been blinded by fear. Cage seemed like a force to fear. Talking to Cocuzzi, though, made all the difference. He realized at this very moment that he could be an asset to this investigation, and not a liability.

  “Did the detective say that?” Cage asked.

  “No. I’m just gathering here. If you want my semen, a pubic hair and my prints . . . what else should I think? Let me ask you this,” Michael said, quickly. He did not want to be cut off. “What makes you think it is a serial killer? Why do you think the same man killed both women?”

  Cage and Cocuzzi exchanged knowing glances. “You tell us?” Cage said.

  “How would I know?” Michael asked. He knew what Cage was up to. They wanted to see if he would reveal anything about the crimes that had not been revealed on the news or in the papers. The police were notorious for holding back specific details of a crime. It helped them distinguish the real killer from all the insane people who called, claiming to be the killer. (That would make for a wonderful, other story, a story in and of itself—Michael thought and mentally noted to research the topic later).

  Cocuzzi stopped the car for a red light. He turned around and looked at Michael. “On Ms. Vorhees we found semen and a few coarse pubic hairs. We are printing you to have a record of your prints on file.”

  “So no prints were recovered at the scene,” Michael said. The killer took time to quickly—what—wash away the prints, but not his body fluids and hair samples? How could he do that? Maybe he just wiped her down with a towel, or paper towels?

  “They were wiped away. We found some points of some prints, but you need eight points to lift a print. We were lucky to find two or three points at any given spot. Not very helpful,” Cocuzzi said.

  Why was Detective Cocuzzi volunteering so much information? Good cop, bad cop? “Is it possible that the second killing was an accident?” Michael asked. He wished he could take out his own notebook and jot down information. He was under a little duress, locked in the back seat of a police car with an angry looking detective. He hoped the conversation would remain fresh in his mind by the time he got home, if they let him go home.