The rock was covered with snow. He did not care. He brushed away the snow with the sleeve of his coat. He removed the paper and baggie from his pocket and sat down. He unfolded the paper, ripped it into quarters. He stuck three of the quarters into his coat pocket, and set the fourth onto his lap. He poured out the herb, rolled the paper and twisted off the ends.
“You’re a lot fatter than I thought you’d be,” Wendell said to the joint. He put one end in his mouth and lit it. He sucked in, filling his lungs with smoke, and kept it in his lungs for twenty seconds before exhaling slowly. The notebook paper was burning too quickly, wasting the drug. He smoked faster, taking many drags on the joint.
When the last of it was gone, he was laughing. He could not believe how fast he had smoked that thing. Tears rolled down his face, he was laughing so hard. How could he have smoked a joint, all by himself, that quickly? It was unheard of. Not just an amazingly quick football player, he was also an amazingly quick pot smoker.
He jumped to his feet, arms raised in the air in victory, as if he had just sent another pass into the arms of a touchdown-bound receiver. He pivoted his body to the left and right, looking at the woods and over the water as if a crowd of elated fans had gathered and witnessed his speed-pot-smoking ability.
He stopped in mid-pivot when his eyes happened upon a purple foot protruding out of the water. “What the hell is that?” Wendell still had his arms in the air as he tried walking toward a spot on the bank, closer to the foot in the water.
He slipped once. His own shoe went into the frigid water. He ignored the fact that his sock was soaked and his foot immediately felt frozen. He walked along the bank toward the thing in the water, the more sure he was that he was hallucinating.
“Freaking Kenny! The stuff was laced,” Wendell said, suddenly crying. He lowered his arms and clamped the palms of his hands to the sides of his face. His fingernails dug into his temples. “What am I supposed to do now?”
He spun around. The woods seemed to mock him. He knew someone had to be watching him, laughing. “This isn’t funny,” he shouted toward no one. “It’s not funny!”
He looked at the water again, expecting not to see the foot. But the foot remained. Tentatively he walked closer. When he was across from the foot, he no longer thought he was hallucinating. He could not be. He had lost his mind, and it was that simple.
“I’m not going in the water,” he said to the invisible taunting people hiding in the woods. “I’m not! I know she’s not real. That’s not real!” He was pointing at the naked woman apparently trapped by tree roots on the opposite bank.
Wendell closed his eyes. He shook his head. His hands had not left his face. He wanted to scream, because he knew he was screwed. When he opened his eyes, if the body of the woman was still submerged in the water, then he definitely was not hallucinating, and might not be losing his mind. When he opened his eyes if she was gone, he’d freakin’ kill Kenny!
When he opened his eyes, the naked body of woman was still there. Wendell screamed for help with all of his might and then walked into the creek. The jolt from the cold water shocked his system. Always the tough football player, Wendell pushed on and waded across the thigh-deep creek. He stood over the naked woman, who was just a few inches under water. She was staring at him. Her eyes and mouth were open wide. It looked like her arm and head were wedged between some rocks and tree roots. The roots had erupted from the bank and continued to grow and spread in the creek.
Wendell thought he should pull her free and get her up onto the embankment. He knelt down in the water, then stood up. “Screw that, naked or not, I’m not touching some dead chick!”
The effect from the weed was gone, completely gone. He was not high at all. Though the realization presented itself like a flash of lightening in his mind, Wendell was not disappointed. Mostly, he felt relieved.
He took a cell phone out of his coat pocket and dialed 911.
Chapter 37
The police cars and other emergency vehicles were parked outside of Sawyer Park. Only one set of tire tracks was in the snow in the lot and no one wanted to risk contaminating the scene.
Detectives Jason Cocuzzi and Peter Cage stood side by side with their hands stuffed into their pockets. The temperature had continued to drop all day long, though finally stabilized at thirteen degrees, but the winds had picked up bringing the wind-chill down to four below.
A black tarp had been placed on the snow while paramedics lifted the body out of the water and set the victim down on the tarp. Alex Green, the Monroe County M.E. was present and giving the body a preliminary examination.
“Robert Wendell lives just on the other side of the park’s woods,” Cocuzzi said to an officer. “Once we establish a time of death, I want a door-to-door done on that residential street. The usual, did anyone see anything out the back windows? Did they hear anything? Go with those types of questions, let’s see if we can come up with anything.”
When the officer took off, Cage shrugged. “Even though the trees are bare, those woods look pretty dense.”
“Never know,” Coccuzzi replied. At this point, with their third suspected victim lying on a tarp in front of them, they could not afford to speculate. They needed to move fast on every possible technique that might assist them in producing a solid lead.
Walking away from the body, with Cage following, Cocuzzi backtracked in his own imprints in the snow toward the parking lot. A lab technician knelt casting the tire tracks into a mold. “Anything?”
The tech looked up. “Snow’s powdery, I’m having a hard time. We’ve taken a lot of photographs, used your camera, too—your equipment is back on your front seat.”
“Thank you,” Cocuzzi said.
“No problem. Thing is, the driver of this vehicle had bald tires, mostly. The few tracks made are not very good. The wind’s been blowing, and well, I can’t guarantee a thing here,” the tech said.
“Well, let us know if you come up with anything,” Cage said, trying to sound authoritative.
“Of course,” the technician said and went back to the difficult task before him.
Cocuzzi had his shoulders raised, hunched forward, in a vain attempt to block his face from the brutal lashing of the wind.
When Dr. Green stood up, he looked around the scene, saw the detectives and waved them over. Cocuzzi took this as a hopeful sign. When they were huddled together, the M.E. shrugged. “This sucks, Cocuzzi. Sucks. I’ve done pretty much all I can out here. I want to get the victim back to the morgue. I’m going to do my best to lift prints, but if she spent any considerable amount of time in the water—with the creek raging the way it is, I don’t know what type of evidence will be recoverable.”
“Got enough pictures?”
“Plenty.”
“The M.O.?” Cage asked.
“A large knife was used again. Markings are pretty consistent to those found on the other victims. He’s slicing them up pretty good, then cuts—not deeply—but cuts from between their breasts down the center of their bellies to the pubic area. Once in that domain, he hacks them up something awful,” Dr. Green said. “I’d say, ninety-nine percent positively, that this is the same killer.”
Jason Cocuzzi felt like exploding. The city did not need a serial killer on the loose. No city did. “Let me know the minute you I.D. the victim.”
“Yeah, sure.” Green looked down at the woman on the tarp. Cocuzzi followed his gaze. The woman’s bloated body was an awfully vibrant shade of blue and purple. Where the killer used his knife, her skin puckered like a sliced-open baked potato. Only instead of revealing tantalizingly white potato inside, Cocuzzi was staring at dark red, human meat.
Chapter 38
Friday, January 25
Michael could not wait for the day to end. He had been in his cubicle slaving away at the computer since eight and had worked through lunch, munching away at a sandwich between keystrokes. His eyes burned and he had suffered from a dull-throbbing headache ever since just be
fore lunch. He had swallowed down some aspirin tablets, but the pain never even attempted to subside. He wondered if he might need glasses.
Part of the reason he stayed busy was because the office was busy. Johnny the Blade had done it again. Though the City Chronicle had two designated crime reporters, every journalist on the payroll wanted a piece of the action. Articles showed up in the latest edition in a variety of topics, written by a number of people. Of course the front-page headlines deserved the coverage. The serial killer diversified his predatory actions, adding to his victim-list a woman who was not a whore. The local section pounced on this latest revelation by assigning reporters to poll Rochesterians, as if trying to start a citywide panicked frenzy. The business section of the paper showcased a piece on shop owners in and around the area, focusing on the ones open around the clock. The article touched on security, employee safety and the need to work together and watch out for each other. Many of the places on Lake and on Lyell had contracted security guards to watch buildings, and escort employees to cars. It was the article in the sport section that seemed unbelievable. One sports writer managed to work the Johnny Blade reference as a metaphor when talking about the kind of season the Rochester Amerks hockey team was having.
Everyone was getting in on it. Johnny Blade was a hot topic. Hot topics sold papers. When papers sold, the bosses at the City Chronicle smiled happily. When the bosses were happy, employees were happy. All around, everyone comes out a winner. Except, Michael Buzzelli did not feel happy. Aside from writing the obituaries for the victims, Michael was the most removed journalist from the sensationalism of the moment.
Donna Pappalardo. She was the third known victim murdered by Johnny Blade. Michael entered the information he had been given the other day. Donna Pappalardo, only twenty-seven years old, still had living parents. A middle child sandwiched between two brothers. A healthy list of names included living grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins.
Michael watched Matthew Sinopoli closely. The aged crime reporter spent the afternoon at his desk talking on the telephone. It was not hard to notice since the man had a huge office with floor to ceiling windows. Sinopoli always kept his door closed, but his curtains kept open. Sometimes it surprised Michael to see the veteran using a computer. A word processor or even a typewriter would look more appropriate on the man’s desk. Inside Michael, an insatiable itch grew. It felt fierce, the burning in his belly. He was closer to the story than any of the writers at this paper. He wanted the chance to prove himself.
Sinopoli had covered many of the bases. He had interviewed the families of the victims. He had talked with the ones unfortunate enough to find the victims bodies. Sinopoli knew how to work closely with the police, too. Most of the information Sinopoli wrote about came directly from Detective Jason Cocuzzi. To the casual onlooker, or chief editor, Matthew Sinopoli appeared all over his assignment. He knew he was mentally beating a dead horse, but it drove Michael nuts that Sinopoli conducted ninety percent of his business over the phone.
As Sinopoli switched off his monitor, Michael filled a cup at the water cooler. He shook his head as the star reporter pulled a dangling chain to shut off his desk light. Michael sipped his water as Sinopoli snapped closed his briefcase. As Michael slowly made his way toward his own cubicle, Sinopoli slipped his second arm into the sleeve of his long, down jacket. Peering over the top of his cubicle, Michael watched as Sinopoli closed the curtains.
Michael sat at his desk and stared at the monitor. Tonight he would be working at Jack’s. He knew he needed more discipline. He was letting the people he had met at the diner influence his decisions. Though he had sketched out articles on his home computer, he’d done very little digging to find Johnny Blade. Where could he find the time?
It was possible the killer was a regular at Jack’s. Most killers knew their victims. Michael did not think Fatso was a possibility. He remembered when the two of them first met. They had shaken hands. He had introduced himself as Fat Joe. He did not give Michael a last name. Neither had Speed, for that matter. In fact, he did not even know a first name for Speed. There were other regulars at the diner. Michael thought of the two teenagers who had recently attempted robbing the place. Though they had been unsuccessful, they could be suspects. They had tempers and clearly displayed a violent disposition.
Michael picked up the telephone. He dialed Detective Cocuzzi’s direct line. Smiling, he waited for someone to answer.
“Detective Cocuzzi’s desk,” a man said.
“Hi. I was hoping to speak to the detective,” Michael said.
“He’s kind of busy right now, can I take a message?”
“Is this detective Cage?” Michael asked, knowing that it was Peter Cage on the phone. He recognized the sound of the man’s voice. The young cop sounded overly cocksure of himself. It annoyed the hell out of Michael.
“It is. And who is this?”
Michael knew he had succeeded at unnerving the man. “Michael Buzzelli. Remember me? I was thinking. Remember the robbery, the attempted robbery at Jack’s Joint? There were the two guys in Halloween masks?”
“Yeah, and?”
Michael knew he had the detective’s undivided attention, despite the tone of boredom in the policeman’s voice. “Well they were picked up that night, right? I mean the police caught them, right?”
“They did and I know where you’re going with this. Cocuzzi spent time with each of them separately. He questioned them for hours. We thought the same way you’re thinking,” Detective Cage said.
A long silence ensued. Michael could no longer hear any background noise, where before he had heard other telephones ringing and the murmur of people talking. He wondered if the officer had hung up on him, completely unappreciative of his phone call. “Detective?”
“Mr. Buzzelli?” Phones must have changed hands. Michael knew Cage was no longer on the line. “This is Detective Cocuzzi. I appreciate your call.”
At least someone did. “It was bugging me. I keep thinking the killer has to be someone close to the victims. The closest people to the girls are probably the regulars at the diner. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“It’s a solid theory,” Detective Cocuzzi said. “Those two that tried to rob the place have alibis for the night of Vanessa’s killing. We even cross-checked them for the latest victim. They are basketball players at the high school. Not only were they at the games, but they scored enough points between them to be covered by your sports writer, whatever his name is.”
“Daniels,” Michael said absently.
“What’s that?” Cocuzzi asked.
“The sports writer, his name is Gray Daniels.” Michael held his mouse and wiggled it back and forth, watching the pointer on his monitor dance across the screen. “I got a question for you, Detective Cocuzzi. You ever look into Marcus? I don’t know a last name on the guy. He looks like he’s a lone-mobster or something.”
“Marcus Bovenzi?”
Michael typed the name into his computer. “Yeah, him.”
“Listen,” Cocuzzi said, “Cage and I appreciate your call. We really do. Do us a favor though, all right? Leave the investigation to us. If you have a lead, if you have a suspect, do exactly what you did today and call us. You know how to get a hold of us.”
“If I bring you information, will you guarantee me an exclusive?” Michael asked. “Where would that leave Matt Sinopoli, huh? I don’t know that it would be fair to him. I’m a fair man. He’s been covering the case since the beginning. I’ve worked with Matt for years,” Detective Cocuzzi said, though he did not sound firm in his stance.
“If you’re a fair man, and I bring you information that leads to the capture of Johnny the Blade, then wouldn’t it only be fair to give me an exclusive?” Michael said. While he spoke, he logged onto the newspaper’s database. He entered a password when prompted to do so. “Well?”
“How about, we’ll see?”
“My parents used to say that, detective. You know what ‘we’ll see’ meant
to me as a kid? It meant ‘no’. Are you giving me a political ‘no’?” Michael asked. The database opened up. Michael typed: Bovenzi, Marcus. He hit the ‘enter’ key and waited.
“You bring me information that leads to the capture of the serial killer, Mr. Buzzelli, and I will give you an exclusive. You have my word.”
“That’s what I like to hear, because I get the feeling that after I solve this case, you and I will be working together on future assignments.” Michael watched as an empty rectangle appeared on the monitor. Slowly the bar began to fill in with blue and white stripes. The system times how long it will take to complete a search through the electronic archives for documents containing the words Marcus and/or Bovenzi.
“Well, if anything, I wish you luck, Mr. Buzzelli.”
Michael hung up. He smiled when he read that one hundred and thirteen articles had been retrieved. He did not need to be to work at the diner for another few hours. Michael leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and massaged his temples with his fingertips. He stretched and yawned before settling down to work.
He opened the first document and started reading.
Chapter 39
Michael pulled into the back parking lot at Jack’s Joint. Sandy and Felicia stood by the Dumpster smoking cigarettes. They both had on an angry face and both seemed to be talking at the same time. Neither paid much attention to Michael as he parked alongside Murphy’s car. When he shut the engine and stepped out of his car, he was immediately assaulted by a harsh and bitter wind. Zipping up his coat, Michael walked toward the women—instead of toward the refuge of the diner.
They were almost arguing, Michael noted as he rounded the rear of his car. “What’s going on?”
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