Opening Day: A Matt Davis Mystery

by Perrone Jr. , Joe

  As we chow down on the macaroni casserole, I study Val closely, from across the table. She’s approaching forty-eight, yet little of the girlish glow that first attracted me to her is gone. Her hair remains mostly blond, and what streaks of gray there might be, have been replaced by “blond” highlights just slightly lighter in tone. Her body is great. Thanks to a religious dedication to aerobics, her figure still turns heads, and I often find myself staring at her firm behind, just like all the other men she attracts.

  As for me, well, regular hours have given me back my life, and allowed me time to regain a bit of my old form. Although I’ll never be calendar material, I have managed to tighten things up a bit, owing to more frequent workouts on the treadmill and occasional sessions with the weights.

  “So how’s the case going?” asks Val.

  “It’s not,” I reply, between a mouthful of baked macaroni and a swallow of red wine. “We’re still stuck at square one.”

  “No luck at all?”

  “Not really. We haven’t found anything that even resembles identification. No clothing, no wallet or purse, nothing. Doc thinks it’s probably a female, but that’s about all we’ve got right now. We’ll probably know more later in the week, when we get the DNA results back from the lab.”

  Val picks at the fresh garden salad she’s prepared, pausing to wipe an errant drop of dressing from the corner of her mouth. “Well, I’m sure you’ll find something,” she says, then adds, “You must have some idea what happened.”

  “Well, I thought I did—at least I did when we first found the body. I figured it was probably a hunter who was tracking a deer last fall. You know, maybe he fell, hit his head, drowned—something like that. But, if that had been the case, there would have been clothing and a gun. But, there’s nothing at all.”

  “Well, you know the body had to come from somewhere.”

  “We’re going to start checking missing persons tomorrow. I’ve got Bobcat talking to State, to see if they’ve got any cold cases that they’re working on in the area. But, right now, there’s very little to go on.”

  “Well, I’ve got faith in you, Matt. If anybody can figure it out, I’m sure it’ll be you—or my name’s not ‘Mrs. Matt Davis, Chief of Police, Roscoe, New York.’ No sir-ee.”

  “Oh screw you, Mrs. Davis,” I say, with a smirk.

  “With pleasure, Mr. Davis,” replies Val, leaning across the table and staring hard into my eyes.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Last one in the bed does the dishes!” I shout, throwing my napkin on the table.

  Simultaneously, we rise from the table, push back our chairs, and race for the stairway, charging up the stairs, and banging into one another like giggling teenagers. This is getting to be fun.

  Later, as we sit quietly beside one another in bed, Val reads a book, and I pretend to do likewise, but my mind is elsewhere, filled with thoughts of bones—and murder. How in the hell does a body wind up miles from nowhere, in a stream no less? And, better yet, with no clothes, no identification, nothing that even gives the slightest clue as to its origin?

  “Good book, huh?”

  I turn and look into Val’s baby blues, staring intently back at me.

  “That obvious, huh?”

  “Well…duh…I guess so—especially since your eyes were closed.”

  We both laugh.

  “And I thought this was going to be a nice way to pass the time until social security,” I laugh. “Boy was I wrong.”

  “Oh, honey, don’t be so hard on yourself. Besides, it’s only been a couple of days. You’ll figure it out. I have absolute faith in you.”

  “Well, I’m glad you do. I’m not so sure. I’ve never run into anything quite like this before. Usually it’s drug dealers killing other drug dealers or a jealous husband knocking off his wife—you know; stuff that makes sense. At least back in the city I had snitches and addicts—even hookers—that I could use to turn up a suspect. And, of course, there was Chris. But this…hell…I don’t even know where to start.”

  “Well, now’s not the time. Read your book…or, better yet—“

  “Oh no you don’t,” I giggle. “What’re you trying to do, kill me?”

  “Yeah,” says Val, “I can see the newspapers now: ‘Woman Kills Husband—In Bed!’”

  “Yeah, but what a way to go. Okay, I give up. Kill me!”

  We turn out our lights in unison, and start making headlines.

  Chapter 9

  Three days have passed, and we haven’t found a thing. There are a dozen or so persons listed as missing, but no locals, and nothing recent. Most likely, this is going to turn out to be a “cold case,” just like on television. The DNA report shows that the deceased was definitely a female, but with nothing to match it to, the DNA by itself is virtually useless. What I need, in poker parlance, is some direction. Back when I was still “on the job,” there were literally dozens of other cops to consult with, each with his or her own opinion of where to go with a case, but it’s not so, here in Roscoe. Do I ever wish I were still “NYPD?” Not a chance! Do I miss working with Valdez and Freitag? You bet! But, we talk on the phone once in a while, and that’s enough to keep the three of us connected. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know which of us is in a better place. Sure, I had some doubts about leaving, but once I made the decision, it turned out to be a no-brainer.

  The office door opens. It’s Bob, my other officer. He’s nearing middle age, has a bit of a gut, intelligent, steel-blue eyes, and answers to Bobcat, which doesn’t suit him at all. To me, he looks more like an alley cat, one that’s a bit scruffy and in need of affection. But, his looks are deceiving (he’s just under six-feet, and has a shock of thick, straight hair that is prematurely white), and I’ve found him to be quite reliable and fairly independent.

  “So?” he says.

  “What?”

  “Anything?”

  “Not really.”

  Bobcat is a man of few words and somewhat of an enigma. He came to police work via the backdoor of nepotism, when his brother-in-law, one of the members of the City Council, recommended him for the job. His predecessor, Bud Campbell, had quit after a squabble over some misplaced overtime hours, and since Bobcat was unemployed at the time, well, it only seemed logical. It didn’t hurt any that he had studied Political Science at the SUNY campus in Oneonta, and minored in law enforcement (the former accounting for his unemployed status and the latter minimally qualifying him for the job).

  “Well, I say screw it,” he announces to no one in particular.

  “And that would be why?”

  “Nobody’s beatin’ down our door to find this guy, so I say—”

  “It’s a girl,” I inform him.

  “Guy, girl, what difference does it make?”

  “It would, if it was your daughter.”

  Bobcat takes a deep breath and sighs. His only child is a girl, and she left home when she turned eighteen; it’s a subject that still ruffles his feathers.

  “Okay, okay, I get it.” he says. “So what do we do now?”

  “Well, funny you should ask. I was thinking we—or, actually you—could start by calling every local police department within a fifty-mile radius. See if there’s anybody missing that we don’t have a report on.”

  “You mean like kid or somebody that they don’t want to report—officially?”

  “You got it. Maybe a runaway; wife, girlfriend, step kid—somebody like that.”

  “It’s a start, I guess,” shrugs Bobcat. “I’ll get on it right away—as soon as I have my coffee.”

  I nod in the affirmative. “And, while you’re at it—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. One hot chocolate, coming up, your highness.”

  It’s an hour later, and in strides Dwight “Red” Buckner, the former Chief of Police. For some reason, every time he comes into my office, I feel compelled to rise and stand at attention, a detail that does not go unnoticed by him.

>   “At ease, Chief,” he cackles. “Short arm inspection in twenty minutes.”

  My face turns red, and as usual, I’m at a loss for words.

  “Aw, come on, Chief. Relax. I’m only funnin’ ya.”

  Red’s a big man, nearly six-feet-five, long and lanky, and a bit intimidating. I do as I’m told, and quickly sit down, then lean back in my chair, in what is probably a subconscious assertion of my authority. It doesn’t work. I still feel nervous; some individuals—like Red—just have that effect on people.

  “So, you found a body, huh?” he asks.

  “More like a collection of bones,” I say.

  “Any ideas?”

  “Not really. I’ve got Bobcat calling towns around the area, looking for strays.”

  “Well, it sure ain’t nobody that anybody cares about, I guess,” says Red. His use of the English language leaves a bit to be desired. It’s probably what made him so effective, I think—like camouflage.

  “Nobody local, anyway,” I reply. I wish he would leave.

  It’s been over a year since Red retired, but at least three times a week, he marches into the office just as if he were still Chief. After nearly forty years on the job, he hasn’t quite come to grips with the reality of his status as ex-cop. And, why should he? He still drives a police cruiser, a gift (well, okay, it cost him a hundred bucks) from his cronies on the Council. Most days, he can be seen driving slowly around the back roads of Roscoe, a big whip antennae and spotlight marking his car as “official,” just like it was when he ran the department. Most folks don’t seem to mind, but there are a few who consider his behavior a bit peculiar. I’m one of them.

  “Well, Chief,” says Red, a second cup of coffee and an hour later, “I guess I better hit the road. Still got a lot of patrolling to do.”

  “Okay, Red. I’ll let you know if we come up with anything.”

  “You bet, Chief. Catch ya later.”

  I glance up at the clock on the wall and see that it’s almost noon. I haven’t gotten nearly enough accomplished. Mostly small talk and hyperbole. With Red around, I feel as if I’m on probation; I know it’s silly, but I’m never quite relaxed. I guess it’s only natural, but still I’m much relieved as the door closes behind the former law enforcement officer, and once more, I have my office to myself.

  In a few moments, I hear Red fire up the big V-8 engine of the old cruiser. Almost simultaneously, he shifts the transmission into gear, tromps on the accelerator, and pulls out of the parking lot, rear tires throwing gravel in every direction. Just like in the movies.

  I stand up, stretch my arms in the air, and walk over to the bulletin board at the rear of my office. Several dozen missing person bulletins dot the cork surface, and I stare at each one, hoping that if I concentrate hard enough, there’ll be a sign—some bit of information—that maybe this is the one I’m looking for. It’s no use; they all look alike.

  Chapter 10

  Olivia, the previous year – day one

  The Union Bus Terminal in downtown Elmira is a flurry of activity, even on a weekday morning. It’s exceptionally cold for October, and Olivia shivers beneath her goose down jacket. Global warming, my ass, she thinks.

  It was a ten-block walk from the apartment to the bus station on East Church Street, and all along the way, she kept a fierce lookout for anyone she might have known. Thankfully, she feels confident that no one has spotted her. If she can just make it onto the bus that will take her to nearby Binghamton, she should be safe.

  She purchases a ticket, and ten minutes later, boards the Greyhound bus, finding a seat in the back, away from any prying eyes. Once outside the city limits, the big bus rumbles along the highway, eastward toward Binghamton, and Olivia settles into the corner, feeling the thrumming vibrations of the big diesel engine propelling her toward her destiny. She can barely contain her excitement. She wants to shout at the top of her lung, “Yes! I’m out of here!” She settles for a smile.

  It’s not a far ride from Elmira to Binghamton, and in less than an hour and a half, Olivia feels the bus slow, and hears the familiar hiss of the air brakes, as it pulls to a stop at the rundown station on Front Street. She gathers up her things, and rushes forward up the aisle, nearly doing a somersault down the steps to the curb. Some fashion model I’ll make, she thinks.

  By now, it’s nearly eleven AM, and the bagel and coffee she had for breakfast have long since been digested. She’s hungry and thirsty, and needs to find a bathroom. Luckily, she’s midway between periods, so at least she won’t have to contend with that nuisance for a while. As soon as she gets settled in the city, she plans to find a clinic where she can get a prescription for birth control pills. She is living proof that even remote Elmira was not spared the effects of the women’s movement.

  The ladies room is a disaster, but she manages to find a stall that’s acceptable and uses it. Once she’s back outside, the air feels crisp, and the sky is clear. What a great day to start her new life. For a brief moment, she is almost overcome by a sense of guilt at leaving her mother and younger brother. But, the feeling quickly passes as she rationalizes that hers will be one less mouth for her mother to feed—and one less body to clothe. Besides, a girl is entitled to follow her dream; it’s her life, after all.

  There’s a 7-Eleven about a block away from the terminal, and she covers the short distance in only a couple of minutes.

  “Can I have a large Mountain Dew?” she asks the clerk.

  “One dollar,” replies the dark-skinned man behind the counter. He’s obviously an Indian or Pakistani immigrant.

  Get used to it, girl, she thinks. Olivia knows that the city will be crawling with immigrants. It isn’t that she has anything against people from other countries; she’s just more comfortable with “her own kind,” as her mother refers to their friends and relatives.

  Oblivious to Olivia’s thoughts, the clerk smiles at her, as he hands her the drink.

  “Lids and straws are over there,” he says in a singsong cadence. “Are you going to the city?”

  The question catches the girl off guard.

  “Yeah,” she blurts out. Then, remembering that she’s still not that far from home and needs to be careful, she adds, “Well…not really. Actually, I’m going to visit a friend who’s in the hospital. Do you know how to get to Riverside Medical?”

  As the man gives Olivia detailed directions to the local hospital, she feigns attention, all the time hoping that if he is questioned, he will only remember the hospital and not her.

  It’s an hour and forty-five minutes later, and Olivia has already covered nearly five miles. At first, it was fun, walking along, feeling the sun on her face; occasionally spinning around to face an approaching vehicle or two, with her thumb outstretched, beckoning for a ride. But now, she’s tired of walking. Traffic on Route 17 Eastbound is sparse, and she’s begun to think she’ll never get a ride. She trudges along sullenly, her head down, her shoulders slumping under the increasing burden of her heavy knapsack.

  Suddenly, she’s startled by a whoosh of warm air and the loud hiss of a tractor-trailer’s air brakes, as the eighteen-wheeler pulls to a stop just slightly ahead of her. Somewhat hesitantly, she approaches the bright red cab with a decal of a smiling devil on its door, and stands there looking up at the tinted glass window. After fifteen seconds have passed with no sign of activity, she turns away and starts walking again. Screw you, asshole, she thinks.

  “Hey! Don’t ya want a ride?”

  Olivia spins around and sees that the window to the cab is rolled down. There’s a craggy, bearded face beneath a red ball cap, smiling out at her from the confines of the elevated compartment.

  “Well, do ya want a ride or don’t ya?”

  She starts for the truck.

  “Yeah, sure,” she says. “I just thought you were bustin’ my chops.”

  She jumps up on the running board of the cab, grabbing a hold of the bright chrome assist bar to the left of the door, to help keep her balance.
The door above opens, and strong, masculine hand extending from an arm encased in a plaid, flannel sleeve reaches toward her, its fingers flexed invitingly. Without a second’s thought, Olivia reaches her right hand upward and accepts the invitation. In an instant, she is lifted through the air like a feather, as the stranger grasps her tiny hand and pulls her up into the cab and onto a tattered leather seat, all in one motion.

  “Hey, little lady. Welcome aboard!”

  Olivia turns toward the driver and smiles. “Yeah, thanks,” she replies, breathlessly, “I didn’t really think you were gonna give me a ride.”

  “Sorry ‘bout that,” says the driver. “It just takes a while for me to slide across and open the window.”

  For a second, Olivia doesn’t quite understand.

  “It’s my leg,” says the driver. “Operation Desert Shield.”

  Only then does Olivia notice the abbreviated, knob-like appendage peeking out from the right leg of a pair of denim shorts, its end a tip of calloused skin.

  “Oh,” she says, somewhat embarrassed, “I…uh—

  “It’s okay,” says the driver. “I just use my hands. See?” He points to an elaborate set of controls affixed to the steering column of the truck. “Took a while to get used to it, but now it’s just like nothin’s changed.”

  Olivia not sure whether he means the hand controls or his “leg,” and mumbles “Yeah, sure,” in response.

  “At least the left one works,” he jokes. “Couldn’t work the clutch without it. Wanna see my right one?”

  Olivia flashes him a puzzled look.

  The driver reaches under the seat and withdraws a shiny, stainless steel prosthesis. “See? Got a shoe on it and everything.”

  “Neat,” she replies. What else can she say?

  “So, where’re ya headed?” asks the driver.

  Olivia can’t help smiling. “Where do ya think?”

  “Oh, wait. Let me guess. Um…The Big City?”