Opening Day: A Matt Davis Mystery

by Perrone Jr. , Joe

  I wind the slack line onto the spool, moving closer and closer to the tree. When I am within about eight feet, or the length of the leader, I stop and peer into the water. I can just make out the silhouette of the fish. It’s huge. My best estimate is twenty-two inches—or more. I’ve never caught a fish this large, and I can feel my heart beating wildly within my chest. What to do? There’s nothing I can do. If I put too much pressure on the leader, it will snap. There’s only one possibility of landing this fish. If I back slowly away, feeding line onto the water’s surface, creating slack, and if I’m lucky, the fish will feel that it is free, and swim out into open water again. Sometimes, it actually works, but, not this time. This fish didn’t get as big as it is by being stupid. I can just see it, suspended in the current, its fins moving economically, just enough to hold its position. Large red and black spots dot its silver sides, tinged ever so slightly with a yellow caste above its white underside. It’s a magnificent trout, the kind I’ve dreamed of catching.

  “Matt,” calls Val. “What’s happening?”

  “It’s got me wrapped around a root,” I say, my voice a whisper. “Nothing I can do.”

  “How big?”

  With one hand holding the rod, I move the other hand away from it to a spot approximating twenty-two inches.

  “Wow!” exclaims Val. “You’ve never caught anything that big before.”

  “And I don’t think I’m going to, today, either.”

  “But, why can’t you—”

  “What; pull it out? No way, José. The leader will break.”

  “Well, can I get a picture?”

  “Not unless you’ve got a snorkel and a mask. I’m breaking the leader.”

  “But, Matt—”

  “I’ll get him next time. Besides, I’m getting hungry.”

  Using a pair of nippers, I cut the leader. Instantly, the huge trout disappears from view, probably headed for the very spot where it was first hooked. I smile, and slowly reel all the line onto the spool.

  Val gives me a look that says “sorry,” and puts the camera into her wader pocket. Then, she pulls the camera back out, snaps my picture, and exclaims, “There. Got it!”

  “Got what?”

  “The best picture of the day. My hero—victorious—even in defeat.”

  “Get a picture of this,” I say, extending the middle finger of my free hand. “Or doesn’t your camera take dirty pictures?”

  But, Val has already turned away, and is slowly heading back upstream. I unfasten my wading staff from the back of my vest, and sticking it into the water, start off after her. Ten minutes later, we’re back at the Jeep. An hour after that, we’ve eaten lunch, and satisfied our other hunger. The trout is a distant memory, a challenge for another day.

  Chapter 31

  In many instances, murders are committed by family members, or individuals who know the victims. When such is not the case, solving the crime becomes exponentially more difficult with each passing day. The Cathy’s Creek Case falls into the latter category. With no tangible leads to follow, we have no choice but to explore every possibility, no matter how inane or unreasonable it might seem.

  Sitting at my desk, I mentally explore the meager evidence that we do have. We know that the murder was probably committed in the late fall or very early winter. We have a note, probably written by an older female, hinting that the murder is not necessarily the only one of its kind. We know that whomever the victim is, she is not someone who is being actively sought after, at least as far as we can tell. Lastly, we know that the victim is a young, Caucasian woman, probably between the ages of twelve and twenty. That’s it in a nutshell. The sum total of our evidence. Not much to go on. It’s no wonder we’re still at square one, with no real direction in the investigation. The phone rings. Before I can answer it, Nancy does. After a few minutes’ pause, she sticks her head into my office.“Matt, it’s someone who wants to talk to you about that girl.”

  “Did they give a name?”

  “No. It’s a man, but he wouldn’t give his name. Just said he had something that might interest you.”

  Oh great. Another whacko coming out of the woodwork.

  “Okay,” I say, with a sigh. “I’ll take it right here.” I press the button beneath the blinking light on my phone, and pick up the handset. “Good morning, this is Chief Davis.”

  “Sir,” says the caller, “I hate to bother you, but I think I might have something that could be connected to that murder. You know…that girl?”

  “Yes,” I say, “that’s what Ms. Cooper told me. So, what do you have? And, what makes you think there’s a connection to the murder?”

  “Well,” says the voice on the other end of the line, “I don’t know for sure, but it’s something my daughter found. It’s not just what she found, but also where she found it that made me think I should call you.”

  “Would you mind giving me your name?”

  “Is that absolutely necessary?” he asks.

  “No,” I answer, “not really. But would you mind telling me what it is that you found?”

  “You mean my daughter.”

  Sometimes, I am absolutely amazed at just how literal some people can be. “Oh, right,” I reply. “It was your daughter. Well, then, would you mind telling me what she found?”

  “A bracelet.”

  My jaw drops. “How long ago did you find it—I mean, how long ago did she find it—this bracelet?”

  “I’m not sure. I guess it was about a month.”

  “A month! You mean to tell me that you’ve had this bracelet for a month, and you’re just now calling me about it?” I’m incredulous.

  “Oh no, no, you don’t understand. She’s had it about a month. I just found out about it this morning—at breakfast. I’m sorry,” he says, “I guess I didn’t make myself very clear.” The tone of his voice tells me that he’s sincere.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to jump down your throat. It’s just that…well…you know; it’s been a while, and, this could really be important, and—”

  “I think I understand,” says the man. “That’s why as soon as I found out about it, I decided to call. Anyway, when Jill showed it to me this morning—that’s my daughter’s name, Jill—right away, I asked her where she got it.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere. “And where might that have been?”

  “On Bear Spring Mountain Road—about a month or so ago. I had a flat, and she found it in the woods, while I was changing the tire.”

  One thing you learn when you’re in Homicide is never to interrupt a witness when he’s on a roll. I remain silent.

  “Chief?” he says.

  “I’m here.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “So, you were saying.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he replies. “So, anyway, this morning, she had this bracelet on, and I’d never seen it before. So, I asked her, ‘Where did you get the bracelet, Jill?’”

  “And?”

  “She said she found it.”

  “And that would be over on Bear Spring Mountain Road?”

  “Right.”

  “Do you remember exactly where it was—that you had the flat, I mean?”

  “Sure,” he replies. “But, it’s kind of hard to describe on the phone.”

  “Well, do you think you could show me?”

  “Oh sure. I remember we were riding along, just after church. We were headed for the diner…in Roscoe. We always go to breakfast together on Sundays, just Jill and me. It’s kind of our special time together—”

  “And you got a flat,” I say, “and you think you remember where you got it.”

  “I remember exactly where I got it.”

  Bingo! The magic words.

  “Well, that’s great,” I say. “So, when do you think you might be able to show me the place?”

  “How about today?” he replies. “I mean, if you’re not busy?”

  “No, not at all,” I answer. This is turning out bett
er than I could have hoped for. “Today would be fine. What time?”

  “Well, it’s my day off, so anytime would be okay. Actually, I work from home—on my computer. When I take a day off, I usually stick around the house. You know, doing chores and—”

  “How would right now be?”

  “Not a problem,” he replies. “Is it okay if I bring my daughter along? She’s only four, and we usually spend the day together. It gives the wife a chance to run her errands and get out of the house.”

  “By all means,” I reply. “Can you be at my office in…say…one hour?”

  “Well, I guess so. I mean—”

  “Good! I’ll see you then. Oh, and don’t forget to bring the bracelet.”

  “I won’t,” he replies. “See you in a little while.”

  Hanging up the receiver, I shout into the other room, “Nancy!”

  Instantly, my secretary’s face appears around the corner of my office wall. “Yes, Matt?” she says.

  “You’ll never guess what—”

  “I know,” says Nancy. “Isn’t it wonderful?” She’s grinning from ear to ear.

  “You were you listening, weren’t you?” But, I already know the answer.

  “Well…maybe just a little,” she blushes, confirming my suspicion. “I’m only human, you know.”

  “So, what do you think?”

  “I’m not sure,” says Nancy. “It sounds good, but—”

  “But, what?”

  “Oh, you know, Matt. Things like this always sound terrific, until you actually get to the bottom of whatever it is, and then it usually turns out to be nothing.”

  “Well, let’s hope it isn’t…nothing, I mean. Let’s hope it’s something really good.”

  “That would be nice,” says Nancy. “Just might keep old Harold off your back. Did I tell you our esteemed mayor dropped by again the other day?”

  “No. What’d he want?”

  “Your scalp,” says Nancy. “Well, okay, not really. But, he did seem a bit impatient. He wanted to know what was happening with the ‘girl thing.’”

  “And you told him what?”

  “What do you think?” says Nancy. “I told him you were working your fingers to the bone, trying to come up with something, and that I expected you to have a break in the case very soon.”

  “Oh great! And what did he say to that?”

  “He was thrilled,” says Nancy. “He practically floated out of the office.”

  “I bet.”

  “Well, he did,” she says. “He was actually whistling.”

  “Thanks for nothing.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  One hour later, on the dot, my star witness enters the office—along with her father.

  I look at the man standing before me. He is tall, probably six-one, or better, and I’m guessing around forty-years of age. He’s a bit old to have such a young daughter, but that seems to be the fashion these days. He’s dressed in typical “yuppie” garb: chinos, knitted golf shirt, Fossil belt, and tasseled loafers. He has a pleasant face that is somewhat tanned, with neatly trimmed brown hair that he wears parted, and brushed to one side. His eyes are brown (the girl must have gotten hers from the mother’s side), and he has a long, patrician nose. I’d guess his family roots probably go back to the British Isles.

  “Matt Davis,” I say, extending my right hand. He grasps it firmly, and gives it a shake. “Jim Wallace.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jim.” I was more right about the ancestry than I thought.

  “Look,” he says, “I want to apologize for not giving you my name right away. It’s just that—”

  “No need to explain,” I reply. “So, you must be Jill,” I say, crouching down to look the little girl right in the eye. She is a tiny thing, with blond ringlets and blue eyes. She’s wearing a pale blue-and-white, checked dress, with white knee socks, and black, patent leather shoes. She looks like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. I can’t help but smile.

  “Daddy says you’re going to take my bracelet,” she says.

  “Oh, no, no, sweetheart,” I say. “We’re only going to borrow it for a little while.” I look at the father for help. He laughs in amusement. I’m not laughing.

  “That’s right, honey,” he says. “It’s just for a little while.”

  “You did bring the bracelet with you, right?”

  Oh, yeah, sure,” he says. “Here.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls the bracelet out, which he has in a Ziploc bag, and hands it to me.

  It’s not at all what I had expected it to be. It’s a red, aluminum MIA bracelet from the Iraq War. Examining it more closely through the plastic, I see that it reads, “PFC Robert Townling, MIA 27 March 2003” on the first line. The second line reads, “204th Engineers Battalion, NY Army National Guard.” The third line reads, simply, “Operation Iraqi Freedom.”

  “What makes you think this has anything to do with the murder?”

  “Well, I know that all the teenage girls wore these things back during Vietnam,” he says. “And, I was just thinking that not much has changed except for different generation; different war. Maybe it belonged to her…you know…that girl.”

  “Could be,” I reply. “So, what do you say we take a little ride? How about it, Jill, would you like that?”

  The little girl nods her head up and down.

  “Good. Let’s get started. After you, Jim,” I say, motioning toward the front door. “We’ll take my vehicle.”

  As we head out, I shout back over my shoulder. “Nancy, we’ll be back in about an hour.”

  “I’ll be here,” she replies. “As always.”

  As we near the place where little Jill found the bracelet, Jim signals for me to slow down. “Right up ahead,” he says, pointing to a spot on the shoulder. We are about a quarter mile from where I found the body. Perhaps there is some merit to Jim’s hypothesis that the bracelet may be connected to the crime.

  Just as a precaution, I pull the patrol car about a hundred feet past the area that Jim has indicated. Although we combed the immediate crime scene thoroughly, we did not come nearly this far. Perhaps there is a footprint or some other form of evidence that might be of use. I will have a state CSI unit take a look as soon as possible.

  “So, this is where you changed your flat tire?”

  “Uh huh. I remember, because of that funny-looking tree over there.” He points across the road to an oak whose trunk bears a large, white scar, about ten feet off the ground, typical of a lightning strike.

  “And where exactly did your daughter find the bracelet?”

  “Right over here,” says Jim. “See that opening in the woods? It looks like an old road.”

  Of course, it is. I know it well. It’s one of the old logging roads that leads in to Cathy’s Creek. “How far in from the highway was she when she found it?”

  “Oh, not far. I’d say she wasn’t more than maybe seventy-five feet from the road. Is that where the body was found?” he asks.

  “No. But not too far from here,” I reply. “I can’t tell you specifically where, of course.” Jim looks at me in an inquisitive manner. “The investigation,” I add. “It’s still ongoing. If you catch my drift. Nothing personal.”

  “Oh, sure, sure. I understand. I don’t think I’d even want to see a place where a murder took place. And, certainly not with Jill along.”

  I stand there, feeling an evilness that seems to pervade what was once a pristine place. A cold shiver runs down my spine. I’m certain that there is a connection to this bracelet. There has to be.

  “So, is there anything else, Chief? I mean; do you need me anymore, or can I go?”

  “Well, I don’t want you walking home from here,” I quip. “But, yes, that should do it. And, of course, I will want to keep that bracelet—at least for a while. More than likely, it’s evidence of some sort.”

  The little girl begins to cry. “I want my bracelet back,” she cries. “It’s mine. I found it.”

&nb
sp; Jim squats down next to his daughter, and looks into her eyes. “Daddy will buy you another bracelet. Okay, sweetheart?”

  The little girl shakes her head and says, “No! I want my bracelet.”

  “I’m sorry, Jill,” says the father. “But it belongs to someone else. You wouldn’t want somebody to keep your bracelet, if they found it, now, would you? I promise, I’ll buy you a really pretty one; much prettier than that dirty old thing you found. Okay?”

  I really have to give the old man credit, I think. If it were me, I’d probably give the kid a little smack on the behind, and ignore her. Maybe that’s why I never had any kids.

  “Come on,” I say, “I’ll drive the two of you back to town. I really appreciate your coming forward with this. It just might be the break we’ve been looking for.”

  “Well,” says Jim, “I couldn’t very well not tell you about it.” It’s apparent to me that someone raised this guy with a conscience.

  “You did the right thing, Jim,” I say. “Oh, I almost forgot. We’ll need a sample of Jill’s DNA—just so there’s no confusion when we go to make an identification off the bracelet.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” he replies, looking over at his daughter. “I mean, she’s only a little girl. Is this really necessary?”

  I pull the man to the side, out of his daughter’s earshot. “Mr. Wallace, it’s absolutely necessary. But, don’t worry; it’s no big deal. In fact, you can do it yourself.”

  “I can?”

  “Sure,” I say. “I’ll just give you a kind of Q-tip, and all you have to do is swab the inside of her cheek. Make it a game or something. I’ll give her a lollipop when you’re finished. Okay?”

  Without waiting for an answer, I head for the patrol car to retrieve the swab kit, while Wallace explains the “little game” to his daughter. I chuckle to myself, smug in the realization that I haven’t lost my touch. Don’t forget the lollipop.