Opening Day: A Matt Davis Mystery

by Perrone Jr. , Joe

  Fifteen minutes later, I drop the father and his daughter off at their car. The little girl is sucking away on her lollipop, and waves goodbye. Smiling, I wave back, before entering the door to the office. Nancy is waiting for me. “Well? What do you think?” she asks.

  “I think I need to call the State Police right away, and have them get a CSI unit up there as quick as possible.”

  “I’ll get them on the phone,” says Nancy.

  Chapter 32

  Rhonda, some time the previous fall – day eleven

  Rhonda tiptoes out of her room, stopping by Glenda’s bedroom door to peek inside. The older woman is fast asleep, snoring softly, and probably lost in a fantastic dream involving multiple men. The girl smiles to herself. No point in waking her up, she thinks. She’d only be upset.

  Rhonda has accumulated over a hundred dollars since she first started washing dishes at the diner, over a week ago. The thought that Howie might find her is making her a nervous wreck, and she has decided she can’t wait another minute longer to leave. If she hitchhikes to New York City, she will still have more than enough money to buy a bus ticket to North Carolina.

  The clock on the microwave reads “six-fifteen,” as she quietly rummages among the several, nearly empty cellophane bags in the breadbasket, looking for two decent slices with which to make a sandwich. She finds a matching pair, and quickly smears one piece with peanut butter, the other with grape jelly. A quick look in the fruit crisper yields a marginally acceptable apple, which she drops into the paper bag that already contains the sandwich. She places the bag carefully in a corner of the cardboard suitcase she packed last night, and closes the lid. There, that’s it.

  Rhonda scribbles a thank you note on a piece of paper. It reads, “Dear Glenda, Thanks for everything. You are the greatest friend a girl could have. I didn’t want to wake you up, so I just left. I’m going to North Carolina. I’ll call you when I get there.” She signs it, “Love ya, Rhonda.” Scotch taping it to the refrigerator door where Glenda is sure to find it, she takes one last look around, picks up her suitcase, and heads out the door. It’s snowing lightly.

  “Shit!” cries Rhonda, as she slips and slides down the street, hurrying as fast as she can, without killing herself. She wants to reach Route 17, before it gets light, so she can start hitchhiking in the dark, before she’s spotted by someone she knows.

  Twenty minutes later, she arrives at the on-ramp to the highway, and immediately starts walking backwards down the road, with her suitcase in her left hand. Her right arm is fully extended into the roadway, and her hand is clenched in the classic hitchhiker’s position, with the thumb pointing in the direction of her travel. She is shivering, and her teeth are starting to chatter from the cold. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, after all, she thinks.

  Just then, a battered VW Microbus slows, passes her, and then stops at the side of the highway, about two hundred feet beyond her. Turning quickly, Rhonda hurries toward the car. But, just as she is about to reach for the passenger side door handle, the engine revs, and the van begins to move slowly away. As she watches the receding vehicle, a hand comes out of the driver’s side window, with the middle finger extended. “Ah, screw you, too!” shouts Rhonda. “I hope you’re freezin’ your ass off someday, and some asshole pulls that shit on you. Jerk!”

  She pulls the collar of her coat up around her neck, lowers her head, and starts marching straight ahead, her back to the traffic. To hell with walking backwards, she thinks. If someone sees a girl walking down the highway in the snow, with a suitcase, they ought to be able to figure out what she’s doing. At least the flurry of activity has temporarily stopped her from shivering. As she continues to walk briskly down the highway, the flow of blood to her extremities increases, providing her body with some measure of warmth. It’s small comfort in her hour of desperation. Hey! The snow has stopped. Things are looking up.

  The traffic is sparse, and as time passes, Rhonda is becoming less and less convinced that she will reach her destination. Several times, she considers turning around, and returning to the warmth and relative safety of Glenda’s little home; but each time she does, she envisions Howie, and is reminded of the possible consequences she might face for her violent, but necessary act. Better to keep going, she rationalizes. If she can just get to Roscoe, she can kill some time at the diner; grab a cup of coffee; get herself warm. Yeah, just get to Roscoe. Then, she can worry about getting to New York City. One-step, at a time.

  Bryce Wilson is tapping on the dashboard of his Jetta with the fingers of his right hand, in time to the beat of a song from the Pearl Jam CD, “Yield” that he “borrowed” permanently from the radio station. It’s early in the morning, and he’s taking the safe route back home from Binghamton, where he spent last night balling a seventeen-year old high school Junior who fell for his Don Imus bullshit line. He knows he took a chance, but what the hell, he thinks, who’s to know? The chick’s parents threw her out a month ago, and she’s living in a trailer with two other high school dropouts who work in the music section of the local Wal-Mart. The three of them had flipped when he told them he was a disc jockey (even though they had never heard of him). After a little prompting on his part, they had eventually invited him back to their trailer, where they shared a pizza and some Mike’s Hard Lemonade. What happened afterward was just a normal progression of events.

  Tonight is a work night, but he doesn’t go on the air until ten. No hurry. As Bryce cruises along Route 17, the gentle banging in the back of his brain is a not-so-subtle reminder that he had drunk way more of the cheap high-octane liquor than he should have. But, it was worth it, he thinks. Listening to the lyrics of “Given to Fly,” about a man held back in life who manages to overcome the obstacles that keep him from being happy, he can’t help but notice the similarities to his own miserable life. The song was a hit in 1998, when Eddie Vedder and Pearl Jam were really big. Once the man in the song overcomes his hurdles, he spends his life trying to help others conquer their own depressions. On second thought, Bryce decides maybe it’s not about him after all; but it’s still a good song.

  The snow seems to have stopped, but the road remains slippery, and Bryce keeps the speed of the Jetta at around forty-five. In the distance, he sees the silhouette of someone walking along the shoulder of the road. Hmmmm, what do we have here? As he draws near, he sees that it’s a girl, and she’s carrying a suitcase. Bryce feels a tightening in his crotch. He takes his foot off the gas pedal, causing the Jetta to slow slightly. He knows he shouldn’t, but, what the heck, why not? He gently taps the brakes and downshifts into fourth gear, then into third, and finally into second, slowing to a crawl as he pulls alongside the figure marching, robot-like along the shoulder of the highway.

  He pushes a button on the console, causing the passenger side window to slide down. “Need a lift?” he calls out through the open window. The girl continues to walk, calling over her shoulder, “No, I just like walking in the snow at seven in the morning.”

  “Well, do want a ride or not?”

  She stops, and turns to face the car. Bryce studies her face. She’s cute, he thinks. “Of course I want a ride,” she says. “Whatta ya think?”

  “So, how’s about you throw that suitcase in the back, and climb in the front seat? I don’t have all day.”

  “Oh, a real comedian,” says Rhonda. “Like, where are ya headed, to the beach?” She opens the back door, and tosses the cardboard suitcase on the floor. “I’m Rhonda,” she says, plopping down in the narrow bucket seat, and pulling the door closed. “Who are you?”

  “I guess you didn’t notice my license plate,” says Bryce.

  “Guess not,”

  “It says B, R, C, at (he makes an ‘@’ sign in the air with his finger), N, I, T, E.”

  “So?”

  “Bryce at Night?” he says. “On the radio?”

  “Sorry,” says Rhonda. “I don’t get it. What’s Bryce at Night?”

  “Not what, who. It’s
me!” says Bryce. “I’m Bryce at Night. It’s the name of my show. I’m a DJ.”

  “Oh,” replies Rhonda. Then, suddenly impressed, she says, “Oh! Really? Are you really a DJ?”

  “Yep. Got my own show on WLUV, over in Walton.”

  “Co-o-o-o-l,” replies Rhonda. “But, like, how come I never heard of you? Oh, I guess we don’t get that station in Binghamton. Sorry.”

  A stony silence invades the car.

  Then, sensing Bryce’s indignation, Rhonda adds, “But, I’m sure I’d listen to you…if I could,”

  Bryce smiles. “Hey, no problem. I’ve got plenty of listeners. And a fan club, too,” he adds. It’s a lie, of course, but he figures she’ll never know the difference.

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you.”

  “Same here.”

  Shifting the transmission into first gear, Bryce mashes down on the accelerator. The wheels slip at first, then grab, and the car moves onto the highway. “Hey! I forgot to ask; where’re you going?”

  “Roscoe.”

  “Okay then, next stop, Roscoe!”

  “What-ever,” mutters Rhonda.

  Five minutes later, they’re both singing along in unison to another Pearl Jam song, as the Jetta rolls along the highway, leaving Binghamton far behind.

  Chapter 33

  Two black SUVs, bearing the letters “CSI” on their sides, pull onto the shoulder of the road behind my ancient Jeep. In order to preserve the possible crime scene, I’ve parked about a hundred yards behind the spot where the Johnson girl found the bracelet.

  Two men exit one of the vehicles; a man and a woman exit the other. Initially, they will do a walk through of the scene, the purpose being to note the location of any potential evidence, such as shoeprints, trace evidence, etc., and to outline mentally how the scene should be examined.

  “Chief Davis?” says the attractive female officer from the second car. She’s about thirty-five years of age, quite fit, and a bit taller than I am. “I’m Lieutenant Richardson—Brenda, actually,” she says with a smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Same here,” I say. “Look, Lieutenant, I don’t expect that you’ll find much here, but I guess it’s worth a look. Did Ms. Cooper tell you the story?”

  “She did. Said a little girl found a bracelet that might have belonged to your victim.”

  “Right,” I say. “If we’re lucky. Maybe it did; maybe it didn’t. I really don’t know. But, if it did, it’ll be the first decent piece of evidence we’ve gotten in this case. I’ve got the bracelet over at the lab. Should hear back on the DNA – if there is any – in a day or two.”

  “Well,” she says. “Let’s hope for the best. Case like yours, you need all the luck you can get.” She must be a mind reader.

  If any evidence is observed, markers will be placed at the location to warn others of its existence. Generally, investigators carry a pencil, pen, or flashlight in one hand, and another object, perhaps a small notebook in the other, or keep their hands in their pockets. This is to insure that unwanted fingerprints are not deposited at the scene.

  As they progress with their examination of the crime scene, all areas are observed, including those above, like tree branches, for any signs of disturbance. Once the walk through is completed, the scene is documented through photographs, videotape, or, in some cases, even through the use of sketches.

  I don’t expect them to find much, if anything, at all. However, for me to have not called in the CSI unit would have been negligent on my part.

  About twenty minutes later, Lieutenant Richardson calls my name.

  “Got a couple of footprints, Chief. Looks like a fairly large boot, maybe a hunting boot, or maybe a work boot. Also, some indications that the individual might have been dragging something or someone.”

  “That’s interesting,” I say. “Any signs of clothing?”

  “Not yet. But, it shouldn’t be too hard to pin down the boot. Once we get the photographs back to our lab, we’ll check them against our database and probably come up with a match.”

  “At least it’ll be some place to start,” I say. “Haven’t had much at all to go on—nothing, really.”

  “Give us time. If there’s anything worthwhile here, we’ll find it.”

  “Okay. Well, I’ll just wait for you guys to finish up.”

  The news about the boots is encouraging. Maybe the bracelet will come back positive, too. I start thinking of ways to best use what little information I’m garnering. The bracelet is a no-brainer. If there’s DNA on it that matches that of the victim, I can circulate a photograph of it throughout the area and on the Internet to police units throughout the state. Maybe someone will recognize it and come forward to identify the victim. It’s a long shot, but it gives me hope that maybe, just maybe, we’re finally getting somewhere.

  The boot is a bit more complicated. Assuming that we can identify the manufacturer and the exact size, we’ll have to start canvassing the various stores in the area, to find out which ones carry that brand. Then, hopefully with the aid of sales records (as much as I hate to admit it, this is where computers really shine), perhaps we can find those individuals in our area who might have purchased them. Another long shot.

  Two hours later, the CSI unit is finishing up its investigation. Lieutenant Richardson motions for me to join her at one of the black vehicles.

  “Well, I wish I had more to report,” she says, “but, the truth of the matter is that all we found was what I showed you earlier. Big boot prints and some drag marks. The prints ended at the creek, where he probably dumped the body; then, back to the road. It looks as though he started out carrying it, judging by the depth of the earlier boot prints. Then, probably got tired, and started dragging it.”

  “So, no clothing then, huh?”

  “Nope. Not a stitch. You’re lucky the little girl found the bracelet. My guess, he probably didn’t notice it, or he would’ve picked it up. They always forget something. Who knows; maybe it’ll help you catch him.”

  “Yeah,” I reply. “Thank goodness for four-year-old girls.”

  “Well, I guess that’s it,” says Richardson. “I’ll copy you with a report, soon as we’re done.”

  “Right.”

  “Oh, and the minute we get a positive ID on those boots, I’ll have someone give you a call.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’d really appreciate that. Between the boots and the bracelet, I ought to be pretty busy for a while.”

  “I imagine so.”

  The Lieutenant and I say our goodbyes, and I’m on my way back to the office to share the good news with Bob, Rick—, and Nancy, of course.

  Several days later, the DNA results confirm what I already suspect. The bracelet belonged to our victim. Now what? I can visualize the poster: “Have you seen this bracelet? Last seen lying on the ground by Bear Spring Mountain Road. Please be advised that the bracelet is armed and dangerous!” I don’t think so!

  I decide that the best thing I can do is to find out where the bracelet came from in the first place, and then maybe who bought it—or ordered it, or whatever you do with one of those kinds of bracelets. I sit down at my computer, and type in “Gulf War bracelets” into the Google window, and press “Enter.” Instantly, I am rewarded with a list of “hits.” I scroll down the screen until I find one that reads, “Memorial Bracelets/ Victims of Terrorism and Military Killed in…” A few more clicks, and I’m taken to a site that advertises various kinds of memorial jewelry, including a bracelet that is an exact replica of the one found by the Wallace girl.

  The site, www.MemorialJewelryandMomentos.com, does not show a phone number or even an address – typical for Internet businesses these days – so, rather than clicking on the "Contact Us” button, sending a message, and waiting for a reply, I decide to do an online search for the registrant’s information. There is a wonderful tool called Whosis Search that will yield virtually every piece of information one could want about a website. I type in MemorialJewe
lryandMomentos.com, and hit “search.” In less time than it takes to type in the URL, I am rewarded with the name, physical address, phone number and Email address of the owners of the site.

  It turns out that the site is registered to a Franklin M. Shields, in Wood Hall, Arizona, who registered the site on September 25, 2001. Apparently, Franklin saw the handwriting on the wall after 9/11, and decided to get the jump on the competition. I print out the page containing the search information, pick up the phone, and punch in the number listed for the site.

  “Franklin Shields,” says a warm, upbeat voice on the other end of the line. “How may I help you?” This is a man used to dealing with the public.

  I quickly explain my dilemma, and ask if he can provide the name of the individual who purchased the bracelet. To my surprise, he says he can only provide the information if ordered to do so by subpoena.

  “Look, Mr. Shields,” I say, “I can understand your reluctance to reveal this type of information, but we’re running a homicide investigation here. Time is of the essence. We’ve already got one dead girl, and there could be—”

  “No subpoena, no information,” says the suddenly ice-cold voice on the phone. “I’m sorry, but that’s all I’ve got to say.”

  “But, Mr. Shields—”

  “Have a nice day.” And, with that, he hangs up. It’s a good thing he’s in Arizona, I think. Whoever said “It takes all kinds to make a world,” certainly had Franklin Shields in mind.

  “Shit,” I say through clenched teeth. I really need that information. But, it’s impossible to subpoena a business in a different state, unless the crime in question is a federal one, which unfortunately, murder is not.

  “Nancy! Get me Bill Bauer on the line!”