by Harker Moore
She could have sat in a stall, but she didn’t, as if the tears insisted they be at least semipublic. The few women from the early Sunday crew who’d drifted in and out had seen enough in her face not to ask questions. But one of them, probably Rhonda, the new copygirl on the make, had ratted her out to Garvey the minute he’d shown up to oversee Monday’s edition. Her editor, who practically lived at the paper, was a red-haired bear-giant of a man, and the last vision you’d expect to appear in the women’s rest room. But here he was, in the too, too solid flesh, staring down at her.
“What the fuck’s the matter?”
It wasn’t concern for her that had propelled him in here. Garvey had, as they said, a nose for the news. He sensed not some personal tragedy, but a story.
“I got a tip on a murder scene,” she answered him evenly enough. The tears dried up for the moment. “An address out in Brooklyn.”
“Our gay killer?” A heightened interest replaced the aggravation in his voice.
“I thought so. Sakura’s team was called out.”
“But it wasn’t our guy?”
Our guy. She felt the sour bubble of a smile. The way Garvey saw it the paper had a proprietary claim to this monster.
“Are you going to let me tell this?” She allowed her own irritation to show. She never played the vamp with Garvey. Let him see her with her eyes all puffy and red. She liked him, most of the time. He was a stand-up newsman who’d go to bat for his reporters.
“Sure,” he said.
“The address in Brooklyn turned out to be a church.”
His interest shot up a notch. He kept his mouth shut.
“They were already setting up barricades,” she said, “but I managed to sneak around, find an open door in the back.”
“You got inside?”
“Yeah.” She nodded. “The church was old … big. It was easy to hide in the pews.”
“What did you see?”
“A little girl.” She tried unsuccessfully to hide the crack in her voice. “A little girl hung up with wings above the Nativity scene by the altar.”
“Dead?”
She nodded again. A reprieve against speaking. “She was supposed to be an angel,” she explained, getting the words out.
“Shit. That’s sick.” His gaze drifted inward, setting up calculations. “So it wasn’t the same guy?” he said.
“There was another body. A priest.” She avoided an answer. “His head was bashed in. The cops figured he must have surprised the killer.”
“You talked to the cops?”
“No. They never knew I was there. I just stayed in the pews and listened.”
“Good girl, Zoe.” The calculation tallied up. “The gay killer thing is money in the bank, but a little girl, a priest … Christmas. It doesn’t get any bigger than that.” He had almost said better.
“It was the same guy.” She dropped the bombshell now. The good bomb. The bad would come soon enough.
“What?”
“It was the same guy,” she repeated. “Seems he puts wings on all the victims.” The tears welled again. She tilted her head back, containing them. “The cops are going nuts,” she said. “The gay thing was their only angle. The little girl shoots their profile all to hell.”
“Shit.” Garvey smiled. “Think what this will do for circulation. Now it’s not only the gays. Anybody could be a victim, just like Son of Sam. Nobody is safe in this town.”
A tear slipped down her face.
“Goddamn it, Zoe,” he reacted. “I thought you, of all people, understood what we do here. We personalize the news, unsterilize it.” The slate blue eyes fixed her, not cold, but unrelenting. “Isn’t it better to make this little girl’s death real to our readers than to leave her bloodless and faceless? I just wish you’d had a photographer.”
“I had my camera.” She had considered lying, but she was suddenly eager to tell him. “There are the pictures.” She pointed to the waste-basket that sat next to the sofa, where gray loops of film coiled amidst the wads of discarded tissue.
“You exposed the goddamn film?” he exploded.
“Yeah, Garvey, I destroyed it,” she said. “Why did you think I was crying?”
For many detectives on homicide, the required attendance at autopsies was the worst part of the job. For Sakura, it was the formal identifications. The sights and smells of the forensic procedure were always horrific, but the victim quickly became an abstraction—the corpse on the table shedding its secrets without further pain. Informing family members that a loved one had been murdered, waiting with them in the unforgiving spareness of the morgue elevator room, was much more immediate and real. With these strangers he intruded, a witness to unguarded emotion, to that first terrible change in lives that would never be the same.
Homicides involving children were the worst. Dominick Mancuso’s face leaked hope. Sakura, sitting next to him in the plastic chair, was unbearably aware of the effort that kept the man upright and composed.
A high sucking whine announced that the elevator had lifted from the basement. Mancuso flinched as if he’d been struck, but he rose without speaking and walked with the detective to the viewing window. Standing at his shoulder, Sakura could see the man’s haggard face reflected in the glass. The depth of the misery it contained seemed a measure of his own denial—the lie that the pain he dealt with every day never reached beyond his work.
The gurney with its small, sheet-draped body had risen into view. Dominick Mancuso stood hunched and silent. For a very long time, he stared at the doll-like face, studying it so carefully that Sakura allowed himself to wonder if there had been some mistake. But at last a sigh, like air abruptly stirring, rattled itself from out of Mancuso’s chest. Tears formed and fell, one and then another down his face.
“Te amo, Lucia.” He spoke to the girl behind the glass. “Dormi in pace, mio piccolo angelo.”
Sakura let Willie take the lead, while he followed, watching her arm hook around Dominick Mancuso’s shoulder as the man’s feet trod over the short broken walk, up the slightly uneven concrete steps to the door of his modest brownstone. It was a brownstone in a long string of brownstones that lined the street of the old neighborhood, a neighborhood like many others in Brooklyn that willed itself to stay alive.
Mr. Mancuso stepped up, opened the glass weather door, and fumbled inside his pocket. The nose of a key clicked a staccatoed beat against the brass plate as it sought an opening. Finally it made contact and Mancuso turned the key. For an instant he remained still. There was a kind of painful resolve in the steely way he held on to the door, fighting it seemed to maintain the last barrier against the horror forcing its way inside his home.
In the end he pushed open the heavy door already decorated with a Christmas wreath. Mrs. Mancuso was waiting, like a trapped bird beating against the bars of its cage. Her arms were frantic wings at her sides, her hands balling and unballing the fabric of her robe. Her wild dark eyes, hungry for hope, darted from her husband’s face to Willie’s to his.
“You have found my baby?” Her hands suddenly quit the fabric, leaving a network of wrinkles, bundles of thin capillaries in her dress.
“Sophia …”
She screamed, understanding what terrible message the three syllables of her name held, her body aflame with the misery of what her life was now destined to become. Yet her husband seemed not to want to comfort her, allowing her to feel what she must, completely, inexorably, so that she would never experience more pain than the pain of this moment, so that nothing again would ever hurt as much.
When the hellish fire inside her slowly extinguished itself, Sophia Mancuso seemed reduced to little more than ash. She spilled into her husband’s arms and he led her from the room, the muffled noise of their feet sounding against the hardwood floor. Then the soft thud of a door closing.
“It will take time,” Mr. Mancuso said softly when he returned. But it was a lie.
“We can come back later,” Sakura said.
The man shook his head. “Today is like tomorrow.” He braved the truth now. Time would heal nothing.
“Mr. Mancuso, we believe your daughter was targeted,” he said.
“I don’t understand.”
“The killer had been watching Lucia before he abducted her,” Willie explained. “He may have been following her for some time.”
“She would have said something. My Lucia was smart.”
Sakura nodded. “I don’t believe she knew she was being followed.”
“Or maybe she knew her abductor and did not feel threatened,” Willie added.
“Someone we know killed my baby?”
“That’s always a possibility in the murder of a child,” he said, “that it’s someone close to the family. But we believe Lucia’s killer was someone she had met recently.”
Mr. Mancuso’s silence willed him to go on. “This man would not have shown himself to your daughter in a way that would have frightened her,” he said, “or made her suspicious. He would appear friendly. Maybe someone who needed help. A handicapped person. Would Lucia help someone in trouble?”
Mancuso nodded. Then his face tightened, his expression hardened. “You know this person.” It wasn’t a question.
He waited. “There have been a series of murders. You may have heard about them.”
“Those gay men?”
“Yes.”
“But Lucia …”
“Was a beautiful little girl,” Willie spoke softly. “But there are reasons why we believe that the person who killed those men also killed Lucia.”
“What reasons?” Mancuso’s voice had become less controlled.
“The disposition of the bodies is similar,” he said.
“My Lucia was raped?” The words exploded darkly.
“No, Mr. Mancuso,” Willie answered him. “As far as we can tell there was no sexual assault on any of the victims.”
There was no way of avoiding it. Sakura removed a black-and-white photograph from a folder and handed the picture of Lucia Mancuso hanging over the crèche to her father. It was not a gruesome photograph, Lucia hovering over the scene of Bethlehem. Her face peaceful. The wings, full and bright, casting shadows that obscured the nudity.
Mancuso stared at the picture, trying, it seemed, to reconcile this holy tableau with the obscenity of his daughter’s murder. In the end his brain erred in favor of kindness, accepting the image’s orchestrated beauty, denying the darker truth.
“Angel …” His single word.
“The killer places wings on all his victims,” Sakura said quietly, taking the photo from Mancuso. “It’s important we learn everything we can about the weeks before Lucia disappeared.”
“Why is that so important?”
“Because we have to discover how and where the killer crossed paths with your daughter,” he said.
“Lucia’s life was the same every day.”
Sakura replaced the photograph in the folder. “But something changed, Mr. Mancuso.”
“I got sick, Papa.” Her voice was a light going on in a dark room.
“Celia.”
She was an older, fairer version of her sister, dressed in a long flannel gown, her feet bare. On the brink of adolescence, Celia Mancuso was beautiful.
“Hello, Celia.” Willie moved closer to the girl, who seemed thinner and paler than she should have been. She smiled. “I’m Dr. French. But everybody calls me Willie.”
“That’s a boy’s name.”
“Short for Wilhelmina.”
“Are you a real doctor?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve had a bad cold. That’s why Lucia went to the drugstore. To get me medicine.” Celia isolated the event that had brought Lucia to her fate, had shifted the Mancuso universe.
He walked over. “I’m Lieutenant Sakura, Celia. Do you feel well enough to answer some questions?”
“I’m being brave for Mama,” she said. Her skin was slightly mottled, but her large blue eyes told the truth. They were clear as glass.
Dominick Mancuso placed his hands on his daughter’s shoulders, gave her a kiss on the top of her head.
“Did you and Lucia often walk around the neighborhood?” he asked.
She stared, her eyes wary. “Yes, but not far. Mostly to school or the park. Usually never past the Fazios’ house.”
“Did you walk to the drugstore?”
“Sometimes.”
“When did you last go to the drugstore together?”
Celia closed her eyes. “Maybe last Tuesday or Wednesday.”
“Did you speak to anyone?”
“Of course. Miss Tessa.”
“Who is Miss Tessa?”
“She works behind the counter.”
“Did you speak to anyone else?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did you see anyone you didn’t know in the drugstore?”
“No.”
“What about outside the store?”
“Freddy Brinks came riding up on his bike.”
“Anyone else, Celia?”
She shook her head.
“Would Lucia talk to someone she didn’t know?” Sakura asked.
“Lucia would talk to anybody. She was always talking, kind of showing off.” She stopped, suddenly aware of how her words must sound. She looked down at her feet, ashamed.
“It’s all right, Celia,” Willie said.
But it wasn’t all right. It never would be. When Celia looked up, she was crying, unable to keep the brave promise she’d made for her mother. “I’m the one who got sick. Lucia’s dead because of me.”
Sakura stood in the kitchen, obviously the room that got the most traffic. Even here the walls were crowded with religious artifacts. The Mancusos were a good Catholic family.
On the counter near the phone was an envelope of photographs, an entire roll taken of Lucia in her Halloween costume. It was from this set of pictures that the officer filing the earlier missing-person report had taken an identification shot. One glossy color print after another showed the pretty eight-year-old dressed as a ladybug, in bright redand-black satin, fuzzy antennae bobbing atop her short, shiny black hair. Though it wasn’t the costume you really noticed, but the girl. She was clearly posing, smiling for the camera, shouting out for the whole world: Look at me. He ran his fingers over one of the prints. Is that what happened, Lucia? Is that what got you killed? Your fearless eight-year-old heart?
The photographer was good. He’d gotten it right. Somehow Sakura knew that these images were as close to truth as flesh. Except for one. There was something vaguely disturbing about this photograph, the naked curve of Lucia’s shoulder brought up under her chin, her full red lips bowed into a kiss. For all her playfulness and self-possession, this shot seemed coaxed, resurrected not from Lucia’s energy but from something inside the photographer.
“Who took these pictures?” he asked as Mancuso walked up behind him.
The man reached for the photographs in his hand. He stared at the top shot for a long moment. When he spoke, it wasn’t to answer Sakura’s question, but to ask one of his own.
“Didn’t you say”—his voice gone cold—“that the killer might be someone close to the family?”
The woman who opened the door to Agnes Tuminello’s home stared at Rozelli’s badge as if it were an indecent object.
“I’m Detective Rozelli. This is Detective Johnson. We would like to speak to Mrs. Agnes Tuminello.”
“Come in.” The woman’s voice was husky, too deep for her slight form. “I’m Mrs. Tuminello’s daughter, Connie Venza.” She closed the door and stood with her arms pressed against the frame as if she needed support. “Mama’s not doing well. I don’t want her upset any more than she is.”
“We understand, Mrs. Venza,” Johnson said softly. “We’ll be as brief as possible.”
Connie Venza nodded, releasing her grip on the door. “Okay if I’m with her when you talk to her?”
“Sure.” Johnso
n smiled.
The room was almost dark, except for the light coming from a floor lamp in the corner. Mrs. Tuminello sat in a large overstuffed chair, an afghan thrown over her lap.
“Mama …” Connie touched her mother’s shoulder.
“What … what has happened?” Mrs. Tuminello’s voice rattled with fear.
“Nothing, Mama. Just some people who want to talk to you.”
“People? What people?”
“The police, Mama.”
“Hello, Mrs. Tuminello.” Johnson approached the woman. “I’m Adelia Johnson. And this is Johnny Rozelli.”
“Rozelli … I knew a Rozelli family.”
“Probably some of my cousins.” The young detective stepped forward and smiled.
“You are a handsome man, Johnny Rozelli.” The woman smiled back.
“That’s what they tell me, Agnes.” He moved closer, sitting on the sofa opposite her chair. “We’re so sorry about what happened. But if we’re going to catch the man who did this, we’ll have to ask you a few questions.” He reached out and took one of her hands.
“Father was such a good man. Who would …” She let her head fall back against the soft padding of the chair and closed her eyes.
Johnson waited a moment. “That’s what we have to find out—why someone would kill Father Kellog and the little girl.”
Mrs. Tuminello kept her eyes closed, speaking softly as though to herself. “My husband passed away two years after Constanza was born. I had to work, but there was no one to keep my baby.” She sighed, releasing Rozelli’s hand. “Then Father Kellog’s housekeeper had a stroke and couldn’t work anymore. He offered me the job. He even let me bring Connie to work with me.” She looked up and smiled at her daughter. “For twenty-six years I took care of Father and the rectory. And never a complaint. He loved my lasagna.” She peered down and observed how her fingers plucked at the yarn of the afghan. “Now I don’t think I will make it anymore.”
“Mrs. Tuminello, did you know Lucia Mancuso?” asked Johnson.
The housekeeper heaved a ragged breath. “I know the family. I make the Wednesday-night novena with Lucia’s grandmother. Last May, Lucia made her First Communion. Like a little bride she was. An angel …” Almost immediately she realized the terrible irony of her words. “Oh God,” she moaned, her hands closing off her face.