The Dog Killer of Utica

by Frank Lentricchia

  “They finally roust Napolitano. The call is arranged. Just before 5 A.M., I get another call from the President’s chief political strategist. I’ll be naming the Napolitano staffer and Kingwood. He’ll be finished by midday. His agenda is dead, along with his Senate ambitions. He’ll face criminal charges. The mole is already in custody.”

  “And you?”

  “I announce my resignation at the press conference.”

  “That’s obvious. How are they going to take care of you, Mark? How will they show their gratitude?”

  “I don’t have to answer that.”

  Conte sits. Says with surprising gentleness:

  “The God you believe in will put you in Hell.”

  “I’m already there and grateful to Him for giving me your company, as we burn.”

  “The event at the mosque on Sunday—it’s on?”

  “If they want it.”

  “Maybe you can be the guest of honor, Mark.”

  Showered, dressed and looking his best, the face aside, he sits on the couch, Detective Don Belmonte on the desk chair. Big Don asks about his face, Conte replies, “I don’t feel like explaining anymore.” Big Don says, “Good. I’m pressed for time. Hope to God this chair can handle my weight.”

  “Where’s Catherine, Don? I assumed she’d be part of this conversation.”

  “She’s up the ethical morass without a paddle. Conflict of interest, not to mention she put herself on leave. Not to mention she told you about the Chief’s dog, which I told her not to.”

  “She asked you to determine the Chief’s whereabouts when the shooting of his dog went down. Did you?”

  (Pause.)

  “Not at home at the time.”

  “Why does he want the shooting kept quiet?”

  “He says it’ll become a racial thing, black-on-black violence, what do you expect of those black people et cetera. It brings him into racial question as the Chief, that’s his concern. Look. I came here to ask questions, not to be grilled. The thought that the Chief did this, as well as the dog in Troy, is unworthy of an intelligent person who”—gestures at the walls—“reads all these books, but who maybe is not attached to the real world. I don’t have all day, Eliot. That shell casing found at the scene of the Barbone murder matches one found at the Troy dog killing. As you must already know, thanks to my beautiful, indiscreet partner.”

  “Would you like a cappuccino, Don?”

  “Forget the niceties. That stuff goes right through me, it takes no prisoners. There are tremendous things swirling, and you are the eye of the hurricane. Where and how did you get that shell casing?”

  “At the scene of the crime. It was given to me.”

  “By who? Certainly not by lead Detective Mendoza, who by the way I intend to put in possession of the casing. Look, Eliot, Mendoza I can’t stand, but this is beyond personal. One of the responding uniforms is my thought. Cazzamano, no freakin’ doubt.”

  “Irrelevant, Don. You were given it. You intend to pass it on.”

  “Irrelevant? Oh, yeah?”

  “Possibly it was given to me by the first civilian on the scene, who put in the call. A total stranger.”

  “I’ll tell you why it matters. Sometimes these criminals who do these things can’t keep away from the crime scene investigation. They’re like freakin’ playwrights at the premiere watching the audience. They get off on the spectacle they created. I’ve encountered this.”

  “Where, Don? On television? The movies?”

  “If your father wasn’t my kindest friend and supporter, I’d take you in right now for obstruction of justice.”

  “Don—”

  “That loose cannon Cazzamano, right? He should go down for this.”

  Conte says nothing.

  “You were at the scene of the Barbone murder, Mohawk at South. True or false, Eliot?”

  “True.”

  “You were at Joey’s last night, Mohawk at Lansing, just a few blocks from the Barbone scene, eating dinner with Anthony Senzalma. True or false?”

  “True.”

  “You left by way of the back door of the office at around 9:45. True or false?”

  “True.”

  “You left in a rage without your shoes. True or false?”

  “True.”

  “You encountered Senzalma’s bodyguard on the way out, one” (checking notes) “Dragan Kovac. Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “See anything in the parking lot of interest, like a car with its lights on maybe?”

  “I have no memory of that. Why all these questions about my dinner with Senzalma?”

  “Your anger blinded you to your environment? Have conversation with Kovac?”

  “He complained about standing out in the cold. I told him to go in. That was it.”

  “This Rintrona and his wife. The Chief and his wife. All friends of yours?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Don’t get bitchy. Senzalma is a friend of yours, not so obviously.”

  “He’s a friend. Which is nobody’s business.”

  “You eat regularly in a hidden fashion with Senzalma in Joey’s office?”

  “Yes. The direction of your questions—”

  “This chair is making a sound which gives me freakin’ anxiety.” (He gets up.) “I should take off a few.”

  “You’re big, Don, but you carry it beautifully.”

  “Don’t try to get on my good side.”

  “There’s plenty of room on the couch.”

  “With my knees? I sink, I’ll never come out. On second thought, give me the cappuccino because what’s the difference at my stage of life?”

  Conte in the kitchen attending to the coffee, Belmonte walking along the bookcases, reading the titles. He says, “I’m developing a theory about all of it. I’ll tell it with the coffee and then I have to run. This Melville, you have a lot of his stuff.”

  Conte from the kitchen, “You know him?”

  “I heard of him, but we never met.”

  Conte and Belmonte standing in the front room, sipping their coffee, swaying a little on the balls of their feet.

  “I’m going to tell you something, Eliot, that hasn’t been released to the public. In return, you’re going to answer one big question and I don’t mean who gave you the casing because it’s irrelevant, maybe, as you say. When the coroner removed Barbone’s clothes he found that his dick was cut off along with his balls. Nowhere to be found on the scene. The implications stagger me. Okay. So we got whoever killed your friend’s dog in Troy and whoever shot Freddy in the head and cut off his equipment as the same person ninety-nine point nine percent sure. Then we have whoever blew away the Chief’s dog and injured his wife, who we connect to the Troy dog and thanks to the casing also to Freddy’s murder. What is the likelihood we have two dog killers on the loose? Those three killings are done by the same person. You agree?”

  “Hard to disagree.”

  “You agree whoever shot your friend in Troy and then your friend’s dog the next day is most likely the same person?”

  “Definitely.”

  “So far everything, the two dogs, Freddy, and Rintrona, it’s connected to the same person?”

  “Makes sense, but far-out alternative scenarios could be imagined.”

  “The theory works even with last night’s killing.”

  “What?! Who?”

  “Dragan Kovac, maybe a minute or so after you pulled away in your socks.”

  Conte cannot respond. He sips his coffee. Once, twice, thrice.

  “Not just any kind of shooting, either. Shotgun. One in the chest, which is unsurvivable, according to the coroner’s preliminary report, and one in the face, which obliterates the face. What a mess, you wouldn’t believe. Close range. Very close. You knew the guy well?”

  “Whenever Senzalma and I—whenever, Jesus Christ, whenever we got together at Joey’s, he’s the first layer of security at the back door. He frisks me. A sweet lunk of a guy. Like a big child. Jes
us Christ, Don, I can’t take this.”

  (Conte sinks into the couch. Belmonte continues to stand.)

  “I’m sorry, Eliot, but I’m running out of time. Two dogs and two humans killed and an attempt on another human, your pal Rintrona. Five events in three days. Someone is bingeing. Where does it end? I have a lot of work ahead of me. They threw me the Kovac killing. My theory says it’s the same guy who did Freddy and everything else. Including Kovac.”

  “Why?”

  “The unnecessary viciousness of the attack. Freddy’s dead. He virtually decapitates him and cuts off his dick. Freddy’s dick is nowhere to be found. Did the killer eat it? Kovac is dead, point-blank blast, he blasts again, point-blank, with a shotgun in order to make maximum ugliness of the body.”

  “Motive, Don?”

  “Who cares? We have a pattern.”

  “That links maybe a perverted killer, you’re telling me, to the rest? What possible—”

  “Forget motive. Give me a latent print on the shell casing, we got the guy. The real question, now, is what do sexual mutilation and dog killing have to do with the attempt on Rintrona’s life? Rintrona, your pal, why was he first? Every one of these events is in proximity to you. You. Even Freddy, who Mendoza went through his receipts from the day of his death and found your credit card had been run for a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black. You are somehow at the center.”

  “I’m having trouble accepting that part of the theory.”

  “Who the heck would want to be at the center of this sickness? Here’s my question, which I don’t expect you to answer now, but eventually. Soon. Rintrona was first. That’s the key. Your friend. What is it that links you to Rintrona that triggers everything? I’ll be back for another cappuccino and the answer. You have forty-eight hours, until Saturday noon, then I arrest you for obstruction of justice because of the casing. Can I say what a shame you and Catherine are separated? Your face says it all. You look lousy, Eliot.”

  He goes.

  Conte knows the answer to Belmonte’s question. He begins to imagine the far-out scenario, whose author is Antonio Robinson.

  CHAPTER 11

  Under the dead light of an overcast sky—forty degrees with a steady north wind slicing through his leather jacket—hatless Conte trods carelessly over icy sidewalks. Twelve minutes later, he knocks. The door opens, Catherine Cruz throws her hands to her face. Speechless, she embraces him while he explains—thinking, Is this man beyond help? He says, “Let’s change the subject.”

  He enters, inhaling with pleasure. Walks about the apartment. Says, “Nice. New paint job.” She tells him that Tom Castellano had every inch of every wall, ceiling, and woodwork repainted last year, and again a few days ago, even though the apartment lay tenantless all the while.

  “When I signed the lease”—she as eager as he for distraction—“Tom said the odors of the past in here were stubborn ghosts that sucked his blood, and they’d suck mine too. He said he repainted for both our sakes. Tom said people should repaint their houses in and out, especially in, at least once a year—because who wants to live with the memories of themselves?”

  “Amen.”

  “I don’t, Tom said, do you. Then Tom added, I hope to Christ you and Eliot are not permanently on the outs. Is he as unhappy, El, as he sounds?”

  “Tom’s the happy philosopher of gloom.”

  “Are you as unhappy as you look?”

  “Off topic.”

  “What’s the topic?”

  “Paint.”

  “Are we as unhappy as we look?”

  He doesn’t respond. Sits on the couch. She sits on the chair opposite.

  “Say something, El.”

  “Why are you sitting over there?”

  “You know why.”

  “We permanently on the outs, Catherine?”

  “Permanently is death.”

  “Come home.”

  “Eventually I’ll—”

  “When?”

  “One day at a time.”

  “For how many days?”

  She says nothing.

  “I can’t repaint my mind, Catherine.”

  She comes over and sits beside him. Takes his hand.

  “Don has a theory, Catherine. About all of the shootings.”

  “I know. He laid it on me last night, but not before asking if you owned a shotgun.”

  “No stone unturned. You see why it’s a correct theory, don’t you? The shooter could easily have gotten me, but chose instead to murder Dragan Kovac.”

  “It’s only a theory, El. High-level bullshit. We need facts.”

  “You could be a target.”

  “And Tom? His German shepherd?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shall we gather all our friends and their dogs and the kid next door, Angel, and take them to Fort Knox?” (She smiles a small, unhappy smile.)

  “Yes, Catherine. Everybody to Fort Knox. You might be on a serial killer’s list.”

  “Could be. Might be. Where are the hard facts that we need to stop this thing? Here’s one: Don learned that Antonio was not at home when the shooting of his dog and wounding of Millicent went down.”

  “Don told me this morning.”

  “What shall we conclude from this? Nothing. It’s just a lonely fact. Hard fact number 2: Don got the results from the tests done in Syracuse on the two weapons in UPD storage that we conclusively link to Troy. No evidence those guns were recently fired. This is definitive. But the technician noticed something interesting. The guns were immaculately clean in and out. No residues. No prints. Redolent, was the word she used, of solvents and oil. Not to be expected from guns that’d been lying in uncovered bins, in the UPD basement for three and four years respectively. The technician says no question these guns were very recently cleaned. Hard fact number 3: Don had our crime-scene forensics girl take a look at the Chief’s driveway and adjacent lawn areas. She went with a flashlight and metal detector while Antonio was at the mayor’s dinner last night. She was looking for the bullet. Or, more likely, its fragments.”

  “Let me guess, Catherine. She found nothing and Don concludes Antonio scooped up the evidence. Antonio goes to the mayor’s dinner with Millicent in the hospital? Is that right? On the day she’s shot?”

  “Correct on both counts. These three hard facts are three unimpeachable witnesses on the same page.”

  “Don told me this morning it’s crazy to conclude Antonio’s our man. I think it’s crazy too—and I think it isn’t.”

  “Don’s a pro, Eliot. He thinks all private eyes are amateurs at best and loose cannons at worst. He was holding out on you.”

  “Think I’m a loose cannon, Catherine?”

  “Don’t you?” (Her voice cracking. Steeling herself.)

  (Pause.)

  “So he doesn’t let me in on the constellation of hard facts, but tells you, not expecting you’d pass it on?”

  “He told you half of his theory, El. The other half is Antonio plus an accomplice.”

  “This is very high-level bullshit.”

  “When we’re desperate, even bullshit—he doesn’t think Antonio could have done it all. Don surmises that Antonio was the designer, but actually never himself—”

  “Where’s the motive for all this violence? I know, I know. Forget motive, find the pattern of facts. Bobby Rintrona, I can see it, and so can you. But the rest?”

  “When we’re desperate—”

  He lays his head in her lap. She, who needs stroking, strokes his hair.

  “So now you’ve betrayed the confidence of your partner by telling me the other half of his theory, and this is how we’re intimate these days. But I don’t buy it. Antonio’s no psycho architect, though at this point it looks bad. Let’s meet at Toma’s for late lunch. Say yes.”

  “Yes.”

  “One o’clock at Toma’s.”

  “Got it.”

  Conte at the door.

  “You just got here. What’s the hurry?”

 
Her question pleases him. Thinks it means that “eventually” won’t be all that long.

  He says, “I need to visit Anthony Senzalma at Saint Elizabeth’s. He’s had some sort of breakdown in the wake of last night.”

  “Millicent is there too.”

  “I’ll see them both.”

  At Saint Elizabeth’s: The door to Senzalma’s private room is closed. Seated alongside, her weapon concealed, Geraldine Williams in designer jeans and a sky-blue blazer. As he approaches she stands, “He’ll be happy to know you came when I inform him, but forget about going in, Mr. Conte. They gave him something special at breakfast. Twenty minutes ago I asked him how he felt. He points to the monitor and says, ‘I saw myself on television eating ice cream.’ ”

  “Give him my best.”

  “Yes.”

  “Geraldine—”

  “Yes.”

  “I assume you were both questioned last night by Detective Belmonte.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Anthony give him anything of interest?”

  “He gave nonstop weeping.”

  “How about you, Geraldine? What can you tell me?”

  “I saw nothing. I heard very loud music, thanks to you.”

  “To me?”

  “You left the door ajar when you exited with your panties in a bunch.”

  “What kind of music?”

  “People who like it call it classical.”

  “Orchestral or vocal?”

  “Vocal, if you call a man screaming ‘music.’ ”

  “Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “If you think of anything—”

  “I won’t.”

  “Tell Anthony to call me when—”

  “He will. You’re all he’s got.”

  “You lost a colleague. I’m sorry.”

  “Yes.”

  “He was a sweet guy.”

  “Was.”

  “Uh, the music—fast or slow?”

  “Fast. Depart, Mr. Conte.”

  The door to Millicent Robinson’s room is open. She’s in bed, sitting up, head tilted back, staring at the ceiling. He knocks.

  “Look who’s here—oh, dear Eliot! Whatever happened to you?”

  “It’s nothing. I fell.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”