by Owen Parr
Here we go again, right? “If the jury is anything like all the people that have said that to me, in the last day and a half, then this guy is getting his injection.”
“There’s a moratorium on that shit since nineteen-ninety-five. But he’s going down for his wife’s murder. Why are you interested?”
I explained what had transpired with the daughter’s request, and that all we were doing was dotting the I’s and crossing the T’s. I didn’t want him to think we second guessed him, or anyone at his department. “Did you bring me the murder book?”
“No book, buddy. I can’t walk out of there with the murder book. But, my partner and I were lead on the investigation. We’ve already testified. You didn’t know that?”
“I just got involved yesterday, I haven’t had a chance to review your testimonies.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I wish I could see pictures of the crime scene.”
“There are pictures and a video,” he said, and thought for a second. “I don’t know, man.”
“It’s easy. You have a cell phone, right?”
Angelo nodded.
“Then you take pictures of the pictures, and a video of the video. Hit ‘send’ to me, then delete, period, end of story.”
He shook his head, “I don’t know, if I get caught, it’s my ass.”
“You broken any arms lately? Listen, this is no big deal, is not like it’s confidential, or anything. Besides, I need a good bartender at the pub. You’re covered, if you get fired.”
“At least you own the bar, me, I got shit. Three more years, and I get my benefits.” He stopped talking, as his mind, I could see, was engaged.
I let the silence linger. I know from experience in negotiating, that there’s a moment to shut the fuck up. He who speaks first loses.
“Tell you what, I’ll take the photos and video, then come over and show you at the pub. Then I’ll delete them. Good enough?”
“Bellissimo. Thank you. I’ll have your favorite drink ready.”
“If you remember my favorite drink after all these years, I’ll pay for it.”
“Tell you what, you come over for happy hour and you can pay for it and the second one is on me. I’ll have your ‘redneck bomb’ ready to drink when you walk in. Sam Adams with a shot of Dickers Whiskey as a bomb.”
“How can you remember that after all these years?”
“How can I forget a guy named Levy ordering a redneck bomb? That made a permanent impression on my psyche. Never understood it.” I laughed.
Maggie, the waitress came around and refilled our coffee mugs. Giving her a thumb up, I added, “I have a few questions; can we get down to business?”
“Where you want me to start?”
“From the moment you got the call,” I replied, taking out my notebook.
“Detective Alvarez and I got the call at about midnight; ‘possible crime-shots fired.’ When we got there, oh, about twelve-thirty in the a-m, the first patrolman at the home, and his partner, had secured the crime scene and cuffed Mr. Longworth. The crime scene investigators arrived shortly after that, and began doing their thing. If you need specific times, it’s all logged.”
“That’s fine. Did you question Longworth?”
“One of the patrolmen had him sitting in the living room. He seemed to be in a state of shock, and shivering, like a wet dog in winter.”
“What was he saying?” I asked, as I stopped writing.
“He was reticent like I said; he was in shock, and he looked woeful. After we had read him his rights, all he kept repeating was: I didn’t do this. Over and over. After that, Alvarez and I met up with the crime investigators, and followed them around the home.”
“Anything obvious about Longworth?”
“Obvious? I don’t know, he was sneezing a lot, and his eyes were watery, but I think he was crying. Probably faking it.”
“I see. Any signs of a robbery or break-in?”
“None. Nothing disturbed in the home. No signs of a break-in.”
“I know someone entered the home at eleven-ten, from alarm records,” I paused, took a sip of coffee, and followed up, “Do you know if the alarm had been turned on or off, before that?”
“Joey, I didn’t bring my notes, but there was a record of the alarm being turned off at about eight that night, then immediately turned on again, until Mr. Longworth got home at eleven-ten.”
“Then it’s possible that Mrs. Longworth let someone in at eight, someone she knew.”
“It’s also possible that Mrs. L, like many people, did turn off and on the alarm, before she went to her bedroom, to make sure it was on. Besides, Mr. L admitted to turning off the alarm when he got home at eleven-ten. So, what happened to that other person you think came in at eight? When did they leave?”
“Mr. L, like you call him, says he heard someone in the home after he found the body.”
“That’s what he said, if you believe him. But we found no proof of that.”
“Humor me for a minute, Angelo. Per favore. The perp heard Longworth come into the home, hid and left the home while the husband was discovering the murder scene. No alarm, no record.”
“Okay, Sherlock, the stairs only had bloody footprints consistent with Mr. L’s shoes, from when he walked downstairs and took a shot at the living room ceiling, to establish his alibi for the GSR found on his hand and arm. Then, there are minor footprints with blood coming up the stairs again. Consistent with his story and only his shoes. This imaginary perp of yours, how did he leave the home, flying out a window, a la Peter Pan?”
Putting my coffee down, I opened my hands, and asked, “Did you check for egress from the bedroom windows for that possibility? Not that he flew out, but jumped out?”
“Joey, you are starting to piss me off, man. The second story windows are about twenty-five feet up from the ground. No windows were opened in the bedroom. Unless your perp closed the window behind him before he jumped, like Spiderman. Come on, man, you’re grasping at straws.”
I could see Angelo was concerned that I was second guessing his work, and getting a little annoyed. “Listen,” I wanted to diffuse his anger, “I like Peter Pan better. But, really, I’m not here to disprove your case, I’m only here to find a plausible doubt that there could have been another shooter.”
“Good luck with that. This guy is guilty as hell.”
“Very possible, yes. I just want to satisfy my client that I asked all the right questions.”
“Yeah, right. And collect a hefty fee,” Angelo said, a little peeved.
“There is that,” I said, smiling, and letting him think that was motivation. “Tell me about the bedroom.”
“Bloody scene, that was. You’ll see when I show the photos. Mrs. L was on the floor, on the right side of the bed, just as you enter the room.”
“I’m going to visit the crime scene, but walk me through it.”
“When you go in the room, to your immediate left is the night table with a lamp. Next to that is the king-sized bed. To your right, there is a wall. You follow me so far?”
I nodded.
“So, walk in, past the bed, do a one-eighty turn, and look back at the door. Now the bed is on your right. Mrs. L was lying next to the bed on the floor facing up, and at about forty-five degrees to the bed. Got that?”
“Go on.”
“She had two shots to the chest. One right below her heart, the other just under that one. There was forward blood spatter, which was projected behind her, from arterial spurting, as the blood exited her body from the two shots. There was blood spatter on the bed above her, the headboard, and to the left on the night table and lamp. So, we know the shooter was standing facing the bedroom door, in front of Mrs. L. Just where you’re imaginarily standing. Her blood pooled on the carpet below, and next to her. Of course, she had blood on the front of her terrycloth bathrobe, but it was smudged.”
“Do you recall the angle of entry of the rounds?”
&nbs
p; “No, man, I have to think about that. But, I’m sure you can find that in the medical examiner’s report. The law firm should have a copy of that.”
I made a note to inquire about that. “Per Mr. Longworth, he entered the room and tripped on her body, falling on top of it. This is how he accounts for the blood transfer to his suit.”
“His suit had her blood smudge, just like her white bathrobe.”
“The smudge blood transfer is consistent with his falling. Isn’t?”
“Yeah, but again, it could be a cover up?”
“This guy is a real estate developer; you think he would know to rub his body against her dead body to create an alibi? That’s not even an alibi. He’s got her blood on him.”
“Let me go on. There was backward blood spatter coming in the direction of the shooter from the impact. There is a void in the spatter on the carpet, created by the body of the shooter. The spatter is to the right and left of the void, and on the wall of the bedroom. So, we know the shooter was no more than three feet from Mrs. L.”
“Splendid. So, we have this backward blood spatter being projected back to the shooter, you have the specks of blood on the carpet and wall. Was there any blood on Mr. L’s suit or face consistent with this spatter? There had to be, because his body created the void, right?” I asked, twirling my coffee mug with my fingers.
Angelo moved uncomfortably in his chair, “No, there wasn’t. But he had blood on his suit and hands. And then, there is the gun residue.”
“Not so fast, Angelo. I would expect for the shooter to have specks of blood all over his face, hair, and suit. Wouldn’t you?” I asked, touching my face and hair.
“I suppose I would, yes,” Angelo said, in an apologetic tone, and looking a tad chagrined.
I didn’t want to pursue this with him and turn him against me, I needed his input. “Never mind that for now, tell me about the bedroom, anything jumps out at you?”
Angelo closed his eyes, replaying the scene in his mind, “Normal bedroom, large, though. They had a sitting area by a bay window with comfy chairs, no dressers, they were all inside the walk-in closets. A few pictures with frames on the table in the sitting area.”
“You’re doing good, keep your eyes closed. Anything jumps out?”
“Roses,” he said, still with his eyes closed.
“Roses? What color?”
“Yeah, lots of yellow roses on the table with the pictures.”
“An arrangement perhaps?”
He opened his eyes and faced me, “It was an arrangement of some kind and fresh. I remember, because my wife loves yellow roses.”
“Tell me about the gun.”
“The gun was found on top the night table. It’s a Smith and Wesson model 642, thirty-eight caliber revolver.”
“The 642 is aluminum, and has five rounds only, right?
“That’s right, the barrel is one inch and seven-eighths long.”
“Was it Longworth’s?”
“They each had one in their night table. We found his gun, on his side of the bed in the drawer of the night table.”
“Prints, what about prints?” I asked.
“His bloody prints, with her blood, were on the revolver. Only other prints on the gun were hers. We assume she had handled the gun at some point. There were other prints in the bedroom. The maid’s and his attorney’s.”
“Adams’ prints were found in the bedroom?” I asked, moving forward in my chair.
“Both Mr. L, and Adams, confirmed that they occasionally spoke in the sitting area of the bedroom. So, the prints are consistent with that. We also found partials we cannot account for.”
“That’s a bit odd, wouldn’t you say? In such a big house, why would you meet with your attorney in your bedroom?”
“Joey, these guys are friends for like forty years, right? Seems reasonable.”
“I guess you’re right. Just found it odd, at first. Let me ask you this, where there any type of defensive wounds on Mrs. Longworth?”
“As if she fought off her murderer?”
“Yeah, right. It was her gun she was shot with. Possible they struggled for the weapon before she was shot?”
“No evidence of that. Nothing under her nails, no wounds to her arms, or anywhere else for that matter.”
“Did they do a rape kit?”
“They did. There was evidence of having had sex, no semen, however. But, no signs of rape, no.”
“Was any DNA recovered from the bed?”
“The bed was freshly made, and from what we could see, no one had occupied either side of the bed.”
“So, no hairs.”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me about the bathroom.”
“Vast. His and hers areas, a large shower that could easily accommodate four people, with spray jets coming from everywhere, and two rain showers. Oh, and the toilet is in a water closet with a door.”
“Anything else?”
“A very spacious Jacuzzi, big enough for two or three persons.”
“How ‘bout the TOD?”
“The coroner estimated Mrs. Longworth died between ten and midnight, that night.”
“Did the ME make a note of the angle of entry of the rounds?”
“You already asked me that. I don’t remember the specific degrees, but yes, I think the upward angle was twenty, or twenty-five degrees.”
“But you do remember it was an upward angle?
“I think so. Joey, I’ve got to go. Tell you what, I’ll text message you the photos and video to your cell phone.”
“Great, Angelo, I was hoping you’d do that. Your redneck bombs are waiting anytime you want to stop by, my man. Thank you so much for your time.”
“It was good to see you, Joey. I guess we’re even, now right?” Angelo said, smiling and with open hands.
“I’ll cancel the debt upon receipt of the text message,” I said, smiling and extending a handshake, as I stood.
CHAPTER EIGHT
There was a saying about The Plaza Hotel, built in the early nineteen hundreds, ‘Nothing unimportant happens at The Plaza,’ and today’s visit by Father Dominic, was certainly in keeping with that to one of the hotel’s guests, Harold Longworth.
Father Dominic had concluded his church duties at Saint Helen’s in Brooklyn that started early in the morning with six-thirty Mass, followed by a second Mass. He had removed his white collar from his black shirt and put on a gray wool jacket. Entering the elevator in the hotel lobby, he pushed nine. Dom was sure Mr. Longworth was anxiously waiting for him.
Exiting the elevator, and noticing the directional signs to the various rooms, he turned left and knocked on suite nine-ten.
“Good morning Father O’Brian, please come in,” said a casually dressed man, whom Dominic assumed to be in his mid-fifties.
“Thank you, Mr. Longworth, good morning.”
“Can I get you anything, I have fresh coffee and orange juice, if you would like.”
“Perhaps coffee later, right now I’m fine, thank you.”
Longworth walked over to a sitting area in the suite and pointed to a settee and two chairs, with a coffee table in between. Dominic sat in one of the chairs, facing a window overlooking Central Park, with Longworth sitting across from him on the settee.
Crossing his legs and fixing the crease in his pants, Father Dom asked, “Do you mind if we get down to business, Mr. Longworth?”
Leaning forward, Longworth replied, “Please call me Harold, and yes, by all means, let’s get started, but I thought your brother, Mr. Mancuso, was also joining us.”
“Joey got tied up with the Suffolk police this morning, he would appreciate an opportunity to meet with you later today,” Dom replied, not wanting to reveal their methodology of asking questions of individuals involved in a case at separate times, and then comparing notes.
“That’s quite alright. I’ll be here all day,” he said, moving back on his seat.
“Can you start at the time you left th
e office that day? Walk me through it.”
“It was my typical late evening at work, I don’t work late every day, but I was preparing for a business trip, and I had some last-minute items to attend to that day.” Longworth proceeded to tell Dominic the events of the evening from the moment he turned off the alarm at about eleven-ten that night.
“Do you have a set schedule of the evenings you work late in the city?”
“You mean like every Tuesday and Thursday for instance?”
“Yes.”
“No, no. It depends on what’s going on. There are even days I work out of the house, and don’t go in the office at all. There’s also the reverse, sometimes I stay in the city, if I have an early meeting the next day.”
“Do you notify,” Dom paused, “I’m sorry, was it your practice to call home and inform your late wife that you would be delayed at the office?”
“Yes, of course.”
“So, she would know to turn on the bathroom lights off your bedroom, if she went to sleep before you arrived.”
“That was our practice. There was no need for her to stay up and wait for me. She usually read a novel before going to sleep, then she would turn off the lights in the bedroom and leave the bathroom light on, with the door semi-shut.”
“Very well. Let me ask you this; was there anyone that would want to kill your wife?”
“Oh, my God, none whatsoever, no.”
“Did your wife work? Did she have a career?”
“Sheila was very involved in two charities; Angels for Children, and our own Longworth Foundation. She kept very busy with both, strictly volunteer work, not paid jobs.”
“Did she travel on behalf of these charities?”
“Some, maybe once a month or two, for functions and fundraising events.”
Father Dominic had not noticed any facial expressions or body movements that gave any conflicting tells of what Mr. Longworth was relating. On the contrary, his expressions and gestures were genuine. “Let me ask you about your perception that Mrs. Longworth was having an affair.”
Now, Longworth closed his eyes, and clasped his hands before responding, “Sheila had become aloof when with me, it was like she was there in body, but not there mentally. Our conversations had resorted to only answering each other’s questions. Our intimate life, which had been average at best, in the past, became an issue, almost non-existent. She would never initiate it, I had to, and then it was like, robotic.”