by Tom Golabek
I could see Dennis’ house as I turned the corner to his street. It was an upper middle class section, which was out of reach of the rotten smell of the city. Huge elm trees overlapped the grass-lined sidewalks. I pulled the car to the side of the road, shut it off, and climbed out.
The house was a modest bricked split-level structure with a manicured lawn surrounding it. I had known Dennis a number of years, but had never managed to meet his family, or visit his home. Three small slate steps led to the front door. A “bing-bong” sounded as I pressed the button. The door opened slowly showing a middle aged, long dark haired, pleasantly plump woman. I could tell that she had been a beauty in her younger years.
Her eyes were encircled with brown rings that revealed little sleep. The eyes themselves were red and swollen from shedding many tears.
My voice sounded funny as I stammered, “Mrs. Chiulli?”
She looked at me quizzically and said, “Yes?”
“I’m Mike Murdock, a friend of your late husband. May I come in and talk with you?”
Her eyes opened wide, and she appeared pleased when she heard my name.
“Come right in Mr. Murdock.”
I walked into the large living room, shutting the door behind me. The interior took me by surprise. It was by no means modest. A grand piano and a twelve-foot mahogany stereo console gave class to the huge room. The plush carpet felt like walking on a mattress, and the portrait painting of Mrs. Chiulli on the wall was stunning in its gold frame.
“Have a seat. Would you like a drink, Mr. Murdock?”
“Yeah, a whiskey.” then plopped myself on the long comfortable sofa. She puttered to the liquor cabinet in the kitchen, clunked a few ice cubes around, and returned.
I took the drink, and sat back. It looked like she was drinking the same, except that hers was on the rocks. She sat down opposite me in one of those oversized vibrating recliners. I was just about to speak but she beat me to it.
“It’s rather amazing that you showed up just now. I’ve heard a lot about you Mr. Murdock. My husband had mentioned your name many a time, and besides that, your name is in the newspapers quite often. I was going to call, and ask if you would look into my husband’s murder. It’s questionable whether the police are getting, or will get anywhere, and you have made a name for yourself that you find out things the police don’t. Dennis has left me well off. He would have wanted me to hire you. Will you find out who murdered him?”
“That’s the reason I came here Mrs. Chiulli.”
The business was settled a half hour, and another drink later. Since it was Dennis’ murder, I made it cheap. The fee was eighty dollars a day, plus expenses. That wasn’t even half the fee I would charge others.
I put down my glass, buttoned my jacket, and stood up. Mrs. Chiulli led the way to the door. As she was reaching for the knob, the door opened and in walked a girl about nineteen years of age, with a face like an angel framed by long, flowing, raven black hair. She was introduced to me as Linda, their only daughter. She struck up a conversation with me as Mrs. Chiulli walked to the other room. Linda had the body of a full-grown woman, and I could tell she knew it by the way she moved it around. I didn’t know her except for her name, but she knew me. She even knew that I packed a .45. Most of it she read from the papers. It appeared that I was her idol. We finally got around to saying goodbye, and shook hands. Her mother was in the kitchen now. Linda’s hand squeezed mine, or rather caressed it, as she pulled herself against me. Her eyes looked into mine seductively, and she half whispered, “Please stop by again Mr. Murdock, or shall I call you Mike?”
I really didn’t know how to answer her. She was certainly appealing, and had "SEX" written all over her face. I couldn’t believe her behavior though. Her father was just murdered, and she’s acting oblivious to it. If Dennis could see this, he would roll over in his grave.
“Call me Mr. Murdock, sweetie.”
Her face and eyes went cold. She snapped her hand away from mine, turned her back to me, and left in a huff. It looked like I lost one of my fans.
I finally left the Chiulli house, my watch reading two fifteen.
The next stop was the Bronx Police Department. I hopped into the car, turned the ignition, and pulled out. The sun seemed to wink at me through the rustling leaves of the towering elms that lined the street. Someday I will probably move to a section like this. It wasn’t far from the city, but it was far enough to enable one to breath fresh air. Kids were playing catch in the street, women pushed baby carriages, and young lovers strolled up and down the sidewalks.
It was a big change from where I used to live. I was raised in the Getty Square area of Yonkers. Instead of kids playing catch, they were stealing cars. Instead of women pushing baby carriages, they were pushing heroin. And whores took the places of young lovers. A kid learns fast about life living in a dump like that. If I was raised in a section like this, I might have turned out to be a brain surgeon. I could be one now if I wanted to. I qualify! I’ve seen more brains than some of those skull doctors. There are only two ways that we are different. One is that he uses a scalpel while I use a heavy .45 automatic. The other is that I splatter them; he mends ‘em.
I found myself on Main Street turning onto Broadway. The station was still a good ten minutes away.
I pulled a pack of Camels out of my pocket, and searched for a smoke with my fingers. Empty! The pack crumbled under my palm, and flew to the floor. I reached to the glove compartment, pushed the button, and pulled out a fresh pack. I tore at the butts, and punched out a smoke as I stopped for a red light.
I thought of Dennis’ daughter again. How could he have raised such a sexpot like that? She didn’t seem to care about her father’s death. The world is full of all kinds of people.
The police station was right up the street now. Of all the money the Bronx has in its treasury, it seems odd that they never built a parking lot in the vicinity of the station house for the public. I had to park another block down on a side street.
The delicious smell of Italian food from a spaghetti house on the corner swept through the whole area. I swiveled out of the car, and got a hunger pang before making it to the police station.
Dozens of men in blue uniforms were bustling in and out of the station as I walked in. These cops looked busier than bees in a hive. I climbed the stairs to the large open lobby doors, and entered.
About eight kids were lined up against a pea green colored wall ignoring a cop who was lecturing them. Five or six men and women, probably the kid’s mothers and fathers were yelling at my buddy, Jim Falotico, who happened to be the police sergeant behind the desk. I caught the drift of the screaming. The kids stated they were playing basketball on a vacant lot when a scuffle broke out. Scuffle my ass! That was a polite way to put it. They were in a gang fight. The punks had no ball, and there was no backboard on the lot. They would say anything just to irritate the cops. Whatever they were doing, one of them got stabbed in the chest, and another received a memento slashed across his face.
I pushed a couple of parents out of the way, and made it to the front desk. The sergeant was glad when he saw me, for I was his excuse to get away from the melee. He pulled me to the side and groaned, “Mike, glad to see ya. You practically saved my skin.”
“What’s the matter Jim? Can’t you handle the heat of the kitchen?”
“You try to sit up there for a day.” Everybody and their brothers bring their beefs to me. By the way, why are you here? You kill somebody else?”
“No, I just came to see Matt. Is he here?”
“Yeah, go right in.”
I walked down a narrow corridor, and opened the door reading “Homicide.” Matt had an office to the right, with his door ajar.
Hot Shot was behind his desk reading this month’s issue of True Detective. Yep, he was a real cop. He looked up from his magazine with a smile on his mug, but when he saw me his smile disappeared
, and his usual stone face took its place.
He screamed out, “Who did you kill now Murdock?”
Why does everybody ask me the same question? I spat out, “Nobody, but the next one could be you, big mouth.”
He was relieved that I didn’t cause him any more work, and a smile came back to his face.
“You come here for a social visit…or to verbally abuse me?”
“Neither. I want to know how “KO” Krasinski died. I know, that you know, so you might as well shoot it to me now, because I’ll find out sooner or later.”
His voice was firm and strong. “It looks like you’re gonna find it out later. That’s privileged information Mike. I’d get my job handed to me if anyone found out I told you.”
This burned me up!
“You’ll lose your job?” I laughed at him in mock. “You wouldn’t be El Capitano if it wasn’t for me. Remember when I had figured out the Mindy Sellers murder? You got the credit. Then there’s the phony suicide I solved for you. Don’t forget those two gangland murders, and all the other information I have fed you over the years. What do I want in return? One lousy question answered.”
“Look Mike, I can’t tell you this. The detectives downtown are tight lipped regarding the evidence for reasons I don’t know. If it slips out, it will gunk up their operations! I was surprised I was even told.”
“You think I’m gonna run to the papers, and spread it all over New York?”
I bent over his desk, and pounded my clenched fist on it. “You really surprise me Matt. I think about you being my partner, but you can’t even trust me to keep my mouth shut. You sure know nothing about gratitude. You’re stabbing a good friend in the back.”
My last sentence must have got to him because his jaw tightened. Matt sprang out of his chair, walked around the desk to where I was, and grabbed my shirt with his right meat hook. His face was strained and red as he put his nose up to mine and muttered, “I’m gonna tell ya, but if there’s a leak, you’re the one I’m gonna blame. Got It!”
“Yeah, spill.”
He let go of my shirt, pointed at a seat for me to take, and walked back behind his desk.
“Krasinski was killed by suffocation.”
I shifted in my seat and snickered, “Look Matt, I ain’t got time to play games. Give me the dope.”
“Shut your damn choppers, and I’ll tell you. Krasinski was one of those “old school” boxers who do a full nude body “grease down” before the fight. It’s designed to promote flexibility, endurance, agility, and improve performance. They’re given a rubdown with mineral oil, vinegar, salt, turpentine, or some other sort of liniment to elevate their muscles to their peak. About an hour before the bout, Bankoff, KO’s trainer, gave him his normal prefight grease down. Only he didn’t use the usual concoction. It was a technical grade heavy mineral oil substance called “Voltesso N36B.” Voltesso forms an oily film over the skin locking in the carbon dioxide and other wastes, while inhibiting normal respiration by keeping oxygen out. If the entire body is covered with this stuff, the skin can’t breathe. The result is death by what is called “epidermal asphyxiation.” When the fight began, Krasinski started to sweat. With every step he took, and every punch he threw, he needed more and more oxygen. None could get in, no carbon dioxide could get out, and finally his body couldn’t take it any longer. He died.
My head rolled back thinking what a clever murder this was. I lit up a butt as another question popped into my mind.
I said, “If this Voltesso is a type of mineral oil, how did the Medical Examiner discover it?”
“As far as I understand it, Voltesso N36B has a bleaching agent component which causes a chemical reaction to take place when it is exposed to ink. All ink, no matter what color it is, bleaches out. Unfortunately, for the killer, Krasinski had a tattoo on his arm. When the examiner saw a bleached out effect of KO’s tattoo he checked his books, and the rest speaks for itself.”
I let out a soft whistle, and stuffed out my butt. There is always something could nail you. So now, I knew how he was killed. There still wasn’t anything to put the finger on Dragon, or the “brains” behind him though.
I looked at Matt and asked, “Do you have anything on the Bankoff or Chiulli murders?”
“No. We think Bankoff committed suicide when his conscience caught up with him.”
I surmised that Bankoff was pushed from the subway platform. He wasn’t the type of guy to commit suicide.
Matt stared at me and said, “If you’ve got any info, don’t hold any back from me. I’d like to make Chief of Police someday, and you’re gonna help me make it.”
I lifted myself out of the chair, walked to the door, and said, “Not when I spread to the papers what you just told me.”
My face turned into a giant grin, and I split from the office before he shot me.
The verbal sparring was still going on in the hallway at the sergeant’s desk. His face was in his hands trying to shut out the pandemonium going on before him. It was time for me to win another Academy Award so I strutted up to the desk and roared, “SHADDUP.” I continued, “You people get over there, and sit down, or I’ll throw the pack of you into the cooler for the rest of the day.”
One of the punks yelled out, “On what charges, pig?”
I looked at him, then at the other peas in the pod, and bellowed, “You see this floor? It was just waxed, and you dirt bags are trampling all over it. That’s destruction of civil property. Then there’s inciting a riot, disturbing the peace, and a half dozen other petty raps we could slap you with. Now sit down asshole!”
My voice echoed throughout the chamber with authority.
The herd fell into a hush. The only noise to be heard was the shuffling of their hooves to get to the long, worn, wooden bench against the wall.
Jim’s eyes were wide with amazement. I waved “so long” and walked out the door.
The aroma of the spaghetti house wafted to my nose as soon as I hit the street. I walked down the block, turned the corner, and hopped into my heap.
The engine turned over and I headed for the office.
* * *
CH 10 The “Beautiful Snake in the Grass.”