It was clear that the detectives in Juanita’s case assumed Nelson was the killer, and since he was himself murdered less than a year later, there was no need to continue any investigation into either death. Technically, they were two unsolved cold cases, but for all practical purposes in the minds of the detectives, they were solved. Nelson killed Juanita, and someone killed him. I opened Juanita’s file. There was a copy of the official restraining order, including her application. It was a sad and depressing litany of Nelson’s beatings, harassment, stalking, and on two occasions, raping her. Juanita’s domestic violence restraining order specifically included sexual relations so Nelson couldn’t claim he was merely exercising his marital rights. It’s the problem with restraining orders; the majority of people served ignore them, the victims have a false sense of security, and some experts maintain they tend to enrage the stalkers.
Something occurs to me, raises a flag, but the idea is too vague for me to consult Lieutenant Hagen. I make the rounds of the detectives who have cold case files on their desks and ask if they will let me know if any of their files contain domestic violence restraining orders. I add that they can give them to me and I’ll do the evaluations for them. They all agree; it’s less work for them, more for me.
Detective Mel Harden is first. He hands me a folder. “Two restraining orders on a victim. The guy was from around here and a local hero, if you are into football.”
My last file: Derrick Matthews. His mother reported him missing on December 3, 2003. Long Island City Police questioned his ex-wife, Janet Matthews. She had an airtight alibi. Janet was in a women’s shelter for two months prior to Derrick’s last known appearance, one year after he became a missing person.
Derrick, thirty-two at the time of his disappearance, was the father of Derrick Jr., four, and Deidra Matthews, two. Derrick and Janet met and married while they were students at Fordham, where Derrick was a star wide receiver. After graduation, the Jacksonville Jaguars drafted him. Newsday published photos of Derrick signing his contract wearing a Jaguars cap, holding his bonus check (two million dollars) and a copy of the signing bonus contract. A Jaguars team press release introduced Derrick to the Jaguars fans. It included a biography, which related how he met Janet, how they were inseparable in college, married in their sophomore year, and welcomed Derrick Jr. a year later. They bought a penthouse condominium in the Marina San Pablo Tower ($1.5 million) with an intracoastal view. I learned about Derrick’s taste in music, his sterling work for the Dream Foundation, Janet’s taste in music, her own sterling work for the United Way, their affection for the Jacksonville lifestyle, their plans to visit Disney World in Orlando.
It was more than I wanted to know, as the poor guy never made it to his rookie season. He tore his Achilles tendon in a spring training practice game. There was no hope of Derrick regaining his amazing speed, which had made him a two-million-dollar wide receiver rookie. He was out of the hospital and football. Things were not all bad. There was money left from the bonus, Derrick had bought his parents a comfortable home in Queens for cash, and there were new cars for him and Janet, plus the beginnings of college funds for Derrick Jr. and Deidra. The Florida condo sold at a loss, but it was a modest one, and they were able to return the furniture. All in all, the Matthewses were left with two hundred thousand dollars.
Piecing together detectives’ interviews and affidavits from Janet, I got the rest of the sad history of the Matthewses.
Derrick’s cousin Kevin managed a Ford dealership in Bayside, Queens. He gave Derrick a job in sales. Derrick still had a lot of residual fame from his Fordham years, not to mention his truncated Jaguars career. Kevin exploited the hell out of Derrick; he made him decorate his office with memorabilia: his trophies, autographed balls, his Fordham and Jaguars jerseys in Lucite frames. Kevin advertised autograph signing days; he got Derrick to bring his former teammates into the dealership with promises of big discounts. At first, Derrick went along with it. He posed for a lot of pictures, signed a lot of autographs. After a while, he got tired of posing for pictures for people who weren’t interested in buying cars. About the time that Derrick was thinking of quitting, the dealership closed in the 2008 financial meltdown. Derrick and Janet both swore to live within their means while he looked for work, but the means were diminishing. Finally, he landed a job in a trendy Manhattan club, to hang out, be seen, greet people; it came with the promise of a management position. Before long, he was working the rope, deciding who got in and who didn’t. Janet claimed there were late nights, drugs, other women. Derrick got a couple of DUIs and had his license suspended, followed by the inevitable crime of driving without one. Janet said, “He’s working nights and complaining that I’m not, but I have Derrick Jr. and Deidre to look after.”
There are pages of divorce documents that chronicle the unraveling of the marriage as Derrick loses his job, then gets another as a bouncer at a strip club with the same predictable results. Janet notices a different Derrick. He’s got a quick temper, he’s complaining of headaches, he’s depressed and doing a lot of drugs, whatever he can get his hands on—oxy, coke, weed, painkillers—then in the middle of one of their arguments he punches Janet. She calls 911, the police come, she refuses to press charges.
“The cops told me they are big fans of his. They will let it go this time, but the next time they will arrest Derrick even if I don’t press charges. There it is. I know what his violence will cost. I suppose deep down I am as afraid of the consequences as he is. Truce. Until the next time.”
The “next time,” the police arrest him. Derrick gets probation, agrees to attend anger management sessions. They attend couples’ therapy, which doesn’t work out. Janet files for divorce and moves in with her parents. Derrick can’t make child support. There is no more money left; it went to the lawyers. Derrick moves into his parents’ house, gets kicked out, sells his car, steals Janet’s, and is jailed for another DUI. This time he serves six months. Janet gets a domestic restraining order forbidding Derrick from any contact with her. Derrick ignores it.
“He comes to my mother’s house and demands money from me. He tries to take Derrick Jr. He beats me, really bad. When I get out of the hospital, I know I have to go somewhere he can’t find me.”
Chapter 18
Janet Matthews teaches seventh-grade mathematics at Albert Leonard Middle School in New Rochelle. I meet her in the teachers’ lounge. She’s got three inches on me, more if you count her Angela Davis Afro. She laughs between sentences and smells of chalk. I like her immediately.
“It’s eighth period; we’re supposed to have clubs. Remember clubs? I volunteered to teach chess, and no one showed up, so I have a free period. I love it. You want to know about Derrick? Why would you want to do that?” A male teacher at the end of the table grading papers looks up.
Janet says, “Phil, this is none of your beeswax.”
Phil returns to his work.
“It’s a cold case,” I say. “We’re always trying to solve them. Derrick disappeared. We suspect foul play. Sorry, I hate that term—it sounds like an English movie.”
“Derrick doesn’t need any solving. His life was tragic, and if he’s not dead I hope he is okay, but I doubt it. Truth is, his life was over before it was over.”
I think there is something hard about this. Janet catches my expression. “Look, for my children, he’s not a memory. They have a new dad who loves them, adopted them. I do not want Derrick brought back into their lives. We are over him. It’s sad what happened to Derrick, and I hate to say this, but it was a relief to a lot of people. The man caused a lot of pain. I don’t see the point of finding him.”
I tend to agree with her, but it’s not why I’m here. “You were in a shelter when Derrick went missing.”
“That’s right.”
“How did you get there?”
“There was a nurse at the emergency room. She wrote down the address on my cast. Yes, Derrick broke my arm. I went home, grabbed the kids from my mom’s, and
got a cab to take us over there right away.”
Phil keeps his head down, but I know he is listening.
“Can you tell me about the shelter?”
“If you want the name, address, no. We’re not supposed to tell the police. I can tell you I felt safe—that’s the first thing. And so did my kids.”
“How long were you there?”
“About six months. I left once to get some stuff out of the apartment. We moved in with nothing but the clothes on our backs. They advised against going back, and they were right. Derrick had a friend crashing in the apartment who told him I was there. Derrick came by. He was nice—at first—told me he was getting his life together, wanted to see the kids, wasn’t using, wanted to go back to counseling. For a minute, I almost bought it. Then, I said that wasn’t possible, there was no way I was going back to him.”
She leans in closer to me so Phil can’t hear.
“Then he took out a gun and put it to my head. I saw it in his eyes. He was crazy. I had been reading about concussions, brain damage, CTI, all the stuff that happens to men who have played football since they were six years old. Derrick was a wide receiver. Getting hit was his lifestyle. That could have been the cause, but I knew no matter what he said, the man was out to kill me. So I told him I would get the kids and meet him back at the apartment. He told me he knew where I was living, he knew about the shelter, and if I didn’t show up, he would come there and kill me.”
“And?”
“I went back to the shelter, told them what had happened. They said to just stay put, and they would deal with it.”
I wait.
“I never left the place. I felt safe there for the first time. I homeschooled the kids, found out I liked teaching, got my teacher’s certificate through courses online. Then they said I could leave.”
“Who are they?”
“Somebody at the shelter. Oh, you want a name. Ummm. Don’t think so. It was a long time ago.”
A school bell rings. It reverberates through the building. It is the sound that brings relief to bored students and anxiety to the unprepared, and ends all conversations with people who don’t want to provide any more information. Janet gets up, collects her papers, and walks over to Phil. She gives him a little shoulder rub.
“Time to go home, sweetheart.”
Phil collects his papers and stuffs them into his backpack. Janet looks at me.
“My husband.”
We leave the teachers’ lounge together. In the hallway, lined with lockers, crowded with adolescent boys and girls hurrying back into their homerooms, I ask, “Was the name of the shelter Artemis?”
“Don’t recall.”
“Do you remember what you were told when you left? Exactly.”
Janet stops. She lets the last students brush by her. A bell rings. Doors close. The hallway is empty, save for three adults.
“‘You can go home now.’”
Chapter 19
Lieutenant Hagen wants to know who killed Ronald Steevers.
“For whatever his sins, he was police, and he is deserving of our extra efforts to find his killer.”
“I agree, but I have two cases of women being in the same shelter when their husbands were killed. And they both took out domestic violence restraining orders.”
“Is one of them Ronald’s wife?”
“Yes.”
“And the other?”
“Derrick Matthews’s wife, Janet. He played for Fordham.”
“The football player. I remember that one.”
“His wife was in the shelter when he disappeared. Never found his body.”
Lieutenant Hagen takes a bite of her cheese Danish. “Could be a coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Your theory is that there is a connection between the male victims and this women’s shelter?”
“Yes.”
I wait. She gets it.
“You will need to go over the rest of the cold cases. See if there are any others.”
“I’ve already asked detectives to give me the files that contain domestic abuse or restraining orders.”
“Okay.”
“I should have asked you first.”
“It’s fine.”
“I’d also like to see some of our recent closed homicide cases where the victims took out restraining orders.”
“Why? They’re solved.”
“Curious.”
“You know where they are. Help yourself.”
It’s what I like about Lieutenant Hagen. She is reasonable.
During the next week, detectives continue to give me their cold cases that deal with domestic violence or contain restraining orders. Of the seventeen remaining unsolved cases there are three male homicides related to domestic abuse histories. None of the women connected to them (two wives and a live-in girlfriend) ever mentioned being in a women’s shelter when asked to provide alibis. One was out of state and proved it, one was in jail, the other died in an automobile accident six months before her husband was found in a dumpster behind Al & Eddie’s Tire Emporium on Queens Boulevard. I am still left with Susan and Janet. They are not enough. Lieutenant Hagen will say two cases are coincidental. At the same time, I revisit murders of women, most of them killed by their husbands, lovers, and in a few cases, bar hookups. Apart from the latter, they all had restraining orders on the men who killed them. Jesus.
I hear a cough. Detective Claude Ito is standing at my desk holding a thick file.
Even when I was falling in love with Bobby B, I kept my crush on Claude. Maybe it was because he saved my life. After I passed the detective exam, I was assigned a rookie desk in homicide. A scruffy Dell monitor separated me from a beautiful Japanese American man with flawless light brown skin and smoky almond eyes. He was always polite; he never teased or used sarcasm. I was attracted to Claude’s gentleness, a rare quality in a cop, much less a veteran homicide detective. I knew Asian American cops who were just as hard-assed as anyone on the force, but Claude never raised his voice; he was always polite, patient; his inquisitive yet sympathetic expression said he was interested in what you had to say whether you were a witness, a victim, or a suspect. Claude always got answers in interrogations. We joked that Claude could calm a perp on PCP and extract a confession from a lawyer. My theory about Claude’s gentleness was that behind it was his formidable strength. I saw it the day he saved my life when a suspect who was sitting along a wall waiting to be interviewed took out a pistol from an ankle holster (the cops who’d brought him in had forgotten to search him—they were fired) and yelled that he was going to kill some cops and aimed his gun at me. Like everyone else in the room, I had stowed my weapon in a desk drawer—sitting at a desk for hours with a two-pound loaded gun on your belt is uncomfortable—the man aimed his pistol at me just as Claude walked through the door behind him. In one fluid motion, the man was on his stomach on the floor, the gun was in Claude’s hand, and Claude’s foot was planted on his back. We all saw it. None of us could exactly describe what we had seen—it was that fast.
“Can you teach me that move, Claude?”
“Easy. Do you have a couple of years?”
Now he was standing at my desk.
“Hey, Claude, what can I do for you?” I would do anything for him.
“I sort of messed up. You’re looking for male homicide victims who had restraining orders, so I didn’t send this to you. I found a homicide named Joey Savone. Turns out Joey is a woman.”
“And?”
“I remembered you were questioning a suspect who alibied she was in a women’s shelter. Or I heard it from Tessa. Anyway, Joey’s wife was, is—damn, this is confusing. Joey’s partner was a woman. Her name is Karen Marschner.”
He hands me the file.
“It’s all in there. She says she was in a women’s shelter around the time of the murder.”
“Claude? You are one smart dude.”
“I know,” he says. I have three cases
. That’s not a coincidence.
Joey (Jolene) Savone, white female, twenty-four years old, was found on the shore of the Flushing Meadows Corona Park lake. Her hands were tied behind her back, and a cement block was tied to her chest. She had been shot in the heart, so she didn’t get to experience being drowned alive. Joey worked as a diagnostic medical sonographer in a Forest Hills gynecology group practice. Photographs show an attractive, serious-looking woman, unwilling to crack a smile, even when she tells you it’s a boy/girl/twins and healthy. For Joey, posing for a picture, whether it’s a high school yearbook, a driver’s license, or with her spouse at a birthday party, seems to be a solemn occasion. Come on, girl, smile. Ah, here’s one: a selfie of Joey and Karen. I look at the two women, I try to get around what I know is a cliché. Joey is the femme partner, slight, girlish behind Warby Parkers, while Karen is clearly butch, thick and menacing. So why is Joey dead and Karen alive? Pick out the violent one, pick out the scary one, pick out the one who wouldn’t be afraid of a woman half her size—it is Karen, not Joey. Karen would check in at five four, around 225 pounds, dressed in black studded leather from her boots to her cap. Joey is half her size in every direction. They are standing in front of a stripped Harley that must belong to Karen, who reminds me of the Tenacious Dame femme I spent thirty seconds with in an elevator in the Queens Center mall. I might ask her if she recognizes me. If she doesn’t, my disguise was successful.
Putting these two women side by side, I would say Joey should be scared of Karen, not the other way around. Karen is the one who claimed she was in the women’s shelter around the time that Joey was murdered. The file says Karen Marschner works as a bartender at the Bum Bum Bar, a lesbian joint on Roosevelt Avenue in Queens. I get there around six, figuring Karen will be taking advantage of the staff meal. I am correct. She’s sitting in a booth along the wall, a red plastic basket of fried food in front of her. Under a top pomp with a side buzz cut, there is a round friendly face. I can see edge ends of tattoos trailing out of her white T-shirt under a blue work shirt. She’s got a nose ring, a row of earrings on each lobe, and more jewelry in places I can’t or don’t want to see.
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