As The Twig Is Bent: A Matt Davis Mystery

by Perrone Jr. , Joe

  “That’s a tall order, detective,” replied Romero.

  “I assure you that everything will be kept secret.”

  Romero smiled. “Of course,” answered the prelate. “It might take a while.”

  “I understand,” replied Davis. “Naturally, we’d be most grateful, and of course, if we should stumble upon anything that might reflect poorly on the church, we would advise you immediately—before the press could find out.”

  Matt studied the archbishop’s face, measuring the man’s character. Finally, he spoke. “It’s very critical that no one knows about these details.”

  “You have my word,” said the archbishop.

  Davis thanked him, stood up, and headed for the door. He stopped short and turned to the aging priest.

  “How soon can I talk to Father Richter?” he asked.

  “Right away. I’ll call him immediately.”

  “Thank you,” answered Davis. “I really appreciate it.”

  The two men shook hands, and Davis hurried down the stairs to the Chevy. The motor was already running, and Freitag reached across the front seat and opened the door.

  “Let’s go, Chris. St. Jude’s—over on Ninth Avenue. We’ve got a lot to do.”

  Freitag gunned the big V-8 and the unmarked car shot away from the curb and out into traffic.

  CHAPTER 10

  Baltimore, Maryland

  The small apartment had only one bedroom. Marie and the men she brought home from the bars would have sex on the bed while John slept peacefully alongside them in his crib. In the beginning, most of the men were halfway decent and tried their best not to wake the sleeping child. Marie could not have cared less. One night she actually shook the infant awake so her lover could make believe he was being watched while they did it. The idea appealed to both of them so much that, from then on, they made sure to have sex only when little John was awake and watching.

  At first, the baby would just lie quietly in his crib, too preoccupied with his bottle to pay attention to the couple on the bed. Then, when the bottle would run dry or he would become bored, he would stand up on his wobbly legs and watch as his mother allowed herself to be violated in front of him. If he dared to make a sound, Marie would explode in a rage, screaming at him to be quiet. If he continued, she would hurl a pillow or other object at him to silence his crying. But, on other occasions, she would urge him to cry, especially if it excited her male visitor. If her lover wanted to slap the baby or pull his hair, she had no objection.

  By the time he was two Marie grew tired of having him watch. She began shutting him up in the narrow clothes closet outside the bedroom. Once, during a two-day drunk, she left him there, while his pathetic cries went unanswered. When she finally staggered off to work, she entirely forgot about her son. When she returned home that afternoon, sober, she found the crib empty and went into a panic. She searched frantically throughout the apartment until, finally, she found him asleep in the closet, his pajamas soaked with urine.

  Marie was sure he had hidden there to anger her. As punishment, she dragged him out and spanked him with a wooden spoon until the handle actually broke from the force of her blows. She made certain to inflict pain on his genitals.

  “That’ll teach ya to wet your fuckin’ pants!” she screamed hysterically.

  When he tried to cover himself, she tied his hands behind his back and continued the punishment. At last, tired from the exertion, she threw the little boy into his crib. His small hands were still tied.

  At two-and-a-half, when other toddlers were beginning to talk, John was still mumbling unintelligibly. At three, when he finally did begin to speak, it was with great difficulty. Marie got so tired of hearing him say, “M-m-m-m-mom-m-y” that she began covering his mouth with tape.

  “Shut up, ya fuckin’ idiot!” she would shout.

  She began tying him up and stuffing a stocking in his little mouth. Hours would pass until finally, she would say to him, “Ya promise not to open your mouth? Huh? DO YA?” The little three-year old would nod his head sadly up and down. Only then would his loving mother remove the saliva-covered sock from his mouth.

  Eventually, little John not only stopped stuttering, but also ceased talking altogether. He would only grunt when he wanted to eat or go to the bathroom. When Marie’s sexual partners commented on his strange behavior, she told them he was part chimpanzee. Everyone would have a good laugh, even little John. Then, her mood suddenly darkening, Marie would beat the boy unmercifully, stopping only when she grew too weary to continue. Occasionally, the beatings left the boy unconscious.

  CHAPTER 11

  When Father Richter saw the story of Melina Spiros’ murder on the evening news, it had shaken him to the core. It was only a week or so ago that she had called the church, and asked if she could speak privately with him at her apartment. He had hesitated, suggesting, instead, that she come to the rectory for the meeting. She persisted with her argument, but in the end, he had convinced her to come to the church.

  She was an attractive woman. Indeed her beauty had attracted his attention on several occasions, especially when she had dressed up for holy days like Easter and Christmas. But, when she came to the rectory, he was surprised at how disheveled she appeared. It was obvious that she was a woman in conflict. They made small talk while he prepared a pot of coffee, but finally she got to the matter that had prompted the meeting.

  She had a confession to make, she had said. She was weak. Her husband traveled often for his business, and when he did, she tended to become angry, even resentful. She wanted children, and so did George. The difference was that he wanted to wait until they were more secure financially, while Melina didn’t concern herself with money, only her biological clock, which was ticking loudly.

  Richter had counseled her to be patient. Then she had dropped the bombshell. She had been cheating on George. It had only been a couple of times, and nothing of consequence had occurred, but it was still cheating. She was having a difficult time hiding her guilt. George was from the old school, and wouldn’t understand, if she told him. Father Richter advised her to stop. It was only a matter of time before something would happen, he had said. He even pointed out passages in the New Testament relating to infidelity and matters between a husband and a wife.

  Before she left, Melina told Father Richter she would make an effort to stop. But he had to understand how lonely and frustrated she was. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought that she was coming on to him.

  CHAPTER 12

  St. Jude’s occupied an edifice that was a throwback to the Middle Ages: four large spires towered into the air, gargoyles and detailed busts of saints, devils, and angels were on every surface, and stained glass windows threw off broken reflections of the passing traffic and surrounding buildings. Davis was familiar with the church, but only from the outside. He was a Catholic, but in name only, and not at all like Valerie, who was an Episcopalian, worshipping regularly and participating in fundraisers, bazaars, and support groups.

  Father Peter Richter was tall and athletic looking, with a touch of gray in his well-groomed hair. He greeted the two detectives with a smile and a firm handshake. Davis liked him instantly. He wished they were meeting under more pleasant circumstances.

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d call me Father Pete,” said the priest. “It’s what my parishioners call me, and I really prefer it.”

  Davis thought back to the archbishop and his similar call for familiarity. “No problem,” he answered. “Call me Matt, okay?”

  Father Pete nodded.

  Davis said, “This is Chris Freitag.”

  “You can call me Detective Freitag,” joked Chris. All three men laughed, breaking the awkwardness of the moment.

  “Well, can I get you fellows a cup of coffee…or perhaps some tea?”

  “No thanks, Father Pete,” answered Freitag. “We’re running kind of behind.” Then, he looked anxiously at Davis, aware that he may have stepped on his partner’s to
es.

  “Maybe some other time, okay?” said Davis.

  Father Richter smiled. “Right. How can I help you?”

  Davis got right to the point, sparing no detail in describing the most recent murder. Reluctantly, he also revealed that this was the second such murder to occur in the same parish.

  “How well did you know them?” asked Matt.

  Richter reflected on the question. “Not particularly well. Neither woman was a regular at mass—mostly on holidays, that sort of thing.”

  “Of course,” replied Davis. “If you knew anything more, you’d tell us though, wouldn’t you?”

  “If you’re referring to something they might have confided to me about, like a confession or something—” here Richter hesitated. “I’d have to think about it. It’s a very delicate subject with the church. In fact, once I...well, you understand.”

  “Absolutely,” replied Matt. “Anyway, it looks as if the killer has some kind of obsession with religion, or at least that’s how it looks right now. We were figuring he might possibly be...well...a member of your church. What do you think?”

  Father Richter rubbed his hands together. “I guess anything’s possible. But, I really can’t think of anyone. I mean, I’m certainly willing to try, but—”

  “Well,” replied Davis, “if you think of anyone at all in the parish who might be—let’s say, you know—behaving a little odd, please call me right away.” He handed the priest his card. “I’ve asked the archbishop to get me a list of anybody connected with the church who might have had a gripe or a problem.”

  “Is there anybody who comes to mind?” asked Chris, “somebody you can think of who might be capable of doing something like this?”

  A deep sigh escaped the priest’s lips, and he closed his eyes. Then, he opened them and looked hard into the eyes of both detectives. “There is the basic problem, of course, that we’ve already alluded to.”

  Davis had been dreading this subject.

  “You mean the confidentiality issue?”

  “Yes,” answered the priest.

  Davis was prepared with an answer.

  “I’m not asking for anything specific necessarily. Just a name – a place to start.”

  “Yes, I know” replied Father Richter. But, his voice appeared to betray his true feelings.

  “I can do my own snooping around after that, okay?” said Davis. He and Freitag glanced nervously back and forth at one another. Working with clergy always presented problems. In this case, however, it was imperative that any objections be overcome.

  “Okay, what do you say we try it something like this,” began Davis. “Let’s suppose we just talk in generalities. You know, suppose a Mr. X comes in to Confession, and just happens to mention that he had impure thoughts about Sister Margaret... or… whatever. You get the picture, right?”

  Father Richter smiled and nodded. “In other words, you want to know if I’ve had any unusual confessions lately. Is that it?”

  “Yeah,” answered Davis. “Something like that.”

  “At least we’d know if we’re in the right pew,” joked Freitag, making no effort to hide his amusement at the humor he had created.

  Davis flinched and flashed his partner a look that said, not now, asshole!

  “I’m sorry, Matt. I only hear confessions when one of the other priests is out sick, and I’m afraid I haven’t heard anything unusual lately, except for the man who admitted he hated Mick Jagger.”

  Matt looked puzzled, not quite sure what the reference to the rock star was all about.

  He wanted to know if that was a sin,” said Father Richter. “You know, hating Mr. Jagger.”

  “And?” queried Davis.

  “I told him that he probably didn’t really hate him – just his music.”

  Everybody laughed, and just like that the tension was broken.

  “Listen, Father Pete, if I come up with any theories, I’d like to stop by and pick your brain, okay? You know—sort of run the whole religious thing by you.”

  “Absolutely,” replied the priest. “Perhaps then you’ll join me in a cup of coffee, and we’ll see what we can accomplish.”

  “Good,” answered Matt. “I’ll look forward to it.”

  He genuinely liked the man and anticipated their next meeting.

  “Oh, Father Pete,” he said. “There is one other thing.”

  “Yes?” asked the priest. “What’s that?”

  Matt smiled sheepishly. “If it’s not too much trouble—well—I’m kind of a hot chocolate guy. You know,” he blushed. “I mean—instead of coffee.”

  The priest smiled warmly. “No problem at all, Matt. I’ll make sure I have some on hand.”

  The two detectives said their good byes and headed out of the rectory. They had to make a stop at the ME’s office, and Davis wasn’t thrilled at the prospect.

  CHAPTER 13

  Cathy Ahearn shrugged as she handed the autopsy report to Davis. “I’m afraid there’s not much there, Matt,” she said. “Death by asphyxiation, and of course she was raped. Pretty much the same as the first one, except the initials were different—at least the other set.”

  Matt acknowledged the news with a nod. “I took your advice and got in touch with the archbishop.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “I met with Romero, and he’s got his people checking on unhappy ex-employees within the archdiocese. Also, Father Richter down at St. Jude’s is going to see what he can come up with inside his church. Both murders occurred within the same parish, and—”

  “Oh, Matt, there is something else,” interrupted Ahearn.

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  “Well, it looks as if the same ‘perp’ did both of them.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Same blood type. We ran an acid phosphate test on some of the stains on the sheets and turned up semen. Our boy’s a secretor, AB to be precise. That represents only about five percent of the population. Highly unlikely that two guys with that blood type would commit the same kind of murder. So, we’ve narrowed it down to about two-hundred-and twenty-five thousand New Yorkers, give or take fifty thousand.”

  “Wonderful,” quipped Davis. Turning to his partner, he added, “Chris, have we got blood types on the two husbands?”

  Freitag pulled his notebook from his breast pocket. He flipped through the worn pages, finally finding what he was searching for.

  “Here we go,” he said. “Let’s see—husband Number One, type O; Spiros, type A.”

  Davis shut his eyes, and replied in deadpan, “So, let’s see, we can definitely eliminate the two husbands. Great! Now we’re really getting somewhere.”

  Ahearn grabbed Davis’s arm. “You know, you just might have something there,” she said, earnestly.

  “Oh, really?”

  “I’m serious, Matt. The fact that both women were married; maybe that means something —”

  “And maybe it doesn’t,” Davis quickly replied. “Maybe we’ll just have to wait until we’ve got a dozen in the morgue before—”

  “Oh, come on, Matt. I’m only trying to help.”

  Davis rubbed his eyes. “Sorry, Cathy,” he said. “I’m just frustrated.”

  “Maybe both women were having an affair with the same guy?” offered the ME.

  Davis seemed to brighten at the suggestion. “I guess that is a possibility. Yeah, what the hell. Anyway, it’s something. We’ll check that out. Won’t we, Freitag?” His partner rolled his eyes at the ceiling and answered in a mock slave-like tone,” Whatever you says—“Massuh.”

  CHAPTER 14

  11:17 a.m., Wednesday, March 22

  “Bingo!” said Freitag, as he burst into Davis’s office.

  Startled by the sudden intrusion, Matt nearly fell backward off his chair.

  “What the—?”

  “Matching prints!” said Freitag. “The same guy was at both scenes.”

  “And this means what?” said Davi
s, somewhat amused.

  “Well,” said Freitag, “after we eliminated the husbands’ prints, and anybody else with an alibi, we still had prints left over. Turns out they belong to the same guy.”

  “And that would be?” asked Davis.

  “Don’t know yet. Not until we get the report.”

  “But, the same person was at both scenes?”

  “Yep. And if he’s got a record, we’ve got our guy.”

  “Big if,” said Matt.

  “What about the blood?” asked Chris.

  “Useless,” said Davis. “Blood came from the victim at both scenes, and the husbands don’t match. The semen shows our guy as AB, but that won’t help until we come up with—”

  Freitag finished the sentence, “—a suspect, I know, I know. Sounds like a fucking nursery rhyme. How long before we get the DNA results back from the semen?”

  “Probably won’t matter,” answered Matt, “unless...” his voice trailed off. He finished the remainder of the thought in his head: unless we have a suspect.

  All semen samples were sent to Life Codes, a lab in the Westchester County town of Valhalla, where it usually took about two weeks for DNA identification. If a suspect was arrested, a sample of his DNA could be obtained for comparison with the evidence from the crime scene. A match nearly always resulted in a conviction.

  “Okay” said Davis. “So, let’s see, we do know that the same guy was at both apartments, because we’ve got his prints, right?”

  “Right,” replied Chris.

  “And we’ve got somebody’s semen at both scenes—”

  “But, we don’t know whose,” said Freitag.

  “Right,” said Matt. “But, let’s assume for a minute that it’s the same guy who left the prints.”