As The Twig Is Bent: A Matt Davis Mystery

by Perrone Jr. , Joe

“Okay,” said Freitag. “Then we got him. Assuming we can find him.”

  “Maybe,” said Davis.

  “What do you mean maybe?”

  “Well, they thought they had O.J. nailed, too” said Matt. “And look what happened with him. He walked.”

  “Yeah,” said Chris. “But, they didn’t have any prints, remember? They only had”—he paused for effect—“the glove!”

  “How can I forget,” said Matt. “‘If it doesn’t fit, you must acquit,’” he said, mimicking Simpson’s high-profile defense attorney, Johnny Cochran.

  “But we’ve got prints,” said Freitag, with mock enthusiasm.

  “Great,” replied Davis. “Now all we need is—”

  “Yeah, uh huh,” said Chris.

  “Right,” said Matt. He stood up and stretched his arms over his head. “Okay,” he said. “So, what else do we have?”

  “Well, we know both women were seeing other men besides their husbands,” said Chris. “Neighbors can vouch for that.”

  “So?” said Matt.

  “Well, actually only the first one was,” said Freitag.

  Davis scratched his head, and then addressed his partner with deliberate patience. “Let me get this straight. Both women were seeing other men, except that the second one wasn’t, only the first. Is that right?”

  “Well, sort of. The first victim, Mrs. Simpson, was seeing the same guy for about the last six months.”

  “And?” said Matt.

  “He’s a night watchman up in the garment district. You know the drill, husband works days, boyfriend works nights, that kind of thing. Anyway, we checked him out, and it turns out, the day she was killed, he’s in Atlantic City.”

  “Did he win?” asked Davis.

  “Huh?”

  “Did he win or lose?”

  “Oh—he lost—big time!” said Freitag. “He’s got toll receipts, parking stub, the works. Apparently, he writes it off of his income taxes. A real jerk—he even declares his winnings.”

  “Actually, I’d say that makes him an even bigger winner,” quipped Davis.

  “What do you mean?” asked Chris.

  “It gives him an airtight alibi.”

  “Oh,” smiled Freitag.

  “Anyway, forget about him. What about Mrs. Spiros?” asked Davis.

  “Well, her old man’s on the road a lot,” said Chris. “But, we knew that already. Neighbors say she brings strange guys home. Different guy every time.”

  “Anybody see anything this time?”

  “Nope,” replied Freitag. “It was a shitty night, remember? Rained like hell.”

  “Well, check with all the cab companies,” said Matt. “See if anyone remembers a fare being dropped off. It’s a long shot, but you never know.”

  Freitag made a note on his memo pad.

  “So,” continued Matt. “Let’s see. We’ve got two different women, both seeing guys other than their husbands, but no witnesses and no suspects. Right?”

  “Right,” said Freitag. “But, don’t forget, we’ve got the semen and the fingerprints.”

  “Big fucking deal,” murmured Davis.

  They both stood there in silence lost in thought. Finally, Davis plopped the autopsy report down on his desk and looked up at the clock. “Let’s go get some lunch at Ratner’s. I think better on a full stomach.”

  Freitag didn’t need a written invitation.

  CHAPTER 15

  Freitag was busy wolfing down a pastrami sandwich; his attention focused on the abundant slabs of meat pressed between thick slices of rye bread that he held between his oversized fingers. A bright yellow smear of mustard colored the corner of his mouth. Across the table, Davis fiddled idly with his corned beef counterpart and finally said what was on his mind.

  “Maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree,” he said.

  “Huh?” said Freitag, his voice muffled by a mouthful of pastrami.

  “What if they’re just the guy’s initials? What if the J and the C are just his initials? Then what?”

  “You mean no religious connection?” said Freitag, taking a huge swallow of cream soda, and belching loudly. He smiled proudly.

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” said Davis, ignoring his partner’s breach of etiquette. “What if we’re just following the obvious and ignoring something really significant. Maybe we should be looking at every guy in the neighborhood with J.C. as his initials.”

  “Well, I guess we could do that,” answered Freitag. “But, it ain’t gonna do much for narrowing down the list of suspects.”

  Davis took a bite of his corned beef sandwich. He started to chew, then stopped suddenly. “Let’s go,” he said.

  “Go where?” asked a perplexed Freitag.

  “I want to talk to CSU. See if they found anything else that might be of religious significance in the Spiros’s apartment.”

  The pert technician at CSU clicked her chewing gum when she spoke. “Well, we did find a bible—a New Testament—but that should have been on the inventory,” she said.

  “I don’t know how I could have missed that, but I did,” replied Davis. “Can I see it?”

  “Sure,” replied the tech, “just give me a minute, and I’ll bring it out for you.”

  She disappeared down the hall, her ample behind swaying side to side as Freitag watched in amusement. Davis frowned.

  “What?” said Chris, with a grin.

  “You’re an asshole,” muttered Matt.

  “Hey, I’m not dead yet.”

  The woman reappeared several minutes later carrying the book. Davis took the bible and began thumbing through it, looking for something of significance, anything at all. Somewhere around the middle of the book, he found it. It was a bookmark. “Here, look,” said Matt. He held the book out to his partner, the pages exposed.

  Freitag leaned over Davis’s shoulder and peered at the pages. A vacant look spread across his face. He obviously did not see anything of significance in front of him. As if reading his partner’s mind, Davis said, “Right here. This passage here – EPHESIANS, Chapter 5.”

  “3 But fornication, and all unclean-

  ness, or covetousness, let it not be once

  named among you, as becometh saints;

  4 Neither filthiness, nor foolish talking,

  nor jesting, which are not convenient:

  but rather giving of thanks.

  For this ye know, that no whore monger,

  nor unclean person, nor covetous man,

  who is an Idolater, hath any inheritance

  in the kingdom of Christ and of God.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Freitag. “What are you saying?”

  “Well, it looks as if someone was trying to counsel Mrs. Spiros about something.”

  “Okay. So, you think this is the connection? I mean—with the J.C. and all? Is that what you’re saying?” asked Freitag.

  “What I’m saying is, I think we need to go back and check on the Simpson homicide,” answered Davis. “I’ll lay you odds that we’ll find a bible there, too.”

  He was right.

  The bible had been inventoried, right along with the jewelry, coffee cups, cigarette butts, and so forth. A quick examination of the book revealed a similar bookmark in the same location, with the same passage underlined.

  “I guess we can say that there’s a little religious significance now,” remarked Davis.

  “Yeah—I guess so,” said Freitag.

  Maybe they were finally getting somewhere.

  “Why don’t we go talk to Father Richter,” suggested Matt. “Tell him about the bibles. See if it rings any bells.”

  “Can’t hurt,” said Chris.

  Richter greeted the detectives in his study. “Is there anything wrong?” he asked.

  “Not another murder, if that’s what you’re thinking.” said Matt. “But, there is something we’d like to run by you. Get your take on it.”

  “Whatever I can do,” replied Richter.

  “We
found a bible at both scenes,” said Davis.

  “Nothing unusual about that, is there?” asked the priest. “Most of my parishioners have a New Testament in their homes.”

  “I agree,” said Matt. “It’s what we found inside the bibles that got us thinking.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Underlined passages relating to infidelity.”

  “EPHESIANS, Chapter Five?” asked Richter.

  “Yeah,” said Matt. “How’d you know?”

  Richter walked over to a bookcase in the corner of his study, and retrieved a copy of the New Testament. He thumbed through it as he returned to the detectives. “Hmm,” he said. “Let’s see, EPHESIANS—.” He flipped through the pages, stopping when he had reached a particular spot. “Here it is.” He began to read: “But fornication, and all uncleanness, or covetousness, let it be once named among you, as becometh—”

  “Yeah,” said Freitag. “That sounds like it. What’s it mean?”

  “Well, in a nutshell,” said Richter, “it relates to infidelity. It basically says that if one is unfaithful to one’s spouse, that person faces the prospect of not going to Heaven.”

  “Well,” said Matt. “That would fit – sort of. If they were running around on their husbands, but the husbands have alibis tighter than a duck’s—”

  “I think I get the picture,” said the priest. “Look, there’s something you might as well know. I apologize for not telling you sooner, but I wasn’t sure how to handle it. I had counseled both women regarding some indiscretions in their lives. I’d rather not go into too much detail. I hope you understand.”

  Davis nodded. “Then you knew about the bibles?” he asked.

  “Not exactly. I knew both women were having trouble in their marriages.”

  “Did you suggest that they consult their bible?”

  “We refer to it as the New Testament,” answered the priest. “Actually, I recommended those passages to them over the phone. My guess is they underlined them themselves. That would explain it, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes it would,” said Matt. He reached out and shook Richter’s hand. “Thank you very much for your time, father. It certainly clears up the business about the bibles…uh…I mean New Testaments. It must be difficult dealing with these murders. I mean, both women in your own parish, women that you knew.” Richter looked away. When he turned back, his eyes were moist. “It’s most difficult, I assure you.”

  “Well, we won’t take up anymore of your time,” said Chris.

  CHAPTER 16

  Baltimore, Maryland

  By the time John had turned six he had begun talking again. His speech was limited and resembled that of a mildly retarded youngster. He attended kindergarten at a nearby parochial elementary school. It was apparent that he was slow, and he was left mostly to himself. It was not surprising that he failed to respond to the average teaching methods employed at the school. John was often observed with large bruises on his arms and legs, and when inquiries were made, Marie always told the school officials that the injuries were a result of falls.

  “Baby John doesn’t walk that good,” the young mother would say.

  Each day, upon his arrival home from school, John would be greeted with a scowl, and asked the same question.

  “You didn’t tell ‘em nothin’, did ya? Did ya’?” The boy knew she was referring to the beatings, and, over time, learned to play the game. Instead of speaking, he would just shake his head no, hoping to avoid further punishment.

  Right after he turned seven, John Curran was admitted to the emergency room with a fractured finger. His mother told the nurses that her son was clumsy and had fallen off his bicycle. Actually, Marie had discovered him wearing a silver ring that had been missing from her bureau. When she tried to remove the ring from his finger, she bent it backwards so hard that it had snapped.

  One night when he was eight, his mother brought home an especially rough sailor, already drunk – and particularly nasty. The man was a Negro, talked with a strange accent, and kept calling Marie “Bitch,” which she seemed to like. He ordered John to stay in the living room, while he and Marie staggered into the bedroom, leaving the door ajar. The little boy busied himself with a coloring book, trying to ignore the sexual sounds coming from the other room. In a little while, the laughter stopped and the tone of the sailor’s voice grew ugly. Soon John heard the unmistakable sound of violence, including slapping and crying. He tried not to cry, but after a few minutes, tears sprang from his eyes.

  Suddenly the man emerged, naked, from the bedroom. He was swearing and holding a shiny leather belt in his huge hand. He began swinging it at the helpless child. At first, the boy was able to duck the blows successfully, but eventually the sailor connected with the buckle end of the belt and drew blood from the youngster’s arm. He continued to hit the child, as Marie screamed from the bedroom for him to stop.

  Mrs. Antonucci, the downstairs neighbor, tried to ignore the noise coming from Marie’s apartment. After all, it was Marie, herself, who had often told the elderly widow to mind her own business. However, this time it was different. The shouting grew louder and louder, and the screams of the little boy became more hysterical. At last, the old woman could stand it no longer and called police.

  Five minutes later a patrol car pulled up to the apartment building and two officers rushed upstairs. Mrs. Antonucci stood there, eyes wide, as they rushed past her into the unlocked Curran apartment. What they found made the two police officers sick.

  Apparently, little John had still been sleeping in the tiny crib in Marie’s bedroom, although he was already eight years old. And that was where they found him, naked, with ugly red cigarette burns on the head of his penis and on his testicles. His entire body was covered with welts from the sailor’s belt, and the mattress was stained from urine and feces. He was barely conscious.

  An ambulance took the now-unconscious boy to the emergency room. Marie screamed, “It was the nigger that did everything.” The police dragged her out in handcuffs, along with the drunken serviceman. When they were led past Mrs. Antonucci’s apartment, the woman crossed herself, and then cursed at them in Italian. Marie cowered like the wild animal she had become, and avoided the woman’s eyes as she passed quietly by her in the hallway.

  The next day, Mrs. Antonucci received a request to testify in family court. So did the members of the parochial school staff that had witnessed the endless array of John’s “injuries.”

  At the hearing that followed, witness after witness testified to the abuse of the eight-year old by his mother. It was no surprise when John, Jr. was removed from Marie’s custody and placed in the care of the Holy Angels Foster Home, a Catholic orphanage on the West Side of Baltimore.

  Marie convinced the judge that the sailor had inflicted the bulk of John’s punishment. She received only a suspended sentence, and avoided jail time. But, she was unable to persuade officials to return her child to her, and soon gave up trying. She reasoned that life was a hell of a lot simpler without the child to complicate things. She had never really wanted him, and now she was free of him.

  Ironically, six months later, Marie Curran was struck dead by a drunk driver, and little John was finally rid of her!

  Although little John lost his mother to a drunk driver, he would never truly be rid of her memory and the scars that accompanied it. During his first three years at Holy Angels, his life was a continuation of the horror that had haunted him in the past. Fellow orphans teased him unmercifully, nuns beat him whenever he misbehaved, and his bedwetting, and nightmares followed him from sleep into consciousness. He was constantly exhausted and confused.

  It was not until John Curran was nearly twelve years old that love finally entered his miserable life. It arrived one snowy winter’s day in the person of Sister Francis. A transfer had brought the thirty-eight-year-old nun from an order in Akron, Ohio, to the orphanage. From the beginning, she and the boy were drawn to each other as parent to child. She was like th
e mother he had always wanted, and he the son she could never have.

  Immediately John began to blossom. Under the guidance of Sister Francis, he began to speak more clearly, study more effectively, and even blend with the other youngsters on a social level. Soon, his life had taken on a new meaning.

  Indeed, it appeared, there was a God in Heaven.

  Unfortunately, there was also the Devil.

  CHAPTER 17

  8:15 a.m., Monday, March 27

  Men, I’d like to introduce the newest member of our squad, Miss Rita Valdez, detective third-grade.” Although it was Foster who was speaking, it was the reputation of the female detective standing before them that was on the minds of most of the men gathered in the squad room. Rita Valdez was trouble—at least that’s what Matt had heard. According to interdepartmental scuttlebutt, the vivacious addition to the Tenth Precinct’s elite membership was a potential home wrecker, even if only half the rumors about her were true. Apparently, she had been involved in an affair with every one of her commanding officers along the way, and this stop at the “One-O” would be her last unless she wised up.

  Matt studied the woman. She certainly was attractive. Fairly tall, dark hair, great figure—he figured her to be one side of forty or the other. Val certainly wouldn’t like her. There were a few catcalls and a whistle or two before Rita spoke. “I’d just like to say that I’ve heard a lot of good things about you guys here in the One-O, and I’m looking forward to becoming part of the squad.” There were a couple of murmured responses, like “us, too” and “any time, baby,” before Foster held up his hands to restore order.

  “Okay, okay,” he said, “That’s it. Let’s all get back to work.” He grabbed Rita gently by her upper arm, and looked over at Matt. “Can I see you for a minute?”

  Oh boy, here it comes, thought Davis. “Sure, Boss. What’s up?”

  Foster motioned to Davis and Valdez to follow him into his office. Rita led the way, and Matt brought up the rear, closing the frosted glass door behind him. The captain pulled two chairs up to the front of his desk, and beckoned the two detectives to have a seat. Leaning back in his swivel chair, Foster clasped his hands behind his head, and rocked slowly back and forth behind his massive desk. “Okay,” he said, “here’s how it’s gonna be. Rita will be your responsibility, Matt—at least for a while. I want her to go wherever you and Freitag go – and that means everywhere. Show her the ropes, and don’t hold anything back. She’s a fast learner, so it shouldn’t take long.”