As The Twig Is Bent: A Matt Davis Mystery

by Perrone Jr. , Joe

  “What?” answered Davis.

  “It’s here.”

  “What?”

  “The book – the friggin’ bible – I found it.”

  “Shit,” sighed Matt.

  “That’s what I said,” said Freitag.

  Davis entered the kitchen, where Chris stood with the copy of the New Testament cradled delicately in his huge hand. Matt extended his own latex-covered hand toward his partner, and gently relieved him of the book. Leafing through its pages, he stopped at a section marked by a plastic bookmark. There was a passage underlined; it was from EPHESIANS, just like the others.

  “Damn it,” he murmured.

  “Guess we better break the news to the Captain, huh?” said Chris. “You wanna tell him?”

  “I’ll flip you for it,” said Matt. He extracted a quarter from his pocket and tossed it in the air. “Heads,” he said. The coin landed in the palm of his hand, heads side up. “Sorry, pal. You lose.”

  Freitag leaned over and examined the coin, then frowned.

  “Two out of three?” he implored.

  “NFW,” replied Matt.

  CHAPTER 26

  8:45 a.m., Thursday, April 13

  The Spiros slaying had occurred about three weeks after the first killing. This one had taken place exactly sixteen days later—or a little over two weeks. Was there significance in the time differential? Probably not, thought Davis. But, one thing was certain. The murders were getting closer together. Not a good sign, he thought.

  Matt was sitting in the sanctuary of his study. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands. Nine days had passed since Cindy McKenzie’s body had been found. School officials were surprised when she hadn’t shown up for work that Monday, since she was a reliable employee, not prone to absences. But when she failed to appear on Tuesday, they grew concerned and placed several calls to her home, without any answer. Finally, the school secretary called the police.

  It took a day to contact her husband, who’d been on a freighter off the North Carolina coast at the time of the murder. By the time he showed up at the morgue to identify the body, he had already been eliminated as a suspect. Davis stared at the autopsy report of the latest homicide, which sat like a coiled snake on his desk. He decided to strike first. With more than a little anxiety, he picked up the document and began to read:

  “CLOTHING

  The body is nude. Received along with the body are: a pair of blue bikini-style underpants, torn; a matching blue brassiere, with the clip anterior, stretched and torn. Both garments bear the label “Victoria’s Secret, Medium.” One slip, blue nylon, bearing label “Sears;” tan corduroy skirt, label “Dress Barn, medium;” pink angora sweater, pullover type, no label (perhaps handmade); two sneakers, white leather, size 8, Nike brand. All garments found alongside victim in single pile.

  EXTERNAL APPEARANCE

  Body is that of a well-developed, well-nourished white female, appearing consistent with the stated age of 34. Rigidity complete in the hands and jaw. Partial rigidity in the knees and elbows. Anterior lividity is present. Head is covered by shoulder length blond hair, approximately 14” long. Eyebrows, eyelashes light brown. There is some bluish discoloration of the lateral portions of the lower lips. Some drying and bluish discoloration in the tip of the tongue. Multiple small petechial-type hemorrhages are noted in the cheeks, bilaterally. Chest and abdomen unremarkable…”

  Matt laid down the report and closed his eyes. Unremarkable indeed, he thought. He wondered if the parents of poor Cindy McKenzie would agree with the clinical findings. He couldn’t begin to imagine what it must be like for a parent or loved one to have to read such a detached description of what had once been an alive, vital human being. He picked up the report again and continued:

  “…Normal breasts with extended nipples. However, there is a heart-shaped incision on the lateral surface of the left breast. Incision is approximately .3 centimeters deep and measures approximately and measures approximately 7.5 centimeters by 5.0 centimeters. Located within the heart-shaped incision are two sets of initials. They are “J.C.” and “C.M.” Incisions appear to have been made with a sharp knife or probably a razor blade. Dried material with the appearance consistent of semen is present around the labium majorum and on the interior aspect of right and left thighs.

  The teeth are natural with minimal decay. Petechial hemorrhages are observed in the gingival and in the buccal surfaces of the lips. The ears are unremarkable and each is pierced once. Normal female genitalia with some evidence of trauma, consistent with rape or forced sexual activity. Light brown curly pubic hair. Back is unremarkable. Anus appears normal. Lower extremities are unremarkable.

  INTERNAL EXAMINATION

  CRANIAL VAULT & BRAIN

  Reflection of the scalp reveals multiple petechial hemorrhages or foci of congestion on the inner surface of the scalp. In addition, there is a 5.0-centimeter by 2.5-centimeter band of diffuse hemorrhage in the soft tissues of the scalp. This band is oriented coronally and located just to the left of the vertex. Shaving of the underlying hair reveals no injury to the external surface of the scalp. No skull fractures. No epidural, sub dural or sub arachnoid hemorrhage. Brain weighs 1270 grams, and is unremarkable…”

  Davis sighed and reflected upon the last statement. There was that word again, “unremarkable.” Damn it, thought the detective, they weren’t unremarkable – any of the victims. Each one had been a living, breathing person, with ideas, hopes, dreams, friends, and relatives. He couldn’t accept that insipid word, “unremarkable.” He was determined to make their lives count for something. He forced himself to continue reading:

  “…Incision made through a 2.5 centimeter panniculus. No excess fluid or adhesions. A few hemorrhages up to .3 centimeters in diameter are noted in the diaphragm…”

  Matt skimmed the remainder of the report, until he came to the final line, entitled “CAUSE OF DEATH.” The words were the same as in the others: “Asphyxia by Strangulation, HOMICIDE.” The autopsy report was dated April 12, and was signed: Catherine D. Ahearn, Assistant Medical Examiner. Attached was a copy of the toxicological report that revealed nothing abnormal other than the fact that the victim had consumed a chicken sandwich before her death.

  It was too soon to expect the results of the DNA tests on the semen, but Davis had no doubt that the profile belonged to one messed up individual. This guy was a one-way trip to hell. Matt only hoped he could stop the train before it made too many more stops.

  He gingerly placed the four-page combined document on the far corner of his desk. He regarded it with distaste, as if it contained a life of its own, which of course—in a manner of speaking—it did. The detective rubbed his eyes, and was suddenly very weary. He reflected upon the details of the latest homicide and grew even more upset.

  The circumstances surrounding Cindy McKenzie’s murder had been identical to the others, except for one detail: she hadn’t been bound to the bed. Perhaps she was already dead by the time her body was defiled, eliminating the need for the ligatures? Often times there were discrepancies in the details of serial killings, but these were generally outweighed by the similarities. The papers would say that she had been brutally raped and strangled like the two previous victims, but there would be no mention of the heart and the initials. Those details were being withheld at all costs to avoid inflating the killer’s ego, and to discourage anyone else from becoming a “copycat killer.”

  But, it wasn’t the newspaper stories, the autopsy report, or the toxicological report that disturbed Davis so much. These were routine occurrences, but he never got used to them. No, it was a simple bit of information that gnawed at him like acid on an empty stomach. It was the fact that, upon further investigation, it had been discovered that earlier that evening, according to a neighbor, Cindy had been to Confession at St. Jude’s.

  According to the autopsy report, the victim, thirty-four-year old Cindy McKenzie, had eaten a chicken sandwich—nothing abnormal about that was there? No,
certainly not. But, then, as if anticipating her fate, the young woman had visited St. Jude and made what amounted to her final confession, and final Act of Contrition. Was it merely a coincidence, or did her actions provide some sort of morbid clue? What, wondered Davis, had been in that confession and perhaps more important, who had heard it?

  CHAPTER 27

  Baltimore, Maryland

  John Curran entered puberty when he was thirteen. At the same time he entered his own personal hell. In the beginning, all of the boy’s feelings of sexual arousal were accompanied by a competing sense of apprehension and fear. His scarred penis and testicles was a fierce reminder of the various tortures administered by his mother and her partners. Every erection brought with it both excitement and revulsion.

  One evening, though, while lying in bed and unable to sleep, John subconsciously allowed his mind to wander to the image of the fresh, innocent face of Sister Francis. He became ashamed. He tried desperately to turn his thoughts to a non-sexual subject. He thought of cars, sports, and even food – anything but Sister Francis. But, his attempts at misdirection only brought the image of his surrogate mother more clearly into focus. Try as he might to dismiss it, the image only became clearer, and with the image came the erection. He wasn’t aware of exactly how it happened, but John soon found himself on the brink of orgasm. Before he realized what was happening, the first-time experience was over. The warm, wet fluid from his ejaculation had spread over the front of his under shorts and he was left relieved, but also confused. The exhausted boy immediately drifted into a deep, untroubled sleep. When he awoke in the morning, he felt oddly refreshed – even cleansed – but with no memory of the shame of the previous evening. From that day forward, however, all feelings of sexual arousal were to be forever linked to the image of John Curran’s one true love—Sister Francis—and were to be accompanied by a deep feeling of shame...

  CHAPTER 28

  8:45 a.m., Friday, April 14

  The Tenth Precinct headquarters is situated in the middle of the block on 20th Street, between Seventh and Eighth Avenues. Nobody knows for sure how old the building is, but it is generally considered a safe bet that it pre-dates the turn of the century. At first glance, it appears to be just another apartment building, sandwiched in between two others. However, upon further inspection, its large double doors and twin globe lights that illuminate its entrance give it away for what it is—a police station. Davis shuffled up the ancient metal stairs to his office on the second floor. The day was warming quickly, and he removed his heavy topcoat before signing in on the movement sheet. It was about nine when he decided to phone St. Jude.

  Margaret Flynn, the seventy-eight-year old housekeeper, answered the phone on the fifth ring. Except for being a little hard of hearing, she was as spry as the day she left her native Ireland to come to America, almost sixty years ago. She had been employed by the church ever since.

  “It’s for you, Father Pete,” she shouted from the large, white-tiled kitchen, adjacent to the head priest’s study.

  Richter put down the latest copy of Golf Magazine and picked up the extension. He waited for the click, which signaled that Margaret had hung up, then spoke clearly into the phone. “Hello, this is Father Richter.”

  “It’s Matt Davis, Father Pete,” said the detective, remembering the priest’s request for informality. “I was wondering—” he hesitated briefly, carefully phrasing his request “—I was wondering if it would be possible to find out who was hearing Confession last Friday afternoon?”

  The silence on the other end of the line was palpable.

  “I really need to know,” he said, quite forcefully. He immediately regretted the tone of his voice and his choice of words.

  “Well, hello to you, too, Matt,” said Father Richter, as if he had never heard the detective’s question. “And how are you?”

  Oh boy, thought Davis, I was right. I pushed too hard. He forced himself to respond. “I’m sorry, Father Pete. I’m fine. And you?”

  “Great, Matt. So, what can I help you with?” His voice sounded more relaxed.

  “Well, I guess you heard about the McKenzie woman, right?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I did,” replied Father Richter, with a sigh. “In fact, her funeral is tomorrow morning. I didn’t know her very well, though.”

  “No, no, I’m sure you didn’t. I understand she hadn’t been to Confession in over ten years.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” answered the priest. “Is that what her husband told you?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Davis. “That’s why it’s so important that I speak with who ever it was that heard her confession. Maybe he can give us some idea of what was troubling her.”

  “Well, the funeral mass is at ten tomorrow morning,” replied Father Richter. “And, of course, it is the weekend. Perhaps sometime Monday afternoon; would that be okay?”

  Matt sensed some reluctance on the priest’s part, and answered quickly. “Actually, I was hoping for a little sooner. But, I guess Monday would be fine. Do you know who it was, that heard the confession, I mean?”

  Father Richter’s voice smiled as he replied. “Well, not right off the top of my head, Matt. I’d have to look at the assignment sheet, talk to the other priests. But, I’ll tell you what: I’ll find out who it was and make sure they’re here when you come by on Monday. Is four o’clock okay?”

  Matt breathed a sigh of relief. “Four o’clock will be fine, Father. I’ll see you then.”

  “Okay, Matt. So long.”

  * * * *

  Father Richter hung up the phone and clasped his hands behind his head. He leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on his desk. He imagined a grizzly picture of Cindy McKenzie’s corpse and shuddered. Swiveling the chair around, he stopped short when his gaze fell upon the photograph of Sister Francis that hung upon the nearby wall. Without thinking, he quietly crossed himself, rose directly from the chair, and left the room.

  Mrs. Flynn was still in the kitchen, and she offered the priest a cup of tea, which he gratefully accepted and began sipping from almost immediately. He held the vessel reverently in his hands, allowing its warmth to spread through his fingers, as he walked toward the window that overlooked the street. To the housekeeper, it appeared that the priest seemed to be upset.

  “Is there something wrong, Father?” asked the housekeeper.

  “Huh?”

  “I mean…the detective—is there anything wrong?”

  The priest stirred his tea slowly, then looked up.

  “I hope not, Margaret. I certainly hope not.”

  Around ten, Matt was heading for the men’s room to relieve himself of the burden of his morning hot chocolate, when he passed Captain Foster’s office. His superior’s familiar voice rang out. “Is that you, Matt?”

  “Yeah, boss. What’s up?”

  “That’s what I was going to ask you.”

  Davis ducked his head inside the captain’s doorway. “I’ll be right back. I’ve gotta see a man about a horse.”

  “Make sure you don’t piss on your shoes,” shouted Foster. “And make it fast. We need to talk.”

  Davis returned in a moment and sat down opposite the other detective. “So?”

  “Which do you want first? The good news or the bad news?” asked Foster.

  Matt considered Foster’s tone of voice and thought he knew what his boss was going to tell him.

  “Hey, you know me. I’m a sucker for bad news, so let’s have it,” said Davis.

  “Okay,” sighed Foster. “They’re asking for a task force.”

  Matt had been partially correct.

  “So, what’s the good news?” he asked.

  Foster squinted his eyes, and affected a stage whisper. “What if I told you that I can keep the whole thing down here? Right here in the One-O?”

  “I’d say you had rocks in your head.”

  “Well, I don’t have rocks in my head—and—I already did it.”

 
“No shit. How?”

  “Well, I promised the PC that you’d have it wrapped up in three weeks.”

  “Three weeks!” shouted Davis. “What are you, nuts? Never mind. Don’t answer that.”

  The two men sat quietly, each staring past the other. Finally, Matt broke the silence. “Okay, how many men do I get?”

  Foster swiveled his chair around to face the window and looked out, his back to Davis. His silence was a wordless statement that only reinforced Matt’s sense of dread.

  “Well?” asked Matt.

  “Well what?”

  “How many men?”

  “Five,” said Foster, almost in a whisper.

  “How many?”

  “Five, god damn it!” shouted Foster. “Matt, it’s the best I can do,” he added, meekly.

  Davis stood up and began pacing back and forth. “Let me get this straight. You tell the PC I’ll have this thing all tied up in a neat package in three weeks, and then you only give me five men. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Matt, I—”

  “You are nuts! Look, it’s bad enough that—”

  This time it was Foster’s turn to interrupt. “It gets worse.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Davis.

  “The five includes you, Freitag, and Valdez. It’s the best I can do, Matt. I swear it. Otherwise they wanted to go outside the One-O. And we don’t want that do we?” It was a rhetorical question with only one answer.

  Matt answered it anyway. “No,” he said, quietly.

  A task force was a detective’s worst nightmare. Its specter haunted every serial homicide investigation. It not only threatened confusion, but an invasion by outside agencies. It guaranteed the one thing that every homicide detective feared most of all—loss of control. Task forces invited risk taking, along with glory seeking officials, ad nausea. Davis knew the odds were against him.