As The Twig Is Bent: A Matt Davis Mystery

by Perrone Jr. , Joe

  “How do you do? I’m Ann Palmer. We spoke on the phone.”

  “My name is Detective Davis; this is Detective Freitag.” Each officer displayed his gold NYPD Detective’s shield.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said. “Won’t you have a seat?”

  Davis and Freitag nodded, and pulled up chairs on each side of the large, wooden desk.

  “You mentioned on the phone that you were looking for information regarding a former student. I hope I can help you,” she said.

  “Well, we certainly appreciate your seeing us on such short notice,” said Matt. “Actually, we turned up this fellow Curran’s fingerprints at a crime scene, but all we know is that he attended the university around nineteen-sixty-two.”

  “I see,” said the dean. “But, I still don’t see how we can help.”

  “Well,” continued Davis. “Apparently, he was arrested on an assault charge; beat up his girlfriend. Anyway, he was released on probation, and appears to have kept his nose clean since. What we’re hoping to find out is whether he went on to graduate school—maybe pick up his trail from there. Or, if he didn’t, maybe there’s a record of what happened to him when he graduated—if he graduated.”

  “Well, we can certainly check that out,” offered the dean. “We have records dating back to 1927 of all our graduating classes. And, we do have an alumni organization. But, since we don’t have fraternities or sororities, I’m afraid there’s not too much to tie our graduates to BFU once they’re gone.”

  “I know just what you mean,” said Matt. “All I remember about City College is that that’s where I went nights, when I wasn’t working.”

  “Dean Palmer,” asked Freitag, “Would it be possible for us to see those graduation records?” He was getting impatient, and figured it time to move on.

  “Certainly,” replied the dean. “I’ll have Janice take you to the records room. Everything up until five years ago is on microfiche.”

  Dean Palmer introduced the detectives to her young female aide. She was a blonde, who appeared to be dressed as if in opposition to the dean’s conservative attire. Her jeans were tight enough to reveal no trace of a panty line, and the man’s work shirt that she wore suggested that no bra was in evidence. Janice’s hips swayed seductively as she led the two men toward the records office, located on the second floor of the building.

  “What year did you say you were looking for?” she asked. She stared at Freitag in that open way that only a young girl can—suggesting everything, yet revealing nothing.

  “We didn’t,” replied Davis. “But, we know the individual we’re looking for was a student here in 1962. Whether he was a freshman, sophomore, or what, is anybody’s guess.”

  The girl scanned the labels on the metal filing cabinets, until she came to one marked “Graduation Records.” She opened the drawer, and extracted a roll of microfiche.

  “You can start here,” she suggested. “This is the class of 1962. If you don’t find what you’re looking for, you can try going backward or forwards.”

  “Thank you,” said Matt, accepting the roll of film.

  “The machine is over here. Do you know how to operate it?” asked the young woman.

  Both detectives smiled. “Oh, yeah,” said Freitag. “Just lead us to it; we’ll do the rest.”

  The girl turned and started to walk away, then stopped.

  “You know, we have a school newspaper,” she offered. “There might be something in one of the old issues that might help.”

  “Thanks,” replied Davis. “If we can’t find anything in the graduation records, we’ll take a look at the newspapers.” The girl smiled and left the room.

  Freitag made sure she was gone before speaking to his partner.

  “I think I was born too late,” he said. “Did you get a look at the body on her? Man, what I wouldn’t give to—”

  “Never mind,” scolded Matt. “Let’s just find what we came for, and get the hell out of here.”

  It took a while, but they eventually located John Curran’s name among those listed with the class of 1964. Unfortunately, no mention was made of any graduate school he might have attended, or career plans he might have made. There was a class picture, but Curran’s image was missing. The two detectives thanked the young aide, and left the building.

  “Shit,” said Chris. “I was hoping there would be more information than that.”

  “Well, I hoped so too,” said Matt. “But, deep down inside I think I knew that we’d have to do more digging.”

  They hunted down the female aide, who seemed pleased at having her advice taken. She pointed them in the direction of the cabinet that held the rolls of microfiche containing the copies of the old newspapers.

  “Lots of times there are stories about the really good students,” she said. “You know, like what awards they get, or where they’re going—stuff like that.”

  Chris began rifling through the canisters until he found the one for 1964. “Here it is,” he said, holding the metal container up like a trophy.

  Together, they spooled the film through the projector’s sprockets, and Davis began turning the handle. He moved hurriedly through the first four or five months’ issues, then slowed as he approached the June edition. Suddenly, he stopped.

  “Here it is!” exclaimed Matt.

  “What’ve you got?” asked Chris.

  Davis was moving his lips as he used his finger to follow the lines in the article. “Wait, wait – here – I’ll be a son of a bitch!”

  “What?” said Chris.

  “You won’t believe this—”

  “What won’t I believe?” asked Freitag, his voice bordering on a shout.

  “The guy went to a seminary,” said Matt.

  “You mean he’s a—”

  “He’s a priest!” exclaimed Davis.

  “No shit,” said Freitag, quietly. He was stunned.

  “It makes perfect sense.” Davis shook his head slowly back and forth. He copied down the pertinent information in his notebook, including the name and location of the seminary. Returning the canister to the file cabinet, he stood up and turned to face his partner. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s head over to the local precinct house and see what we can find out there.”

  “Well, we know most of the details about the incident in sixty-two,” said Freitag. “But, maybe we can get a hold of the arrest report. Hopefully they took his portrait. It’s a long shot, but if they did, we can have our resident Van Gogh work a little computer magic. Then, if we’re lucky, we’ll have some idea what he might look like today.”

  A dingy, stucco building that looked more like a park ranger station than a headquarters, housed the Lewisburg Police Station. It was situated at the end of a gravel road on the outskirts of town. The only suggestion as to the building’s function was the bright, new police cruiser parked in the rear. Small town police work did have its privileges.

  “Let me see,” said the bespectacled policeman. He was rummaging through a rusty file cabinet, situated alongside an ancient water cooler that periodically burped as if to make its presence known. At last, the uniformed officer located what he had been searching for. “Here it is: Curran, J: Probation Records.” In his hand, he held a dust covered accordion file, which he offered to Davis.

  Matt scanned the enclosed documents until he found one that interested him. It was a data sheet listing all of Curran’s personal information, including the fact that he was an orphan from the Holy Angels Foster Home in Baltimore, Maryland. Then, Davis found what he was really after: a mug shot. It was black and white and a bit faded, but the images were of a clean-cut young man, facing the camera full on and in profile. The faced looked familiar to Matt, but he just couldn’t place it.

  “Can I get a copy of this?” he asked.

  “No problem,” replied the officer. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  Davis paced back and forth. It was all starting to fit.

  “If this guy was a pri
est, he’d have plenty of access to women,” he thought aloud. “He could hear their confessions—Hell, he could even visit them at their homes. That would explain how he gets in—”

  “Yeah,” said Chris. “And even if he’s not in our precinct, he could be getting a line on his victims from another priest—”

  “Who wouldn’t even know,” said Matt.

  Just then, the officer returned with the photocopy.

  “Thanks very much for your time,” said Davis.

  “No problem,” answered the policeman.

  It was growing dark as Davis piloted the Impala east, along Interstate 80, back toward New York City. His mind raced feverishly, trying to put the pieces together. Meanwhile, Freitag snoozed quietly in the passenger seat, his head resting against the glass of the police cruiser. It was a time-tested arrangement; Freitag drove to, Davis from whenever they made one of these out-of-state excursions. It suited Matt fine. This way he could sort out all the information they had gathered, hopefully tying up the loose ends. Of course, there were more questions unanswered than answered at this point.

  Why would Curran’s tracks have suddenly disappeared almost forty years ago? If he was a priest, where was he located, in Manhattan, in one of the outer boroughs? Why would he be so careless as to leave his fingerprints? And what about the New Testaments, how about them?

  Well, he thought, at least they had some direction now. First thing tomorrow, he would get in touch with the seminary. It was located upstate New York, near Elmira. Hopefully, they would be able to enlighten the police as to Curran’s whereabouts.

  The next day an army of plainclothes detectives began checking the personnel records of all the Manhattan parishes, in an effort to locate the mystery priest, named John Curran. In addition, every John Curran, who had a driver’s license, and who was of approximately the right age, was checked out with Motor Vehicles. After three days though, and, to no one’s surprise, they still didn’t have a flesh and blood suspect. There was one priest located at a small church in Far Rockaway, whose name was James Curran, but it turned out that he was nearly eighty years of age, and confined to a wheelchair.

  CHAPTER 56

  Rita had been true to her vow, and had not been in a chat room ever since the incident with Callahan. However, this evening she was feeling particularly lonely. She had tried calling Chris earlier in the evening, but after numerous rings without an answer, she remembered that he and Matt were out of town and hung up the phone. She tried watching TV, but nothing there really captured her interest. Finally, after hemming and hawing, she decided to log on to the Internet, but only “to see if good old Carl is there.” Although she didn’t think there was any future in a relationship with him, it might be nice just to “see” a friendly “face.”

  After wandering in and out of several of her old haunts without finding Carl, she decided to try one more “place.” She located “Friends for Singles,” and clicked her way in to the room. There was a heated discussion going on about the possibilities of another terrorist attack, and before long she had joined in the discourse, her promises to refrain chatting long forgotten.

  Ever since discovering Rita Valdez’s email address and screen name on the back of Detective Freitag’s card, Father Pete had been obsessed with thoughts of the voluptuous female cop. Try as he might, he couldn’t get her face and body out of his mind. He contemplated calling her, but decided against taking so direct a tact as being too risky. Then, it hit him. If she had a screen name, she just might be one of the many women who occupied those immoral chat rooms. He decided to do one of those “Who’s Chatting?’ searches, to see if Detective Valdez was online. If he couldn’t have a relationship with her in the real world, he might at least be able to foster one founded upon fantasy.

  His first attempt at finding Valdez was a failure. All of his usual “contacts” were there, but no Rita. Undaunted, he tried again, and on the second attempt, managed to locate her “Sexy39” screen name in an innocuous room called “Friends for Singles.” He was using his “GolfNut1” screen name, and at first he was quite content to sit there in the dark and just watch. It appeared as if Rita Valdez was really just there to socialize, and not particularly interested in pursuing anything other than friendship. The few individuals who occupied the chat room were discussing politics or some other inane topic, not particularly suited to Father Pete’s interests. After watching Valdez for a while, Richter decided to test her “intentions.”

  Slowly, and more deliberately than usual, Father Pete typed his first words to the woman who had monopolized his thoughts, both sleeping and awake, in recent days.

  GolfNut1: Excuse me. I just want to say hi to Sexy39

  Sexy39: And who are you?

  GolfNut1: Oh, just an admirer...that’s all

  Sexy39: Do I know you?

  GolfNut1: No. At least, not yet...But, I’d love to...lol.

  Sexy39: What makes you think I’d like to know you?

  GolfNut1: Well...because most of the others usually do...until...well, never mind...they just do.

  Sexy39: Have we ever met?

  GolfNut1: I don’t know. What do you think?

  Valdez looked at the screen, and something inside her policewoman’s brain registered a caution. This was the second time now that someone had contacted her like this. First it was Callahan, and now this GolfNut1 guy. She decided to go with the flow, and see where it led. Ever since the Callahan “thing” had occurred, Rita had been considering whether Ken himself might not be the killer that had been terrorizing their precinct. Only a confession or conclusive DNA match would provide a satisfactory answer. However, in the meantime, with Ken in custody, and no distinct conclusion yet to be drawn, Valdez’s thoughts now turned to other possibilities.

  Surely, the Internet, with its myriad of chat rooms, represented a virtual smorgasbord of candidates for a killer like the one presently at large. Who knew, maybe this guy was the one they sought? Rita decided to throw up a trial balloon.

  Sexy39: Sorry, I was thinking about something....

  GolfNut1: So, what do you think about meeting people in person?

  Sexy39: What? Like you?

  GolfNut1: Yeah. Would you ever consider meeting someone from a chat room?

  Sexy39: What did you have in mind?

  Richter had all he could do to contain himself. She was actually encouraging him. Maybe she really was a slut like all the others. But, how would she feel when she finally saw him, and realized who and what he was? Well, he’d deal with that then, he thought. No use putting the cart before the horse. He felt himself becoming aroused. It was all getting to be too much for him. Any pretense of self-control had long since been abandoned. He pictured the dark-haired beauty, and a shudder went through his body.

  GolfNut1: What about meeting somewhere for a drink?

  Here we go again, thought Rita. This is what got me into trouble in the first place. Then, she pictured those poor women, and her resolve strengthened. Maybe she could end this nightmare. Who knew if this was even the guy? But, he could be. She pondered the possibilities. It was a million-to-one long shot. But, what if her intuition was right?

  GolfNut1: Is that a no?

  Rita’s mind raced frantically. And, if it isn’t the guy, then what? What was the big deal? She decided to throw caution to the wind. Damn Chris, why couldn’t you be home?

  Sexy39: I’m thinking...

  Another tease, thought Richter. She’s no different than all the rest. Now, he was even more determined than ever to convince her to meet with him.

  GolfNut1: Look...I’ll even let you pick the place...someplace you’re comfortable with. I won’t bite...promise!

  Rita looked at the latest sentence on the screen, and shook her head. She knew she shouldn’t go any further, but just couldn’t resist. Oh well, here goes nothing.

  Sexy39: And if we don’t hit it off, we’ll just say thank you very much, and that’s it, okay?

  GolfNut1: Sure. Why not? Neither one o
f us wants to spend time with somebody who doesn’t want to be there, right?

  Sexy39: Right! Okay, do you know where Manny’s is?

  GolfNut1: I think so. Is that the place over on 7th Avenue?

  Sexy39: Yep, that’s the one. It’s on the corner of 20th. When do you want to do this?

  GolfNut1: Do you really want to know?

  Sexy39: Yeah, I know...tonight, right?

  GolfNut1: How’d you guess? But, seriously, how about Friday night?

  Sexy39: What time?

  GolfNut1: 7 o’clock alright?

  Sexy39: Better make it 7:30. You know how we women are...lol.

  GolfNut1: Great! See you then!

  Rita started to type a response, but hesitated. That’s funny, she thought, how does he know what I look like? Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all? The whole situation was giving her the creeps.

  GolfNut1: What’s wrong?

  Sexy39: Oh, nothing...I was just thinking...

  GolfNut1: About what?

  Sexy39: What’s your name?

  Richter stared at the screen. It was really going to happen, he thought. But, he couldn’t stop now, could he? Of course not. It was too late to turn back. He typed the words that would seal his fate.

  GolfNut1: It’s Pete

  Sexy39: How will we know each other?

  GolfNut1: Why don’t we wear something special?

  Sexy39: Like what?

  GolfNut1: How about a hat?

  Sexy39: I have a Yankees hat...is that okay?

  GolfNut1: Well, I’m a Boston fan, but I guess it’ll be okay...Only kidding! Actually, I’m a Yankee fan, too. Yankee hats are fine.

  Sexy39: Good! I’ll see you at 7:30...Oh, what do you look like?

  GolfNut1: Never mind that...let’s just say you’ll be pleasantly surprised....

  Sexy39: Yeah, I’ll bet...lol.

  GolfNut1: See you Friday...