As The Twig Is Bent: A Matt Davis Mystery

by Perrone Jr. , Joe

  Sexy39: 7:30 sharp! See you then...

  They both logged off at the same time. Rita felt a quiver of anxiety go through her, and wondered whether she was making the right decision. Oh, well, too late now.

  CHAPTER 57

  8:45 a.m., Friday, May 19

  The phone rang four times before a soft-spoken male voice answered, “Glen Ellyn Seminary. This is Brother Timothy. How may I help you?”

  “Brother Timothy, this is Detective Davis, Tenth Precinct, New York City, Homicide Division—”

  “Oh my,” said the gentle voice of the clergyman. “Is this about those religious murders?”

  Matt was shocked into momentary silence.

  “Hello? Are you still there?” asked Brother Timothy.

  “Yes, I’m still here,” replied Davis. “I’m…it’s just…” he grappled for the right words. “ Well, actually, you kind of took me by surprise. I mean, what would make you ask me that?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” answered the brother. “I suppose because it’s been all over the newspapers. Why else would you be calling here?”

  “Well, you’re right,” said Matt. “I guess I just didn’t expect you to be so up to date with the news and all—”

  “Well,” laughed the cleric, “We aren’t monks, you know. We read the papers, watch television, and even use the Internet.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure,” replied Matt. “Well, I guess the cat’s out of the proverbial bag.”

  Both men laughed awkwardly.

  “Yes, Brother,” said Matt. “You’re right. I am calling about those homicides. Unfortunately, we found fingerprints at each of the crime scenes that belong to an individual who appears to be a priest.”

  It was the clergyman’s turn to be silenced.

  “A priest that may have come from your seminary,” added Matt.

  “Well, what—”

  “The problem,” said Matt, “is that the individual in question has not been seen or heard from by anyone in the neighborhood in nearly forty years. We believe he may have attended your institution, but we don’t know for sure.”

  “What makes you think so?” asked the brother.

  “Well,” said Matt. “We traced him back to his undergraduate school in Pennsylvania, and found a story about him in the school paper. An article about him reported that he intended to attend Glen Ellyn.”

  “I see,” said Brother Timothy. “Well, it would be easy enough to check our records—”

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” said Davis. “His name is John Curran, and he would have been a first-year student in fall of 1965, and—”

  “But,” interrupted the brother. “I’m afraid it might take some time. You see, all of our records are on paper, and we don’t have much of a staff—”

  “Would it be too much to ask for us to come up and check the records ourselves?” asked Matt. “I promise we won’t cause a commotion.”

  “Well, I suppose not,” answered the clergyman. “Assuming of course, that you had the proper identification and all. No, that would be fine. When would you like to come?”

  “Well,” said Matt, “If it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition, we’d like to come right up. I figure it’s, what, three-and-a-half, maybe four hours? We could be there by one, the latest. Would that be okay?”

  “Certainly,” replied Brother Timothy. “I’ll make sure someone is available to help you.”

  “Thank you,” said Matt. “We’ll see you in a little while.”

  “Freitag!”

  CHAPTER 58

  12:56 p.m., Friday, May 19

  Contrary to their regular routine—Freitag driving to, and Davis from their appointed destination—Matt assumed the driving chore on the leg up to Glen Ellyn. He was wide-awake when he picked up Chris, and figured the driving would put his energy level to good use. The trip took about four hours, including a stop along the way for a quick breakfast at the Roscoe Diner.

  With Matt at the wheel, Chris sat quietly, thinking back to when he and Davis were first assigned as each other’s partner, while still in uniform. At first, they were a bit uncomfortable with one another. Davis was somewhat refined, a college man with esoteric hobbies: fly fishing and golf. Freitag, on the other hand, had only graduated high school. His interests revolved around basketball, bowling, and the occasional barbecue, complete with “a couple of cold ones.” The only fishing he did was for bass—with worms—and he kept everything he caught. His new partner was into “catch and release,” whatever the hell that was.

  It wasn’t until the two had been “partnered up” on foot patrol for nearly six months that the defining moment in their relationship had occurred. It would forever cement their friendship.

  One evening, while “on the knobs” (running a security check of neighborhood businesses), Davis had noticed an alleyway door ajar to a local liquor store in their sector. Without thinking, Matt had left Freitag outside, and pushed open the door, surprising a burglar in the act of robbing the cash register. The shocked thief had turned, and pulled a gun, catching Davis off guard, his own weapon still holstered at his side. The two stood at a stalemate, but it was obvious to Matt that he was in deep trouble. The thief motioned with his gun for Davis to enter a walk-in refrigerator, and followed behind him, with his gun jammed into the patrolman’s back. Suddenly, Freitag entered through the open doorway, surprising the intruder, who turned and fired once, nicking Chris in the shoulder. Instinctively, Chris returned fire, a bullet striking the thief in the chest, killing him almost instantly. Matt immediately rushed to his partner’s side, pressed a handkerchief to the wound, and radioed for an ambulance.

  Police procedure dictates there be an investigation by the Internal Affairs Division anytime an officer discharges a weapon. Davis and Freitag both knew that Matt’s lack of proper procedure in entering the premises without his partner, and without having his weapon drawn, would probably result not only in a reprimand, but probably a suspension for Davis. Freitag, too, would probably be disciplined for allowing his partner to go into the building alone. So, before the ambulance arrived, Chris had worked out a plausible story to explain the shooting—and to clear his partner—insisting that both men stick to it with conviction when questioned by Internal Affairs. Not only had Freitag taken a bullet for Matt, but by solidifying their alibi, he had earned commendations for both, putting each on a fast track to their detective shields. Later on, when Matt divorced, it was Chris who helped him through the rough times. And, when Matt met Valerie, and announced that he was to be married for the second time, it was Freitag he asked to be his best man. That had been the lynch pin that forever solidified their friendship.

  Now, as Chris reflected back upon that pivotal day in their friendship, he smiled broadly as he visualized how beautiful Valerie had looked, and how proud his partner had been of his new bride. Suddenly, Chris’s reverie was interrupted by the sound of his partner’s voice.

  “Finally,” proclaimed Matt with a sigh. He had just spotted the sign indicating the approach to Elmira’s city limits. Elmira is just north of the Pennsylvania-New York border, and is perhaps best know now for its parachute jumping. It was part of an industrial triangle—including Ithaca and Binghamton—that provided jobs for an area deeply in need of them. Today, work is scarce, and welfare is the prevailing source of income.

  Glen Ellyn Seminary’s elegant appearance belies its purpose: that being the education and religious preparation of its students to become Roman Catholic priests. The campus itself occupies approximately ten acres, with several granite buildings and a modest chapel sitting atop a hill overlooking the city of Elmira. A high wrought-iron fence surrounds the property, interrupted only by a set of gates, held by two granite pillars. Today, the gates were open, and Davis guided the cruiser up a long, winding drive to a parking area adjacent to one of the buildings. He pulled the Impala into one of the spaces marked “Visitors,” and nudged Freitag.

  Chris yawned, and stretched his arms wide, punc
hing Matt in the shoulder. “Good job,” he joked.

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Davis. “You couldn’t have done it better yourself, right?”

  “R-i-i-i-g-h-t,” said Chris.

  An elderly man, dressed in street clothes, opened the door to the administration building, and showed the two men into the Spartan-like waiting room. “Please have a seat, gentlemen,” he said. “I’ll tell Brother Timothy that you’re here.”

  The barren confines reminded Davis of his days as an altar boy in his own Parish, at St. Edward’s, in Brooklyn. He fidgeted uncomfortably awaiting Brother Timothy’s appearance, as he might have done in his youth, expecting a reprimand for talking during services. He had just closed his eyes when the gentle voice of the brother brought him to attention.

  “Ah,” said Brother Timothy, “so you are Detective Davis.”

  Matt popped to his feet. “Pleased to meet you, Brother,” he answered.

  “Likewise,” offered Chris.

  “This is Detective Freitag,” said Matt.

  “My pleasure,” responded the cleric. He was a little man, probably under five feet-six, with close-cropped gray hair, and a slender body, encased by a cassock. Davis thought he looked a bit effeminate.

  All three men stood there in awkward silence, until Brother Timothy finally broke the quiet. “Well, I guess you’d like to see those records,” he said, his words more of a statement, than a question.

  “Actually, yes,” said Matt. “The sooner we get started, the better our chances of finding what we need.”

  “By the way, brother,” said Matt. “How long does it take to get through seminary?”

  “Well, it’s hard to say,” replied the cleric. “There’s no real set timetable. Most generally finish in two years, but some take as long as three or four.”

  “Well,” replied Matt. “We know he started in the fall of ’65, or at least we think that’s when he got here. I guess that’s as good a place to start as any.”

  The two detectives were shown to a dimly lit room, containing row after row of dusty, metal filing cabinets. “Let me turn on some more lights,” offered Brother Timothy. He flipped a couple of switches, and the room brightened considerably. “Everything is clearly marked, but if you need anything, Mr. Jefferson, our housekeeper, will be just outside. Please tell him what you want, and he’ll be happy to assist you.”

  “Thank you very much, Brother,” said Matt.

  “Well, I certainly hope you find your man,” said the clergyman. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Even if he is one of ours. I read about those murders. Shocking – absolutely shocking.”

  It took over an hour to find John Curran’s records. Everything was filed according to month and year, not alphabetically. Matt finally found the document that recorded the young man’s attendance. Curran indeed did attend Glen Ellyn. As it turned out, John had finished his studies at the seminary in the summer of 1968—certainly no big surprise there. And, he was ordained as a priest – as expected. Matt continued to read, and then stopped.

  “Oh, my God!” he exclaimed.

  “What is it?” asked Freitag.

  Matt stared down at the document as if it were a poisonous snake, holding it at arm’s length. “… it’s…Richter,” he stammered.

  “Wha—”

  “It’s Father Pete,” said Matt, so softly that Chris had to strain to hear the words.

  “But—”

  “He changed his name.” Matt dropped the paper to the floor.

  Freitag stooped down, retrieved the document, and began to read. His partner stood by him in silence. There in black and white was the information they had been hoping for. It just wasn’t what they had expected.

  “I don’t believe it,” said Matt. “I don’t fucking believe it.”

  Freitag looked at the piece of paper in his hand and shook his head. “Well, we always said it had something to do with religion.”

  “Yeah, but Father Pete?” said Davis.

  “Hey, you know what?” said Chris. “I’ve been on the job long enough that nothing surprises me anymore—not even this shit.”

  “Look,” said Davis. “We need to think this out carefully. I don’t want to blow this.”

  “Yeah,” said Chris. “I know what you mean. All we need is the Archbishop coming down on our ass when we arrest one of his boys.”

  “Never mind the Archbishop. It’s the PC that worries me. Don’t say a word about this when we get back,” said Matt. “Especially to that jerk, Cohen, from the Post.” Chris nodded in the affirmative.

  “First thing we need to do is canvas all the neighbors. Show them a picture of Richter. Then, I’ll reach out to a judge for a warrant,” said Davis. “We’re going to need a DNA sample, fingerprints, the works.”

  As usual, Freitag changed the subject to one of more immediate concern. “What do you say we get some dinner before we head back?” he said, his voice hopeful.

  Davis stared at him, then smiled. “It’s kind of early, isn’t it?”

  “Well, we didn’t have any lunch yet,” whined Chris, almost like a child trying for an extra helping of dessert. “And, I know you. If we wait ‘til we get back to the city, we probably won’t get anything—”

  “Okay, okay,” said Matt, in mock surrender. “You win. Besides, it’s a good idea. I’m starving.” Freitag’s face brightened at the prospect.

  Davis considered where they were, then quipped, “McDonald’s or Burger King?”

  “Fuck that fast food shit,” laughed Chris. “If this is all I’m gonna get, I want to eat at a good diner.”

  CHAPTER 59

  June 11, 1968

  Peter Richter’s first assignment as a priest had turned out to be his only assignment – St. Jude Roman Catholic Church in the Chelsea District of Manhattan. At the time, it was unusual for a first-year cleric to be sent to a parish as large and busy as St. Jude. However, the newly ordained priest had requested the posting when he learned of the vacancy from a fellow student whose parents lived in Queens. Since he had been such an outstanding theological student, it was generally accepted that Richter would fit in, regardless of where he was sent.

  When he arrived at St. Jude, one of the first things he did was to hang the picture of his beloved Sister Francis in his room. Later, when he became the Monsignor at St. Jude, the picture was moved to the wall behind his desk, in the study at the rectory. No one ever questioned the identity of the woman in the picture, but it was generally accepted that it was a photograph of the priest’s mother.

  Almost from the start, Father “Pete” became known as a priest to whom the women of the parish could relate. It was a marked departure from his earlier relationships with women. Indeed, it could almost be said that Father Pete had become somewhat of a lady’s man.

  The metamorphosis was complete.

  CHAPTER 60

  It was nearly three-thirty by the time Matt and Chris finished eating. The ride back to Manhattan seemed to take forever. With Freitag at the wheel, however, Matt was free to explore every detail of the bizarre case. His mind churned away like a computer; moving files here and there, sifting through bits of information, saving some, and discarding others. He hated to admit it, but everything fit. Father Pete had the access. He certainly had the means, in fact, his athletic ability would easily have enabled him to overpower and strangle the victims. He thought back to their golf game. Hell! He’s even left-handed. So, what was wrong? Why didn’t he feel confident that they had the right man? The answer was simple: what was missing was motive. Why would a man in Father Pete’s position want to murder five women right in his own parish? And, why would he be so careless as to leave his fingerprints and the bibles?

  It just didn’t make sense.

  CHAPTER 61

  7:10 p.m., Friday, May 19

  Rita wolfed down the remains of her Diet Gourmet chicken dinner. A glance at the kitchen clock told her to get moving. She tossed the empty plastic plate in the trash, and quickly washed h
er utensils and glass, placing them carefully alongside the sink to dry.

  What goes with a Yankee hat? Rita asked herself. She pulled open the bi-fold doors to her wardrobe closet, and began rummaging through its contents. Keep it simple, she thought: a blouse and jeans, maybe some running shoes. Yeah, she thought, the old athletic look. Wait a minute, she thought. What am I, nuts? This guy could be a killer. All she wanted to do was smoke him out—not turn him on.

  She pulled a blue, short-sleeved blouse from the top rack. It was a relatively new one, a Patagonia brand, with pockets on the front. She removed the sweatshirt she was wearing, and slipped into the blouse. Rita smiled when she noticed how the two flapped pockets accentuated her more than ample breasts. What the hell, she thought, might as well give the guy a thrill—before I bust his ass! She unbuttoned the top two buttons, allowing a full view of her spectacular cleavage, then thought better about it, and closed one of the mother-of-pearl fasteners.

  Lying down on her unmade bed, Rita shimmied into a pair of skintight jeans that were worn thin across the buttocks, both by design and from use. She laced up her white and powder blue Reeboks, and retreated to the bathroom. A quick glance in the mirror assured her that her make up was still intact, her hair decent, and both earrings were in place. Valdez brushed her teeth, then rifled through the drawer of the small vanity, and found her White Diamonds perfume. Nah. Oh, what the hell. She dabbed a drop behind each ear, and dragged the glass stopper across her throat.

  Rita grabbed up her purse and keys and started for the door. “Shit,” she muttered aloud. “I almost forgot the damn Yankee hat. Wouldn’t that be great? Walk in, just like an asshole, with no hat!”

  She tucked her long hair up on top of her head and fastened it in place with a barrette from her purse. The Yankees hat was on top of the refrigerator, and she jumped up, grabbed it, and slapped it onto her head all in one motion. She opened the door, exited, and locked it behind her, hurrying down the stairs to meet the night.