The Celtic Cross Killer

by Keiron Cosgrave

  Pecarro acknowledged Casey with a thin smile. ‘Long time no see. How you been keeping?’

  ‘I’ve been better,’ replied Casey.

  ‘Who’d have thought it, eh, Tooley killed in his own home,’ said Pecarro, shaking his head in disbelief, dropping a handful of moist-brown earth onto the coffin lid six feet below. ‘Murdered in cold blood.’

  Casey’s brow furrowed. ‘Tooley was a good man. You know how it is, Tony, in our line of work you make a lot of enemies. The killer most probably bore a grudge against him. Might even be a connection to the baby food case? Who knows? Tooley pissed off lots of people. Johnson believes The Celtic Cross Killer is responsible. He seems to think the MO is similar. I’m not so sure. No cutting. No signature. I’m keeping an open mind.’

  ‘You do know the killer won’t stop until he’s caught. I liked Tooley. He was a good cop with a sharp intellect. I only met him last week.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Yeah, I did. He wanted to pick my brains about the Celtic cross case.’

  ‘All right… And?’

  ‘And, I told him all I knew. Confided in him…’ Lost in thought, Pecarro’s voice trailed off.

  ‘I’d better get back before Johnson sends out a search party. It’s great to see you again, Tony,’ said Casey thrusting out a hand.

  The former partners exchanged a firm handshake, eyeballed each other. Casey flinched first. Removed his hand. Gazed mournfully at the brass nameplate screwed to the coffin lid bearing Tooley’s name. Said, ‘I’ll see you around, Tony. Take care of yourself.’

  ‘Yeah, I will,’ said Pecarro. ‘You can count on it.’

  Casey smiled thinly, turned and set off towards Johnson, waiting alongside the car.

  Part V

  Brooklyn

  2009

  81

  Antonio Pecarro was late, Mad March hare late. Late had become the default rhythm of his life. Since Celine’s career had blasted into the stratosphere, Pecarro struggled to juggle work and childcare demands. His new life was exhausting. Celine seemed not to want to understand.

  Married fifteen years; the first ten years had been blissful. At first, prioritising their careers, they’d agreed children were out of the question. Celine was ten years younger, and, against his better judgement, when she bemoaned that her “biological clock was ticking,” Pecarro had agreed to a baby. Carlo was born when Pecarro was 54. His life was complete. Now, five years on, with his sixtieth birthday looming, the PI business picking up pace, and a wife placing him firmly in fourth place in the pecking order, Pecarro seethed.

  Pecarro was old school—believed a mother’s place was at home. His mother had accepted it without complaint. Any good woman would. Wouldn’t they?

  Pecarro pushed the cell phone under his chin. Clenched his jaw. Lifted the paper cup against his lips. Sipped espresso. ‘I’m caught in traffic, Mrs Ricci. Sorry, only there’s not much I can do about it. I’ll get there as soon as I can.’

  Pecarro had every reason to arrive on time since Sophia Ricci was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever met. They’d met two years before. Since then, Pecarro had found it hard to get her out of his mind.

  Arriving at daycare, Carlo exercised his democratic right to take exception to the vocal demands of the nursery nurse. His tantrum was epic.

  Carlo was just like his mother, thought Pecarro - headstrong. Pecarro stared out through the windshield, tried hard to clear his mind for the day ahead.

  82

  Pecarro’s new office was located on the top floor of a 1930s brick building on the corner of Hoyt and Fulton Street in downtown Brooklyn. Locating a parking space for his black 1967 Ford Mustang convertible was always a chore, but the rent was low and the location good. On the upside, many of the best bagel shops, delis and bars in Brooklyn were located nearby. The upper floors were accessible via a door set in the brick elevation between discount shoe and clothing stores. A bank of push buttons with handwritten labels identified upper floor tenants.

  Climbing the near-vertical stairs to the fourth floor, Pecarro reminded himself of the health benefits of a top floor office. It had been a conscious decision. In retrospect, given his age and his lapsed fitness regime, probably not one of his better decisions.

  ‘Detective Pecarro, are you okay?’ said Sophia Ricci, greeting the breathless, red-faced Pecarro, arriving on the fourth floor landing.

  ‘I’m fine … Mrs Ricci … just fine… I might have peaked too early… These damn stairs are steep… Apologies… My son, he’s just had an almighty tantrum at daycare. The traffic was a nightmare. Let’s get the door open. First things first, I’ll put the coffee on.’

  They stepped into a small simply furnished office with a desk, leather recliner, visitor’s chairs and a bank of filing cabinets. Pecarro disarmed the bleeping alarm.

  ‘It’s nice to see you again, Mrs Ricci. Please, take a seat. How have you been coping? It’s hard to believe, but it’s been two years since we first met in such terrible circumstances.’

  Sophia lowered herself into the chair. Pecarro opened the blinds. Glanced over the city. Golden sunlight flooded in.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ said Sophia, as Pecarro filled the percolator. A moment later, Sophia Ricci succumbed. A tsunami of grief consumed her. Tears streamed down both cheeks.

  83

  The police believed Franco Ricci was The Celtic Cross Killer’s second victim. Franco was murdered returning home from a college reunion at a local steakhouse located only four blocks from his Brooklyn Heights home. During the investigations, it had been established that Franco had partied hard into the night. The night had ended at The Red Bikini Strip Club. Sophia knew Franco frequented such clubs, but cared little, since his infrequent indiscretions gave their sex life a boost afterwards.

  His college buddies recollected Franco making his excuses and leaving the strip club at 2:30 a.m.

  Franco was the victim of a frenzied knife attack in the alley at the rear of his apartment. A Celtic cross cut symbolically across his back, in a series of macabre vertical and horizontal lines linked by a circle.

  Sophia—Pecarro reminded himself—had heard the attack and witnessed the killer leaving the scene.

  84

  Pecarro remembered the broken Sophia Ricci on that fateful morning. Her grief had been inconsolable.

  Two years later, her grief had not waned. Pecarro pushed up from the chair. Stepped over to the sobbing woman. ‘Eh, take it easy.’ Pecarro set his hand on Sophia’s shoulder. ‘Here, take this.’ Pecarro handed Sophia a tissue. She blew her nose. Pushed the tissue up a sleeve.

  ‘Thanks. I’m fine.’

  ‘You don’t look fine to me.’

  ‘I’m sorry… I’m in such a mess. I thought I could do this. Only… Seeing you again, it’s brought it all flooding back. I’m so sorry…’

  ‘Don’t be sorry, Mrs Ricci, it’s not your fault. You’re grieving a loved one. You’ve experienced something terrible. Something that nobody should ever have to experience. I understand your despair. Your pain. It won’t go away until…’

  Pecarro stalled. Thought: until I catch the bastard. The time had come to exorcise the demon. ‘Until I find Franco’s killer.’

  Their eyes met. Sophia’s despair faltered. Hope stirred deep within.

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘I will. I promise … I will.’

  85

  ‘Tell me what it’s been like since Franco was taken?’ Pecarro asked Sophia Ricci. ‘Take your time.’

  ‘Fucking terrible,’ said Sophia, big brown eyes flaring. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t apologise. I’ve heard much worse in my time. By the way … call me Tony,’ said Pecarro, settling back against the leather. ‘Go on…’

  ‘At first the pain was unbearable. Physical almost. After a month, I simply felt numb. Hollow. The realisation that Franco was never coming back was like a knife through my heart. It swallowed me. I couldn’t function. In time, the numbness turned to
anger. Burning anger. It consumed me. Still does. As I sit here—it may not seem like it—but I’m incandescent with rage. I can’t get my head around the injustice of Franco’s murder.’

  ‘Don’t upset yourself.’

  ‘I’m fine, really. Only, no one seems to care. Everyone, just getting on with his or her lives. Me, I can’t rest. I’m at my wits end. I don’t know which way to turn.’ Sophia rose and padded over to the window, directed her gaze toward the street below. Several minutes passed.

  ‘A friend suggested I use someone like you,’ she continued, her gaze redirected to the seated Pecarro. ‘Detective Pecarro, I need closure. I want this resolved. I want Franco’s killer brought to justice. I want to know what motivated him, or I suppose, her. The thing is, I’ve absolutely no confidence in the NYPD. It’s as if Franco’s murder—his slaying in cold blood—never happened.’

  Pecarro nodded. ‘What have the police been doing for the past two years? Do you get updates? Do they keep in touch?’

  ‘No. Your former colleagues don’t seem to give a damn. I can count on one hand the number of times they’ve been in contact. Think about it … one fucking hand!’

  Something stirred inside Pecarro at Sophia’s use of profanity.

  ‘Communication is non-existent. To call it a murder investigation is an insult to my intelligence. As far as I’m concerned, they haven’t made a goddamned start!’ Sophia paused. Glared. Waited until her anger subsided. Drew breath. ‘Detective Pecarro, I’m here because you worked on the case. Doesn’t it strike you as unusual that I’ve had only three visits from the senior investigating detective in almost two years?’ shrieked Sophia.

  ‘I agree just three visits is unusual. What can I do to help?’

  ‘Find Franco’s killer,’ said Sophia, flatly. ‘Find him so I can move on. You’re my last hope. You led on the first murder investigation. I got a confused picture from the newspapers about you. Some said you resigned. Others intimated, they sacked you,’ said Sophia. ‘For the record, which is true?’

  ‘I resigned,’ replied Pecarro. ‘I didn’t agree with the strategic direction the department was taking.’

  ‘I’m in the right place, then. I suspect … I hope you’ve got something of an axe to grind. I’m hoping you’ve got unfinished business with the NYPD. Am I right?’

  Sophia Ricci’s dark eyes seared into Pecarro’s soul and stirred emotions that Pecarro had tried hard to consign to history.

  ‘Mrs Ricci … Sophia… Okay, I’ll work for you. I’ll find Franco’s killer. I’ll bring you peace. You have my promise.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sophia. ‘That’s all I ask.’

  86

  ‘You won’t believe it, honey. A new client has offered me a blank cheque to solve a case. I’m buzzing. It’s the break I need. Celine? Are you there?’ said Pecarro, pressing the cell phone tight against his ear.

  Celine breathed low against the rising tide of static. ‘I’m here. I can’t talk at the moment, darling. I’m just about to go into a meeting,’ she said, in a hurried half-whisper. ‘We’ll talk later. Okay?’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that… Can you speak up? What did you say?’ said Pecarro, keen to share his good news.

  ‘I said… We’ll speak later… Sorry, darling, I’ve got to go. Goodbye.’

  The line died.

  Typical, thought Pecarro, business as usual. His wife’s career always came first. Pecarro typed a terse text.

  Have your sister pick up Carlo … important appointment … Tony x

  Pecarro lied. Flicked the cell phone closed.

  87

  Eileen O’Brien’s cafeteria and bakery was located in the same block as Pecarro’s office. It served great coffee and doughnuts. Pecarro pushed through the door. Strode over to the counter.

  ‘Large cappuccino and a chocolate doughnut, please, Eileen.’

  ‘You’re pushing out the boat. You come into money, or something?’

  ‘I’m celebrating,’ said Pecarro, with a flourish and a broad smile. ‘Today is a good day.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. What are you celebrating? You eating in, or taking out?’ said Eileen, a rotund woman in her fifties in a red check apron over a white blouse and black slacks.

  ‘Things are on the up. I’ve just got my first big case - a murder. At last I’ve got something I can get my teeth into,’ he said, looking over the cafeteria for his favourite table. ‘I’ll eat in.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Get your teeth into that,’ said Eileen, handing Pecarro a huge doughnut on a plate. ‘I’ll send the coffee order over.’

  Pecarro nodded. ‘Thanks.’

  The cafeteria was narrow on plan. A single line of tables stood along the long wall. At the rear, a small table stood in a recess next to the toilets. Pecarro stepped away from the counter, made his way to the table in the recess and slid into the chair.

  Several minutes passed. A waitress delivered his coffee order. Pecarro thanked her. Added sugar into the froth. Stirred it in. Stared out through the window. Watched the world go by. Considered Sophia Ricci’s visit. The ferocity of her anger had surprised him. How it was directed in equal measure against the killer and the NYPD. Had he caught Ernest Costa’s killer in time, then Franco Ricci might still be alive. Pecarro’s realisation left the bitterest aftertaste to the sweetest doughnut he’d ever tasted.

  If Sophia Ricci was to be believed, the investigation had failed. At the Ernest Costa crime scene the killer left forensic evidence. The NYPD had failed to identify the killer from DNA recovered from the blood and vomit. There had been no witnesses or firm suspects other than the unidentified drunken man at Delaney’s - the man with the scar across his gut. Pecarro and his team had gone around in circles for over a year and had gotten nowhere.

  Pecarro settled the half-eaten doughnut on the plate, placed a serviette over it and pushed the plate away. Maybe his performance had been detrimentally affected by his antipathy towards Chief Johnson and the strategic direction of the department?

  The second murder investigation led by Michael Casey was inconclusive. It had resulted in Sophia Ricci’s complete and utter dissatisfaction with the murder investigation. Why no progress? And Tooley’s murder, too, remained unsolved. Why?

  The catherine wheel in Pecarro’s mind whirled, slowed and stalled on his “out-of-the-blue” meeting with Tooley in the days before he was murdered. Tooley was good. He would have made progress. He would never have gone off on a wild goose chase. He wouldn’t waste his time or energy. Rubbing his temples, Pecarro recollected his last conversation with Tooley. How, he’d not known about the suspect in Delaney’s. Why was that? Pecarro remembered Tooley’s friend and confidant, Marilyn Wilson.

  Making his way to the door—half a doughnut laid heavy in his stomach—Pecarro thanked Eileen. As he approached the door, Pecarro noticed a colourful, double-sided poster, taped to the inside face of the glass door. It was a photomontage. In the foreground, vibrant Matisse-style daffodils grew against a negative image of Brooklyn Bridge. The poster advertised a series of poetry readings to celebrate Brooklyn Poetry Society’s upcoming 50th anniversary at Brooklyn Central Library in the local history section. The special guest was Tony Bruno. Interested parties should phone Brooklyn Central Library for full details and booking arrangements.

  ‘That’s it!’ exclaimed Pecarro.

  Tooley’s female acquaintance and date Marilyn is the key to this… The woman he’d boasted about. His unpaid research assistant … the librarian…

  88

  Okay … let the record show I’m not happy to drop Carlo on my sister at short notice… we need to talk! C.

  Read the caustic text from Pecarro’s wife, Celine. Yeah whatever, thought Pecarro. I’ve work to do.

  Enjoying the unseasonal warm weather, the sunshine and meaty burble of the V8, Pecarro elected to take a circuitous route to Brooklyn Central Library. He collected a pair of reflective lensed Rayban Aviator’s from the glove box and dropped the soft-t
op on the ‘67 Mustang convertible.

  ***

  Entering the library, Pecarro paused, stepped over to and studied the wall display of three-dimensional diagrams showing the building layout. Thirty seconds later, he’d located the local history section on the second floor and set off for the elevator.

  Pushing through the doors, Pecarro spotted a familiar face—the attractive woman from Tooley’s funeral—busily sorting books into neat piles behind the reception desk.

  ‘Excuse me … only … I’m hoping you can help me. Are you by any chance, Marilyn? I believe we had a mutual friend, Detective Gerard Tooley. I seem to remember you from the funeral. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct. I’m Marilyn Wilson. I knew Gerard … I mean Detective Tooley. And you are?’ said Marilyn, frowning, head cocked on one side.

  Pecarro smiled, breathed with relief. ‘Sorry, I’m a former colleague. My name is Antonio Pecarro. I worked with Tooley at the NYPD a few years ago. I resigned. I’m a private investigator. I knew Tooley quite well. Respected him. We worked on many cases, together.’ Pecarro weighed Marilyn’s reaction. Since she seemed happy to listen, he continued. ‘The wife of the second victim has commissioned me to shake things up. Is there somewhere quiet we can go for an informal chat? Outside, perhaps, since it’s such a beautiful day.’

  ‘Yes. I’m happy to help in any way I can. We can go sit in the park across the street,’ said Marilyn, glancing right. ‘Jennifer, would you mind taking over, please? I need to take an early lunch.’ Marilyn addressed a colleague sat nearby studying microfiche. She turned to Pecarro. ‘One moment, I need to print something.’