The Scorpion's Tale

by Wayne Block

  Teresa cocked her head and pretended to be disappointed. “Can’t you take it home with you? I skipped dinner to be here. I don’t want to eat alone. After all, I did do you a huge favor with that cocky, obnoxious old man.”

  Steven glanced at his watch and mentally ran the numbers. He had to eat. He could eat and then finish the paperwork, but that would mean he couldn’t leave for the Hamptons during the night. Teresa detected his indecision and seized the opportunity to pounce.

  “Steven,” she purred, “I’m buying. We’ll have dinner and a few drinks. I won’t bite! Of course, if you change your mind and want me to bite, I can do that.”

  Steven shot her a stern look.

  She looked hurt. “I’ll behave, I promise. You have my word, okay? Just dinner.”

  Steven collected his papers, put them neatly into a folder, and stood to collect his personal belongings. After all, Amanda wouldn’t want him to drive tonight, he thought. “Okay Teresa. I’m starved and I could use some real food. No cannibalism, just food. Got that?”

  Teresa smirked. “Got it.”

  -------------------

  Amanda was awakened by an unusual noise on the other side of the house. She glanced at the alarm clock on the night table. The blue digital numbers indicated three-thirty. She listened intently for a few seconds but heard only the distant waves and the wind blowing. She stroked her daughter’s hair through the mesh of the portable crib. Catarina was awake with wide eyes staring up at her. Amanda turned on the nightlight, and Catarina was rubbing her eyes.

  “Hello Sweetie,” Amanda said as she peered over the crib.

  “Water, Mommy,” her daughter pleaded, extending her arms toward Amanda. “Hold me, Mommy.”

  Amanda pulled Catarina from the crib, sat her on the bed and kissed her. “Stay here and wait for Mommy. I’ll be right back.”

  Catarina smiled at her mother as Amanda headed for the kitchen. She could not have known that the sound that woke her was Tony’s head slamming against the door of the master bathroom. He had been shot in the temple with a silencer-equipped Glock 234, placed a few centimeters from his head; a matching shot left Rosina dead in their bed. Tony had gotten up to use the bathroom prior to the killer’s entrance into their bedroom. As he opened the door to return to bed, he was executed.

  Thanks to the killer’s handiwork, Tony’s partners were also dead in Manhattan. The killer needed to finish his business in Westhampton tonight, so he could make his flight to Italy before any of the bodies were discovered. The fact that Tony had unexpectedly awakened to use the bathroom was inconvenient, but only caused a slight deviation from his original plan to kill both in bed as they slept.

  From his neck down, he was dressed like a surgeon with cotton coverings over his clothes and shoes that were specially made to fit although they were two sizes too large. He also wore latex gloves and a ski-mask to ensure that his entire body was protected against leaving even a cell of his DNA behind.

  Looking into the eyes of his victims in their final moment of life did not faze him. In fact, it gave him pleasure. The sound of Tony’s head smashing into the door disturbed him only because the success or failure of an assignment might hinge upon an unknown factor or variables that were his job to minimize. He never left anything to chance, carefully tending to the crime scene, making sure there was no evidence to assist law enforcement. Satisfied all was in order, he silently exited the master bedroom, gun in hand.

  Amanda tried the light switch in the kitchen, but it didn’t work. She opened the refrigerator door, found a pitcher of water, and poured a tall glass for her and Catarina to share. She replaced the pitcher, closed the refrigerator, took a step into the hallway and immediately noticed a large shadow of a person, obviously much taller than Tony. She shrieked in surprise and dropped the glass, which shattered. The killer reacted without conscious thought. He instinctively raised his gun and fired. Amanda made a loud moaning sound as she crumpled to the floor. Suddenly there was another scream behind him. He turned and aimed at the sound, not realizing that his gun was pointed at a forty-five degree angle toward the floor. He fired again and there was silence. It took only a split second for him to realize that the voice had screamed “Mommy.” He rushed over and looked down at the small body lying on the floor. He knelt beside the little girl, and placed his latex covered fingers on her throat, trying to feel for a pulse. He knew that the caliber gun used prevented any hope of life. She was dead. He quickly stood and walked over to the other body. The first feature he could see in the moonlight was her distended, pregnant belly. Again, he knelt and felt for a pulse. There was none.

  He stood slowly, trying to comprehend the gravity of the moment. His intelligence information had been flawed. He had been assured there would be no visitors. He had incorrectly assumed his two intended victims were alone. How could he have made such a careless blunder? How completely and utterly unprofessional! He had killed a pregnant woman and a small child! He ran to the kitchen cupboards looking for a particular object. The cupboards were empty except for alcohol. The Olivaros clearly never stocked up on other essentials. He knew that not finding what he needed was a blessing in disguise, since it would have called for him removing his gloves and contaminating the scene.

  He checked on the little girl one last time, moved her next to her mother, and then slipped out the back door where he disappeared down the beach toward a small boat. He started the four-stroke engine, which made it easy for a silent escape. He eased the boat out into the open water and disappeared into the night, discarding his outer layer of clothing into a garbage bag that he would burn on the water while planning his revenge against the people who provided the misinformation.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Steven stepped out of the shower as the phone rang. It was a few minutes after nine o’clock and he’d been unsuccessfully attempting to reach Amanda to tell her he had overslept. Steven had called the phone company earlier to see if there had been a service interruption, since no one was answering the house line or their cell phones. After receiving confirmation all was in order, he contacted the Westhampton Police Department, apologized for being neurotic, but stressed that his wife was nine months pregnant and asked if a patrol car could pass by the house. Steven had not expected a call back from Detective Michael Johnston of the Suffolk County Police Department.

  Detective Johnston stood in the living room of the Olivaro house. He hated this part of his job. Homicides rarely happened in the Hamptons. A case-hardened veteran with twenty years’ homicide experience in New York City, he thought he’d seen the worst. Today, as he stared at a very pregnant woman and her toddler, lying side by side in a pool of blood, he realized he had not.

  Detective Johnston was the second officer inside. A local patrolman responding to Steven’s call simply opened the side door and, when he saw a body, called headquarters. He was ordered to wait outside until a detective arrived. They had quickly ascertained the identities of the victims and began contacting relatives. He dialed Steven’s number on his cell phone. His latex fingers tapped nervously on the black marble table as he waited for Steven Capresi to answer.

  Steven answered in a sarcastic tone, certain the caller was either Amanda or Tony.

  “Hey, what’s the matter with you lazy bums, I have to call the police to….”

  “Steven Capresi?” the unfamiliar voice interrupted.

  “Yes.” Steven said tentatively, his stomach tightening.

  “This is Detective Michael Johnston of the Suffolk County Police Department.” “What’s wrong?” Steven asked anxiously, beginning to feel his blood pumping hard in his temples.

  Detective Johnston hesitated one second too long and Steven’s worst fears rolled into a surge of raw emotions directed at the detective.

  “What the hell’s happened you fucking asshole!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.

  Detective Johnston flinched from the sheer intensity of the sound. He answered reflexively, without thought or feelin
g, programmed to give a scripted answer. “Your wife and child are both dead. So are Tony and Rosina Olivaro.” He listened for a response, but heard nothing. A soft, wounded sound followed the silence.

  “Mr. Capresi!” he shouted, trying to capture Steven’s attention. “I have two officers on the way to your house. They’ll be there in a few minutes to drive you here.” Still, there was no response. “I need you to identify the bodies,” he said quietly. Detective Johnston listened to himself, sounding like a caricature of a cop in a bad movie. He hated himself for being so callous in doing his job. Was there ever a gracious way to be the bearer of such devastating news? The sound of the phone hitting the floor was the only response. What he heard next made the hair stand on the nape of his neck; a piercing, primal scream followed by wailing.

  Detective Johnston shouted louder. “Mr. Capresi …Steven …Pick up the phone. Talk to me!”

  At that instant, two policemen were knocking at Steven’s door. They waited a few minutes, but Steven didn’t answer. The officers called Detective Johnston, who was still listening to Steven sobbing. He instructed the officers to forcibly open the door, observe anything in plain view, and bring Steven to him.

  Detective Johnston was not looking forward to interrogating a man who, if innocent, just had his life ripped apart. The detective would have to search for answers as to why these bodies lay before him.

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  Detective Johnston had determined this was a professional hit linked with two bodies found in Manhattan at a company called JTS Imports owned by Tony Olivaro. JTS was an import-export company with suspected ties to organized crime.

  The police car stopped across from the Olivaro house. The entire area was covered with yellow crime scene tape, which, from the second floor of the Olivaro house, looked like a giant spider’s web. Neighbors stood gawking from outside the taped perimeter, secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of the carnage inside.

  Detective Johnston stood impassively in the driveway awaiting Steven’s arrival. He was a hulking figure at two hundred seventy pounds on a six foot six inch frame, yet he felt small as he watched Capresi arrive at the scene and be escorted out of the squad car. Steven’s eyes were swollen and bloodshot; his skin pale and drawn.

  Detective Johnston extended his hand toward Steven, steadying his shoulders to help him with his balance. Steven slowly turned his gaze upward and looked at the detective’s tough and weathered face. The detective expressed his deepest condolences.

  “Mr. Capresi, um, may I call you Steven?” He got no response. “I’m terribly sorry. Is there anything I can do for you?” He knew the question was absurd, but he had to establish a rapport if he was going to get through the next few hours.

  “No thank you,” Steven muttered, returning his blank stare to the ground as they moved under the carport and sat in plastic beach chairs.

  Detective Johnston bent toward Steven, placing his arm gently around his shoulder. “Listen, Steven, this is going to be extremely difficult. Would you like to wait awhile before we talk about the identification process? Maybe you’d like someone else from your family to do this?”

  Steven shook his head. “This is my responsibility. Is the morgue close by?” he asked, continuing to stare blankly at the ground.

  The detective hadn’t yet informed Steven that the bodies were ten feet above them. He knew he was proceeding unconventionally, but he needed to witness Steven’s reaction to the carnage. He needed to determine if Steven could have been involved, and he always went with his gut instincts. “Listen Steven, before we get there, I’ve got to ask you a few standard questions.”

  Steven remained silent and continued staring at the ground.

  “How long did you know Mr. Olivaro?”

  “Since we were kids.”

  “My understanding was that Olivaro was connected with the mob.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Steven replied.

  Detective Johnston cleared his throat. “Where were you last night?”

  Steven thought about the question. He thought about spending time with that little tease at the expense of his family. He had been flirting with her while his family was being slaughtered. If he had left for Westhampton as he originally intended, he might have saved them, or at least died trying. He felt disgusted with himself. The thought nauseated him.

  “I was working at my office.”

  “Did you go directly home, or did you go somewhere after work?” the detective prodded.

  “I went home.”

  “Were you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  Detective Johnston shook his head disapprovingly. “We’re not off to a good start, son. Didn’t you have company last night?”

  Steven didn’t know if the detective was bluffing or whether they had instant access to the credit card he used to pay for his dinner with Teresa. He swallowed hard and found the courage to look the detective in the eye.

  Detective Johnston smiled reassuringly at him. “Shall we start over again?”

  Steven nodded. “Yes. I left the office with a young lady named Teresa. She works for me. We went for a quick dinner and had a few drinks. She tried her best to get me into her bed. I declined and took the train home. I got in very late.”

  “By very late, what time, exactly?”

  “About 2:30” Steven answered.

  Detective Johnston grunted. “What time would you say you and Teresa parted company?”

  Steven scratched his head. “Probably about 1:00,” he said tentatively.

  Detective Johnston detected the trepidation in his voice. “Are you sure about the time?”

  Steven reconsidered his answer. “Give or take fifteen minutes, yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

  Detective Johnston changed the subject. “Were you and your wife having marital problems?”

  Steven glared at the detective. “Fuck you! That’s none of your damned business!”

  “No Steven, fuck you!” he responded, taking Steven by surprise. “I’ve got a dead child here, so everything is my business!”

  Steven was taken aback by the detective’s abrupt personality change. “I loved my wife.”

  Detective Johnston again changed his tone, keeping Steven off balance. “Steven, you don’t have to come into the house. As a matter of fact, it’s not standard procedure because we do everything we can to preserve the crime scene. We usually have victim identifications done at the morgue. I thought that would be cold.”

  Steven looked shocked. “My wife and children are inside?” he bellowed. “I want to go in!” Steven demanded, summoning all of his strength to stand. “I want to see Amanda, now!”

  Detective Johnston grabbed Steven’s arm to steady him as he stood. “Steven, I have to warn you. It’s not pretty.” The detective led Steven up the stairs and paused outside the door. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

  “Yes,” Steven whispered, his response barely audible.

  Detective Johnston handed Steven a pair of latex gloves. “Put these on before we go inside. I don’t want you leaving any fresh fingerprints.”

  Steven put on the gloves, opened the screen door, and stepped inside. His eyes darted wildly around the room. There were a few officers and technicians standing around, pretending to be engrossed in their duties, which they had finished, allowing for Detective Johnston’s gambit. They watched Steven’s every move, waiting for the horrific reunion with his murdered family. Even in Steven’s clouded state of mind, the tension was palpable. He took a few steps and saw a body lying on the floor, next to the refrigerator. A white sheet was draped over most of her, but he could see her slippers, an anniversary present. He had seen them in the window of Saks and knew he had to have them for Amanda. They were extravagant and frivolous, and Amanda vigorously protested the lavish and unnecessary expense, but she treasured them. That memory made Steven smile.

  He slowly knelt beside his wife and stroked the slippers. His universe had shrunk into a few square feet and his s
urroundings fell into a blackened void. Space and time melted. Nothing existed except Steven, his wife, her slippers, and his memories. Gradually, the universe returned. He noticed broken glass on the floor and then saw his wife’s blood splattered over the refrigerator and the walls. It was obvious that she’d been getting a middle-of-the-night drink of water, something that had become a ritual late in her pregnancy.

  His eyes traveled slowly up the sheet. The tip of the pinky of her left hand protruded, and he gently rolled the sheet back to expose the rest of her hand. There was the wedding band she never removed from her finger, below her engagement ring. He didn’t have much money when he bought it and the diamond was small, but Amanda said it was the most beautiful ring in the world. He stroked the rings, thinking of the love they symbolized and all that he had lost. A bizarre calm engulfed him. He didn’t know whether he had used up his emotions or if he was in an altered state of mind. He felt distant and detached, as if this was someone else’s life.

  There was blood matted in her hair. Her eyes were swollen shut and her face discolored in various shades of purple. He ran his hand across her distended belly and gingerly placed his head on her stomach, listening for a sound, trying to detect any movement.

  Detective Johnston bent over Steven and awkwardly whispered down to him as if trying to hide something that everyone in the room already knew. “Steven, fire-rescue already checked to see if the baby survived. I’m sorry.”

  Steven nodded his head, took a deep breath, and expelled the air slowly, fighting back more tears. He gently massaged his temples, keeping his eyes tightly shut, trying to exclude the entire world from this final moment with his wife. Then he opened his eyes, bent over Amanda, and kissed her lips.