Divine

by Steven Grosso

  Marisa locked eyes with Steel. In big, wide motions, she mouthed the words, “Murder-suicide?” without letting the girls hear or see her.

  Steel nodded, his eyes sad.

  The girls wept into Marisa’s clothing, and Steel told them that everything would be all right, but he knew it was a lie, that those little girls’ lives had been altered forever.

  He radioed for backup and he and Marisa waited with the girls until it arrived.

  39

  T

  he crime scene investigators and forensics team bent and tiptoed around the bodies and worked with medical gloves on their hands, collecting evidence, dusting for prints, determining the causes of death. Two police officers and a child psychologist had escorted the little girls into a police car outside moments earlier, and Steel had made sure before they left the house that neither of their innocent eyes saw their parents in that condition—they’d had enough mental torture done to them, and years of psychological damage ahead, their youth tarnished, as if they’d aged twenty years in one day. Flashing lights danced on the walls and bathed the floors in the home from the police cruiser sirens outside, which blocked off the street at each corner. Steel and Marisa snuck into the kitchen.

  “So you think it’s a murder-suicide?” Steel said.

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” Marisa said, hands on her hips, one foot straight and the other pointed left, eyes wide.

  Steel sighed, balled a fist and pounded the countertop. “I just talked to forensics and the techs in there. Both confirmed that Fratt and his wife were shot in the head. Fratt near the temple and the wife to the right cheekbone. And they found the gun a few feet from the bodies, a 9mm.”

  Marisa curled her lips and squinted, bobbed her head. “9mm?”

  “Yeah, same kind used on Desiree, Kevin Johnson and Jonathan Herns.”

  Steel strode to the cream kitchen table and dragged two soft-padded chairs from under, each scratching the floor. He sat, lowering himself in one motion, and Marisa plopped down and crossed her legs, dangled her foot. The air hung thick and still and stunk like blood and body organs and murder, like the devil had rented the house for the day.

  “If Fratt killed his wife, why’d he leave the kids?” Steel said. He held up his hands, palms facing Marisa. “I mean, thank God he left the children unharmed, but it doesn’t seem right.”

  “It’s over, Ben, it’s over. Don’t overthink it.”

  Steel ignored her words and thought for a moment, lowered his forehead into his palms, dug his fingernails into his scalp and scratched hard until it hurt and burned. “Something’s not right.”

  “Hey Steel,” a man’s voice called out.

  Steel raised his eyes, dug deeper and scratched his hair follicles. “Tony.”

  Tony Retti, the lead crime scene investigator, stopped and stood by the refrigerator. His salt and pepper hair, olive skin and short, round body couldn’t be mistaken for anyone else. He and Steel were good friends, had mutual respect for one another. Tony had been a cop and detective and had come up the hard way in a rough section of New York, got in trouble as a teen before straightening out and joining the force, and then transferred to Philadelphia. He had at least twenty-five years on Steel in age but each appreciated the other’s hatred for corruption among crooked cops and politicians. They’d talk for hours about how they hated shady activities within the government and department at times—the bribes, shakedowns, nepotism, misuse of monies. They’d often discuss the mindset of how and when it became cool or right in this country to be corrupt, lack empathy, or be ruthless to get ahead. Tony would tell Steel that he respected the person who worked one, sometimes two, jobs to provide for his or her family and was an honest, God-fearing, law-abiding citizen, was a person who treated their loved ones and neighbors well. Steel would respond by telling him he’d rather be dirt poor than corrupt and resort to hurting others to have more for himself.

  Tony pulled his gloves off each hand, stared his dark eyes into Steel’s, and under his eyelids looked like the black circles had been painted on with a crayon. His chubby cheeks were shaven so close Steel could see the divots and scars that were once grooves for pimples in his youth. “I don’t know, Steel,” Tony said, “I think dis guy was in a struggle before he was shot. I was talking with forensics, and they see it, too.”

  Steel popped up from the chair and the plastic edges banged against the table and shook it. “Wait. You don’t think he shot himself? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Tony frowned and nodded, and for a flash of a second, Steel noticed that Tony’s slicked-back hair and the hairless skin of his face made him look like an Italian singer from the 1950s or mobster from one of Scorsese’s movies. “Between you and me,” Tony said, “it’s possible he struggled with his wife, ya’ know, but she doesn’t have struggle-marks. Off the record, doesn’t add up. But it’ll be confirmed after the autopsy.”

  Steel stared at Marisa, the room quiet, save for the curtains swaying and wind rattling the windows by the sink.

  “This isn’t over,” Steel said.

  “But what about the love letters, the poems, whatever they were?” Marisa said.

  Tony turned and rushed out, sensing it was a private conversation, his shoulders bouncing as he carried himself with a tough-guy strut that never left him, a mannerism that followed him from his old neighborhood.

  “No doubt about it,” Steel said, “Fratt wrote the letters for Desiree. I’m convinced. But I don’t think he killed her or the rest of the victims.”

  “Who then? Who and why?” Marisa said, pointed toward the living room and slapped a hand against the kitchen table, anger in her eyes, but the fury directed at the case and not Steel. “We have the same gun used on all the victims in there? It’s Fratt...has to be.”

  Steel plucked at his lips and his nose wrinkled, his nostrils wide circles of darkness. “It’s a setup. Why aren’t there struggle-marks on Fratt’s wife? I’d trust Tony with my life. He’s the best at that, you know that. He just confirmed it.”

  Marisa nodded. “He is, but…” She sighed.

  Steel said, “And there’s only one odd-man out who knew Desiree well and had intimate knowledge of this case.”

  Marisa fiddled with a button on her shirt, looked down as her bottom lip grew and bubbled, and glanced up in Steel’s direction. “Who?”

  Steel shook his head so fast it ached and his eyes bulged and opened wide like he had just been electrocuted. “Jimmy. That’s the odd-man out.”

  “Jimmy,” she whispered, as if she just remembered the answer to a trivia question she had been working at for days.

  “Why’d he want us in Atlantic City today, if he himself was even there?” Steel said.

  “So that he could kill Fratt, you’re hinting at, but I don’t know. We’re reaching here.”

  “No, we’re not reaching.” He waved his arms out in front of himself, his eyes darting. “That’s it. It’s Jimmy.”

  Marisa pushed the button through the slit in her shirt and looked deep into his eyes, didn’t say anything.

  “Hey Steel,” Tony called out, stepped back into the kitchen.

  “Yeah, Tone?”

  Tony held out a winter jacket, pinching each shoulder with his fingertips. “Found this under the sofa. It’s ripped at the sleeves. There goes your struggle with the victim.”

  Steel twirled a finger. “Do me a favor. Flip that around for me, Tone, please.”

  Tony pulled his elbows toward himself and twisted the jacket around until the back was showing.

  A picture of an orange Cheetah with black spots was imprinted on the shiny silver material, the team name The Cheetahs stitched underneath the image, as if the ferocious animal were about to come alive and attack Steel. A wave of concern and fear and anger shot through his body. His hands trembled.

  “Son of a bitch,” Steel mumbled. “Jimmy’s son’s team jacket.” He raised his voice. “It’s Jimmy, no doubt, it’s Jimmy.

  40


  S

  teel jogged past the lifeless, bloody bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Fratt and his phone vibrated in his hand. He twisted the doorknob, flung it open, and stepped outside. A swift chill swept over his body and the aftereffects didn’t stop pouring over him as if he were getting hit by tumbling frigid waves in the ocean. He shivered and shook his body hard. “Fuckin’ freezing out here.”

  He tapped a thumb on the screen and took the call. “Detective Steel here.”

  “Detective, it’s Lieutenant Harrison, from Atlantic City. I sent a few officers from my unit out to the Tropicana for you.”

  “Uh-huh…yeah.”

  “Nothing. No sign of a James Finndle. We even made the casino do an overhead announcement. I left an officer in the casino just in case, but pulled the other two.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant. You ever need something in Philly, you know you can call me,” Steel said.

  “You bet. Appreciate that, Detective.”

  “Oh, and Lieutenant, pull the other officer. I won’t be needing them.”

  “You sure?” he asked, his voice concerned, curious.

  “I’m positive,” Steel said. “Never been more positive in my life.”

  41

  S

  teel stood back inside John Fratt’s living room, Marisa by his side, their elbows touching, the warmth of her skin reminding Steel that the Earth still had some good. He shifted his eyes across the room. The bodies were being prepped for their removal from the home. Steel and Marisa watched the forensics team and crime scene investigators perform a final sweep of the place.

  He roamed back into the kitchen and leaned against the marble countertop, just below wooden cabinets, and Marisa followed him in, sat at the table. His elbow banged the coffee pot behind him as he dialed Jimmy’s cell. His back muscles twitched more and more after each unanswered ring.

  Finally he heard, “Hello.” The voice was a woman’s, but he could barely make out her words, each syllable shaky, trembling as if thick moisture had bunched up in her throat from crying.

  “Who’s this? Where’s Jimmy?”

  The woman sobbed into the receiver, the whines and breathing like static in a microphone in an auditorium.

  Steel slapped his teeth together and his jaw muscles bounced like car speakers with too much base. His blood boiled and heated his body until sweat seeped and spread over his skin, and even the back of his legs, just behind the kneecaps, dampened and itched from warmth against his pant legs. He ran a hand across his slick forehead and wiped the sweat.

  “Hello. Yo. Jimmy? Hello. Who’s there?”

  “Detective Steel,” Jimmy said as his voice broke through, his tone level, calm and smooth, as if they were good old friends who hadn’t spoken to each other for a week and were catching up.

  “Jimmy, what the fuck are you doing?”

  “Relax, Detective.”

  Steel glanced over at Marisa, and she stepped closer to him, eyes narrowing, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

  Steel snatched a spoon off the countertop and rolled the metal in his palms.

  “Jimmy. Tell me where you are? I know you’re not in Atlantic City. Just stop now. Haven’t you done enough?”

  “Exactly, I did too much and got fucked in the end. Life… truly a bitch, isn’t it, Steel?” Jimmy said.

  Steel didn’t say anything because he didn’t know how to respond.

  After a minute, he said, “Who’s with you, Jimmy? Where are you?”

  Jimmy chuckled away from the phone but Steel still heard its echo. “You know, Steel,” he said, “the sad part is that you’ve been a cop for years and I just started as a criminal and you couldn’t get me…you pathetic piece of shit.”

  Steel squeezed the spoon so hard the metal almost bent. He envisioned pounding it over Jimmy’s skull, breaking through the bone and crushing the brain that had spread so much evil and pain. “You had a head start, Jimmy.”

  “I bet. But look, Steel, I’m going to die today, anyway.”

  Steel shook his head. What the fuck does that mean? he thought.

  Jimmy said, “I figured if you called me back, then I did a poor job of convincing you that it was a murder-suicide. I didn’t expect John Fratt to fight me back.” He chuckled. “I mean, John Fratt, come on. He may have had muscles and could argue in court, but he was a real pussy, believe me.”

  “And you did a poor job of remembering to keep your jacket on.”

  Jimmy didn’t answer for about ten seconds as if he were checking his body. “You’re right, probably lost it when I pistol whipped that cocksucker. You get some points for that one, Detective. It’s crazy how little you notice or recognize while in rage, and even after.” He chuckled louder, harsher.

  Steel changed his tone, spoke like a buddy trying to help another buddy out of trouble. “Look, just tell me where you are and I’ll send some guys to come get you and we’ll talk about it.”

  “Ha-ha!” Jimmy laughed and the laugh was so loud and hard it pierced Steel’s eardrum. Steel pulled the phone away for a second. Jimmy continued, “Don’t good-cop me.” Jimmy cleared his throat. “But like I said, I’m going to die today either way, so why not have some fun and go out with a bang? Huh? Whattya think, Detective?”

  Steel inflated his cheeks to baseballs. Acid shot up his esophagus, the burning sensation ripping against his chest. A sour film coated his stomach, he wanted to vomit from rage. “Let’s just take it easy, Jim.”

  “First, Steel, don’t ever call me Jim. And second, if you want me, I’m at the law firm.”

  “You already told me you were in AC…why should I believe you?”

  “Because at Fratt & Johnson we work on Sundays. Fratt made his staff come in. The courts are closed on Sunday, but we get most of our administrative work done so it doesn’t burden us during the week or some stupid shit like that. You know, shit ‘powerful’ people like to tell the ‘little’ people.” Jimmy’s words trailed off as if he were talking to himself and forgot Steel was listening. “Powerful my ass. I’m fucking powerful. Jimmy is fucking powerful, Detective. Got that? So fuck you. Fuck Fratt. Fuck everyone.” He directed his voice back to the phone. “He paid his employees time and a half on the weekends,” he said and laughed but with total malice, repulsion and hatred, and added, “What a nice guy Fratt was, right?”

  Steel didn’t speak but heard a loud thud, like Jimmy had punched a wall.

  “Fucking tell him, bitch!” Jimmy yelled.

  A woman sobbed. “He’s right. We have about twenty employees here today. Please come.”

  “I didn’t tell you to ask him to come,” Jimmy yelled. “Detective Steel knows what he has to do.”

  Steel swung the phone down from his ear, held it to his mouth, and screamed, “Jimmy, leave those people alone. Just stop. They have families and kids.” He thought of Lieutenant Williams’ words—Who else has to die?—and repeated them to Jimmy.

  “Too late for that, Steel. Life fucked me, and now I’m going to fuck it—hard.”

  42

  S

  teel sped through the Philadelphia streets and the sirens screamed and swirled blue, orange and red lights onto office buildings, retail stores and vehicles on either side of his car. He honked his horn every couple of seconds and shouted f-bombs and other obscenities directed at the images of Jimmy in his mind. Pedestrians on the quiet Sunday streets almost snapped their necks off, halting in place, cupping their hands over their eyes, staring down Steel’s vehicle. He soared by each group of people, seven or eight officers trailing, each whipping by parked cars and their speed swirling exhaust-fumes, leaving the onlookers red-cheeked and teary-eyed.

  Steel drove a few blocks, cut up to Seventh and Market, and hooked a wide right. The speed of his tires released a burned-rubber odor, overpowering his swaying tree-shaped vanilla air-freshener dangling from his rearview mirror. He leered over traffic and stared up at City Hall in the distance, at the Old World design of the stone central tower poking t
hrough the sky, the clock at the tip a circle of bright yellow against the gray facade, and followed it all the way up to the very top, to a statue of the founder of Philadelphia, William Penn. Just last summer the view had been a source of peace and serenity for him at the conclusion of that terrible case, but now it brought fear and panic, his throat tight and swollen as if he were having a bad allergic reaction, and his heart steadily jabbing his chest, as he thought about Jimmy holding hostages just a few blocks from behind the building, their condition unknown.

  He slammed the heel of his hand on the horn and held it. “Move the fuuuuuuuuck outta the way.”

  Traffic stood still for a few seconds before cars cut left and right and angled behind parked vehicles or hopped right over the curb and up on the pavements and out of Steel’s way.

  Marisa scrolled through her phone and read off the screen between the constant jerks, hard stops and speed-ups. “I’m looking at Jimmy’s file,” she said, her voice high, offsetting the sirens and the car accelerating. “I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. He has never had any trouble with the law. He was recently divorced. Went to Tem—”

  Steel divided his attention between Marisa’s words and the red brake lights and swerving cars in front. “Wait, hold up, repeat what you just said, about his marriage, Marisa.” He slammed a hand on his horn again.

  “I said,” she yelled over the honk and slapped a hand on the dashboard as Steel stepped on the brake pedal, “he’s recently divorced.”

  Steel jerked the wheel left and hooked a hard turn on Twelfth. “He told me he was married with three kids, made it seem like the family was together and happy, even had that Cheetah team jacket on and said his son played for them and that he was the coach.”

  She checked again. “He does have kids, but he’s definitely divorced, for sure, says it right here.”