Old Wounds, a Gino Cataldi Mystery

by Giacomo Giammatteo

  “We’ll fill Coop in tomorrow,” Tip said.

  “All right, see you in the morning.”

  As I got ready for bed, my cell phone rang. It was the ring tone I used for Chicky.

  What the hell does he want?

  I grabbed the phone. “What’s up, Chick?”

  “Not much of nothin’, Gino. You good to talk?”

  Alarms went off in my head. “Yeah, I’m good.”

  “People askin’ round ’bout you. Thought I’d let you know.”

  “Asking about what?”

  “You know.”

  “Chicky, I don’t play games. About what?”

  “That night. ’Bout that night at Sueños.”

  My heart raced. A pain shot through my chest. “Who’s asking?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “What the fuck do you mean; you can’t say?”

  “Can’t. You know how it works. I go talkin’ on who tells what, sure as shit, I’m outta business. A man’s gotta live, Gino.”

  “I’m asking one last time. If you don’t tell me something, I’m coming down.”

  I waited through a long silence, then Chicky said, “The ones askin’ are your people. And that’s all I’m sayin’.”

  I took a few deep breaths to calm myself. “What did you tell them?”

  “Ain’t said shit. Just figured you’d want to know.”

  “All right. Thanks. I owe you.”

  “Everybody owes the Chick. Be careful, my man. Don’t trust nobody.”

  “You got that.”

  I hung up the phone and felt like crawling under the bed. With everything going on, this was the last thing I needed to hear.

  What the fuck.

  It took me two hours to get to sleep, but it happened. I faded in and out, brushing past a few dream scenarios that had me in prison, but eventually I settled in to some decent sleep. When the morning came—far too early—I polished off three cups of coffee before heading to the station.

  Captain Cooper listened to me recount the past few phone calls from the mystery lady, and she even let me finish with no interruptions, though her pacing annoyed the shit out of me. I then let her and Tip listen to the little piece of the conversation I had taped. After three replays, neither one recognized the voice or determined anything. I stared at her when I was done. “That’s all we’ve got, Coop. Until she calls again.”

  “And you think she’ll call again?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Tip said. “She seems to have locked onto Gino.”

  “But why is she calling Gino? You’re the lead on the case.” Coop stopped pacing and cracked her knuckles, an annoying habit of hers. “If this woman knows enough to get Gino’s private number, she should know who the lead is.”

  “Gino thought the voice sounded familiar. Maybe she didn’t want me to hear her,” Tip said.

  Coop shook her head. “She has to know Gino would tape it.”

  “Voices are different on recorders.”

  “We need a good recorder. Something professional.” Coop slammed her fist on the desk. “Make sure you get something. Have the tech guys send you home with a set-up.” She mumbled something about stone age, then said, “Now think. What do you believe about the voice sounded familiar?”

  I thought about it for a moment before shaking my head. “I’m not sure. I think she’s trying to cover up a Texas accent.”

  “But… I heard a ‘but’ in that statement.”

  “But now and then I’ll hear a word or two that has that twang to it. It comes out almost as an accident, which is why I’m guessing she’s from Texas.” I thought some more, closing my eyes to focus. “She seems…concerned, in one way.”

  “You think she’s the killer?” Coop asked.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know why, but…no. I don’t.”

  Coop nodded. “I don’t think so either. I can’t see a woman doing this.”

  “I’ve seen some jealous women who could do a hell of a lot,” Tip said. “And she knows things she shouldn’t. She even told Gino there were pictures.”

  “I heard that part, but until we see them I won’t necessarily believe it. And I can’t get over the brutality part. Women who kill do it mostly to men,” Coop said. “They might blame another woman for breaking up a marriage or luring their husband away, but if it gets violent, it’s taken out on the man.”

  “What’s your opinion, Captain? Have you got any idea who this might be?”

  “I think this woman is powerful enough to get access to one of my detective’s private home number, or…”

  I suddenly felt pressured. “Or what?” I’m sure I didn’t manage to keep the irritation from my voice.

  She glared at me. A warning. “Or you’ve been careless.”

  “I don’t give out my home phone number. I don’t even use it.” I gave her a glare right back. “So you think this woman is a suspect?”

  “I didn’t say that but if she has pictures she might have been there. Maybe she was with a guy who did it? Maybe another woman did it? Hell, I don’t know. That’s what you two have to find out. And you better do it quickly. I’m catching a lot of heat.”

  Tip stood. He’d been unusually quiet—for him— since we got here. But I’d noticed since we’d been interviewing that sometimes he did that, sat back and evaluated.

  “How about you get us some information on phone records, Captain, and we’ll find the dress, since that seems to be a clue.”

  “I’ll look into it, but I doubt if we’re busting this case open with phone records. Get out there and do your jobs.”

  We went back to our desks, stopping on the way to get coffee. Then we went over what we had.

  “What exactly did she say about the dress?” Tip asked for the tenth time.

  “I already told you. She asked, ‘Did you find a dress?’ And then later she said, ‘A blue dress. Very expensive.”

  “So, she knew it wasn’t with the body.”

  As soon as Tip said it, I knew we had something. “You’re right. That means we missed the dress. The killer dumped it somewhere else.”

  Tip kicked his feet up on the desk and leaned back, resting his head on his clasped hands. “There’s another option. If this lady caller is the killer, maybe she buried the head so we didn’t find it. If we assume she didn’t want us finding the clothes, maybe she buried them too.”

  I jumped up. “They could still be at the creek. Let’s go.”

  Tip swung his feet off and followed me, hollering at Fat Charlie—another ex-deputy that Renkin brought with him. “Charlie, get us some shovels up at the Cy Creek scene. We’re on our way.”

  “Some shovels?”

  “And some people to work them,” Tip said. “Unless you want to do it.”

  Tip drove, which I didn’t like. I didn’t mind him driving fast, but the combination of fast and not paying attention was a killer. When he hit ninety, bobbing and weaving between cars, I panicked, one hand on the door edge of the seat and the other on the door grip.

  “Hey, Denton, those clothes aren’t going anywhere and I don’t want to end up in a hospital or morgue.”

  “Why’s that? Underwear not clean?”

  “They’re clean now, but if we get hit I’m sure I’ll shit myself. And that would be embarrassing.”

  He managed to keep it to eighty or less the rest of the way but every now and then he’d punch it to see my reaction. I vowed right then that I’d drive from now on.

  A few minutes later we pulled into the abandoned restaurant parking lot and got out, walking down the now familiar path to where the head was found.

  “The killer could have buried separate bags,” Tip said. “If she did, or he did, the one with clothes could still be here.”

  “You know, Tip, if it was her, and she didn’t want us finding the clues, why did she tell me about the dress?”

  “Damned if I know, but now I’m thinking that maybe that’s why the hole she buried the head in was shallow.”r />
  “Why?”

  “Because she’s a woman.”

  “Don’t even try to convince me that a woman couldn’t dig a hole as deep as a man. If a woman did this to a body, she could sure as shit dig a hole.”

  “Maybe,” Tip said. “We’ll see.”

  We looked around to see if we could spot any differences in the ground, signs of recent digging, and such, but the flooding from the creek would’ve wiped any of that away. We couldn’t tell anything. Soon afterwards, the cavalry arrived complete with shovels. Tip showed them where to dig.

  “Start from here and dig until you find it.”

  “Find what?”

  “Probably another bag. We expect this one to have clothes in it.”

  Two hours later, they found it.

  “Got something.”

  “It’s a garbage bag.”

  I ran over, Tip by my side. “Bring it up,” he said. “Careful with it.”

  We both leaned down and he opened the bag. The stench that came out knocked us back. “Whew!” Tip said. “Goddamn but I hate bad smells.” He stood and walked around a bit, gagging, but left the bag on the ground. “How the hell can you stay there?”

  “The same way you can drive two hundred miles an hour and not freak out.”

  I opened the bag wider and looked inside. “Blue dress, I said. It’s got a lot of blood on it, but it’s blue as the fucking ocean.”

  Tip came back, his mouth covered with a handkerchief. “I’ll be damned.”

  I looked up at Tip and, when our eyes met, we both seemed to know. “She did it,” I said, and something inside of me felt sick. It’s not what I wanted to believe.

  “What else is in there?”

  I didn’t touch anything, but looked. “Shoes, dress, maybe panties.” I closed it up again. “We’ll see when Ben gets done with it.” I handed the bag to Tip, who shied away from it. “Get one of Ben’s people out here. They’ll process it.”

  All the way back to the station I made small talk, discussed the case, talked about the First Lady and her drug program, anything to keep my mind from my “night caller.” Something about this woman was getting to me and for the life of me I didn’t know what.

  On top of that, I kept looking for signs that it might be Tip who was asking Chicky about me. I knew Tip had the connections, and I wouldn’t blame him for checking out a partner. Still. It didn’t sit right. Made me nervous.

  CHAPTER 20

  CLOTHES MAKE THE WOMAN

  Houston, Texas

  I got home, fixed a salad with some cheese, not in the mood for a big meal. After eating I grabbed the phone and brought it into the family room with me, setting it on the coffee table within easy reach. All night I found myself looking at the clock and wondering when the phone would ring.

  Why hasn’t she called?

  I fidgeted, kept shifting in my seat, reading the same page of the novel over and over. Soon after that I fell asleep on the sofa, the book I was reading still in my hand.

  The ring of the phone jarred me awake. I grabbed for it, clearing my throat and doing my best to sound alert. It was midnight. “Hello.”

  “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  It was her. “No, you didn’t.”

  She must have heard the sleepiness in my voice, that unmistakable sound that anyone can detect.

  “Why do people lie about things like that?”

  “Things like what?”

  “About being awakened. You were sleeping. Why didn’t you just say so?” She sighed. “Why do men always lie?”

  She said it so low I almost didn’t hear her, as if she whispered it to herself. I reached for a notepad.

  She thinks men lie to her. Why?

  “What are you writing down?”

  “Noth—” I was going to lie and thought better of it. “I was wondering why you think men always lie to you, but since I was about to do the same thing, perhaps now I know.”

  A short chuckle followed, more like a polite laugh, as if she knew it was expected. “A little lie like that I can take, Detective. It’s the bigger ones that bother me.”

  I perked up. “Like what?”

  She paused. “Like…’I wasn’t with anyone, dear. I swear.’ Or, ‘That lipstick on my private parts—I don’t know how it got there.’ Those are the lies that bother me.”

  I made another note, careful not to let her know I was writing by pushing the notepad further away from the mouthpiece.

  Husband cheats on her and she knows it.

  Then below it,

  Could be motive?

  “Not all men do those things.”

  I thought she was going to comment, but cynical laughter was her answer.

  I didn’t know where to try and steer this conversation, so thought I’d go straight for it. “Why did you call me?”

  Silence.

  I was going to ask how she got my number, but thought that would put her on the defensive. Think, asshole. I had to get her talking. Had to get her to open up.

  “We found the dress.”

  “I never doubted you, Detective. You’re well on your way now.”

  I shook my head, a stupid thing to do when I knew she couldn’t see it. “It doesn’t look like it’ll give us much. The killer made sure of that…but you knew that didn’t you?”

  I worried about pushing it that far, but she ignored me, moving on as if I hadn’t asked the question. Just then I remembered the tape recording equipment that Coop had me set up, and rushed to the kitchen to turn it on. While I was halfway there she began talking, but I interrupted. I wanted to start the tape first.

  “What can you tell me about the shoes?” It was time to see if she knew more.

  “Detective, I know you’re not stupid. One look at the shoes she wore and you would have known they were important.”

  It was my turn to play the game. I remained silent, pouring a glass of water from the fridge. When she started up again, I covered my opposite ear so I could listen.

  “The first time I saw her she wore Ferragamo shoes. A beautiful pair of suede slingback pumps with leather trim around the toe. I remember that because in high school, Ferragamo shoes were what I wanted most.”

  A slight pause followed and I let it linger.

  “Say what you want about this woman, Detective, but she had good taste.”

  “Shoes must be important for you to remember so much about them.”

  A light-hearted laugh followed. “All women love shoes. They are what defines you, what makes you shine.”

  “And you’re a Ferragamo lady?” I tried my best to keep her talking; she seemed to be in a talkative mood tonight, but she wasn’t giving me much to work with discussing shoes. I’d heard of Ferragamo, and knew they were expensive, but that’s all I knew.

  “Not necessarily, but shoes have always been important. I remember one of my earliest pair…”

  Another silence, and for a moment I thought she’d hung up, but I heard her breathing, so I kept listening.

  “There was a fire. Everyone was running and screaming, trying to get out, but all I could think about were my shoes. I had just acquired a pair of new shoes—I say acquired as that’s what it feels like, something to be sought after—and they were important to me, they were my life, my existence. At least, they seemed like it at the time. I ran up the steps to get them despite Ginger hollering at me to leave.

  “Fire shot out of the door next to mine. I ran toward it, determined to get those shoes, but then I remembered Fluffy. He was stuck in the room at the other end of the hall. I had no choice; I had to get Fluffy.”

  I heard a sigh, then she started again. “I didn’t get those shoes that day, and I didn’t get another pair for a week, forced to go barefoot. It was embarrassing.”

  I took notes as fast as I could write.

  Lived in 2-story house. Other kids. Poor, or it wouldn’t have taken a week to get new shoes. Had sister = Ginger and a dog = Fluffy.

  I suddenly realized
she was speaking again. “What? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

  “Too busy writing down notes? Shame on you. I opened up to you and you’re still being a detective. Goodnight.”

  The line disconnected. I should have been more careful. What the hell was I thinking? I had the tape running. Why was I taking notes?

  I sat at the table and transcribed the recorder. After reviewing the notes, I realized she hadn’t said Ginger was her sister, and she didn’t say Fluffy was a dog. I put question marks next to them. Before I knew it the grandfather’s clock I bought with poker winnings chimed twice. I looked at it to make sure I heard right.

  Two o’clock. Jesus Christ, I have to get to bed.

  ***

  Ben Marsh called us the next day with information. The victim had been stabbed 71 times. Ben pegged the weapons as an ice pick or something similar, and a knife. The stabbing was done while she was alive, but the cutting had been done after she had died, and she’d been dressed when the killing happened. Many of the stab wounds, with both knife and other instrument, had torn through the dress.

  “The killer took great pains to render both the victim and the dress unrecognizable. The victim’s eyes had been gouged out and her face cut badly, not to mention the ear and nose being cut off. He went to the trouble of removing the dress, perhaps figuring it might be a clue. The rest of her items seem intact.”

  “What about rape?” Tip asked.

  “Not the normal signs of rape, no tearing or bruising, but there was semen. That could have been consensual, though.”

  “I’m assuming you’ve sent the semen for a DNA match.”

  “We did, for all of the good it will do. When someone is as careful as this killer, I doubt if there’s going to be a DNA slip. But you never can tell.”

  Tip thanked Ben and then we pulled into a breakfast joint to review what we had. “So this guy was afraid to let us know who she was,” Tip said. “That’s why he mauled her face so bad, and why he buried the head, probably hoping it wouldn’t be found.”

  “And he was obviously worried about prints.”

  “So who the fuck was she? Somebody important?” Tip got up and walked around.