Tony Marcella 05 - Witch House

by Dana Donovan

  “I don’t get,” said Dominic. He seemed agitated. I attributed it to the coffee, which he had been making stronger than usual these days, that and his allergy meds. Together they had him hopping like a junkie. I told him he should switch to decaf, but who am I to say? Coffee is sometimes the only thing that keeps me going when a case gets as sticky as this one. “All we want to do is identify the bones we found in Johnny Buck’s grave,” he continued. “If they belong to John Davis, wouldn’t Mrs. Davis want to know that?”

  “It is a matter of privacy,” I said, “that and closure. I am sure her husband’s murder pressed an impossibly difficult situation upon Mrs. Davis, and she would simply prefer not to drudge up all those difficult memories again.”

  Carlos asked, “Why do we need dental records anyway?”

  Spinelli and I both turned to him, expecting something silly and irrelevant from him next. But Carlos can surprise you on occasion, even make you wonder if his step back approach to things isn’t really a strategy for encompassing the big picture without getting caught up in the minutia of the details the way Spinelli and I sometimes do. I smiled guardedly, not expecting this to be one of those times. “What was that?”

  “Dental records,” he said. “That may have been all we had to go on twenty years ago, but not now.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “DNA, don’t we have some downstairs?”

  “He’s right,” said Spinelli. “We should still have Davis’ uniform from the trial. It’s got to be downstairs in the evidence room.”

  “His blood will be all over it,” I said.

  “Sure, and skin cells, maybe some loose hairs in his hat; we compare that with DNA from the bones and bingo!”

  “Bingo, we hope.”

  “I’ll go down to evidence now and get—”

  “Hold on, that can wait.” I pointed to the chair across from me. “I want you here while we take a minute to piece together what we have so far, make sure we are not missing anything. Go on, take a seat, you too, Carlos.”

  Spinelli came around the table and sat down opposite me; Carlos settled in at the end. “Okay, first let us start with some basic facts. We have the murder of René Landau,” I said. “That is a fact, and as with any murder, we want to establish motive, opportunity and means. Sergeant Powell; as a suspect, did he have a motive to kill Landau?”

  “He may have had several,” said Spinelli. “We know he was seeing René’s fiancée while René was in prison. He could have wanted to kill René after he got out so that he could keep on seeing her.”

  “The old love triangle,” I said, “A classic motive if ever I heard one.”

  “And if that wasn’t enough,” Carlos added, “there is always the money. If Powell was in on the robbery, he may have felt cheated out of his share after René claimed the money burned up in the fire.”

  I jotted those points down on a notepad and followed it up. “So, he had motive; did he have opportunity and means?”

  Again, Spinelli answered. “He had opportunity in the sense that he was on duty that night and cannot account for his whereabouts at the hour René Landau was killed.”

  “And means?”

  Carlos and Dominic both gave me the look. “That is your biggest hurdle, isn’t it?” said Carlos. “Without a murder weapon, the D.A. will surely have an uphill battle.”

  “Yes, but there is no doubt that if Powell wanted to get his hands on a .38 he could. Look, we know Powell went to Pete’s Place the night of the murder. He saw Landau there; Pete will testify to that. We cannot put a .38 in the hands of any of our suspects, but if we can help the D.A. show motive, opportunity and enough circumstantial evidence, then we can get a conviction on any one of them.”

  “Amen to that,” said Dominic. “If circumstantial evidence is what he wants, we’ve got a boatload of it.”

  “Yes, but focus. Maybe we can do better. How abour Paul Kemper? What are the facts?”

  “He went to college with Bill DeAngelo, we know that, and by his own admission, he made numerous phone calls to DeAngelo at the prison in the weeks leading up to Landau’s release.”

  “That ain’t enough to hang a man for murder,” said Carlos in a decidedly Western accent. “That won’t even get him disbarred.”

  I agreed. “So, we are lacking motive.”

  Spinelli came back, “Not if you consider that Landau may have confided in him about the money.”

  I shook my head. “No, that is a stretch. We can argue that he conspired with Judge Cardell and Warden DeAngelo to have Landau sent to Walpole, which may get him disbarred, but it does not provide adequate motive, opportunity or means.”

  “Which is exactly why I think he did it,” Carlos complained. “He’s a slippery weasel and he knows the rope-a-dope of law.”

  “Regardless, we have nothing on him. How `bout Bill DeAngelo?”

  “Fact,” said Dominic, “he paid rent for the state’s primary witness against Landau for the past seventeen years, all the while providing for conjugal visits and other special considerations for the two.”

  “Couple that,” said Carlos, “with DeAngelo’s relationship with Judge Cardell and his friendship with Kemper, and you have some serious circumstantial evidence pointing toward a conspiracy justifying a motive for murder.”

  “Agreed. What about opportunity and means?”

  “Opportunity, yes,” Dominic offered. “We know he went to see Landau at the bar.”

  “And means?”

  “There again, no murder weapon, but a man with DeAngelo’s connections would have no problem getting his hands on a .38.”

  I jotted down a few more notes. “Okay, so that takes care of Powell, Kemper and DeAngelo. Who else do we have?”

  Carlos laughed. “Who don’t we have?”

  “Stiles,” Dominic answered. “She might be the catalyst motivating any one of our boys, but I don’t see her as a suspect.”

  I looked up at him from across the table. “You don’t think she is capable?”

  “Well, I suppose she is in the sense that she might have pushed one of the guys to do it.”

  “Then she is a suspect.”

  “I suspected her all along,” said Carlos.

  Spinelli and I both looked at him amusingly. “I thought you were putting your money on Kemper.”

  “I’m not putting money on anyone.”

  “No, I mean I thought you…never mind.” I sifted through some of the paperwork on the table. “Who’s left?”

  “The chief,” said Dominic. He pointed at an old surveillance photo of Chief Mochohyett. “You know, he is the closest thing to a mob boss that we have in this town.”

  “Technically,” I said, “he is not in this town. The casino sits on sovereign land within the state of Massachusetts.”

  “He’s still the closest thing to a mob boss around here. If you ask me, he had a compelling motive, clear opportunity and the surest means. After all, we know he has killed before. Hell, he even snuffed out two of his own on Christmas Eve.”

  I scribbled the highlights of Spinelli’s argument down on the paper before dropping my pen in complete despair. “This is bad. Do you realize that for every reason we come up with to insinuate one person’s guilt, we provide reasonable doubt for the others? There is no way the D.A. can advance the case with what we have here. There must be something we are overlooking.”

  “Well,” said Spinelli, sighing as he began gathering up the photos and documents and stuffing them into manila folders. “Maybe we’ll find it downstairs in the evidence room when we tie those bones from Johnny Buck’s grave back to John Davis.”

  “Let’s hope,” I said.

  “Oh!” He smiled, turning one of the photos over and handing it to me. “I almost forgot; I have this surveillance of you and Carlos. I thought you might want it.”

  “Surveillance photo?”

  “Yeah, but don’t worry. We weren’t surveying you. We were surveying Stiles’ apartment. You two just hap
pened to be in the picture.”

  I took the photo and looked it over curiously. It was of Carlos and me all right, taken outside Stephanie’s apartment the last time we were there. I remembered we had loitered out in front of her building discussing first the case and later Lilith, and how she employs witchcraft in everything she does. We had not noticed the man in the car, sitting half a block away, taking pictures of us. “This is from two days ago,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “I thought we stopped surveillance on her.”

  “Yeah, well I subbed the work out to an off duty forensic officer who likes taking pictures in his spare time. We already paid him up until the end of the week, so I figured what the hell. You can keep that one.”

  Carlos came in and leaned over my shoulder. “Hey, that’s a good one,” he said. “Look how much taller I am than you.”

  “You are not that much taller than me.”

  “Sure I am. You can see it right there.”

  “Carlos, you are standing on the curb. I’m in the street.”

  “No, you’re not. You are up on the curb with me.”

  “I am not.” I grabbed a magnifying glass and held it over the photo. “See here. I am standing in…shit!”

  “You’re standing in shit?”

  “No! Look at this.”

  “Ah-ha. I told you. We are both on the curb.”

  “No, Carlos, I mean look at this.” I pointed toward the top of the picture. “Look up at the balcony by Stiles’ door. There is somebody leaving.”

  “Let me see.” He grabbed the magnifying glass and held his nose to it. “It is. It’s someone coming out of her apartment.” He backed away and slapped me on the arm. “It’s the guy in the bedroom! I knew she was hiding someone in there.”

  Spinelli said, “Give it here. Let me see.” He took one look and said. “I know this guy.” He handed the photo and glass back to me. “You know him, too. Take another look.”

  I did, and my jaw fell slack. “I don’t believe it.”

  “What, what?” Carlos looked again, his reaction this time echoing Spinelli’s and mine. “I’ll be damned.” He smiled as though someone had just tickled him. “That’s mister toupee from the cafeteria.”

  “Frank Tarkowski,” I said, “Landau’s parole officer.”

  “Spinelli asked, “What is he doing there?”

  “Good question. He told us he didn’t know Stephanie Stiles personally.” I handed the photo back to Dominic. “Listen, I want you to learn all you can about this guy. Find out how long he has been a parole officer, if he knew Landau before his parole papers landed on his desk, and especially if he has had contact with Stiles prior to this week.”

  “How am I going to find that out?”

  “Ask around, check among your network of spies.”

  “Spies?” He dampened a nervous laugh. “I don’t have spies.”

  I referred to Carlos, who turned away as soon as I looked at him. “All right, fine, I don’t mean spies, I mean friends.” I did the quotation thing in the air with my fingers. “Whatever. I know you have resources outside of E.I.N.I. Just find out what you can.”

  “What about the evidence room?”

  “What about it?”

  “You still want me to go down there and look for D.N.A. samples from Davis?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well?”

  “What?”

  “Which do you want first, the D.N.A. or the stuff on Tarkowski?”

  “I want both.”

  His face soured. “What are you two going to do?”

  I looked at Carlos, knowing he was going to like this one. “We’re going to the Perc.”

  “You’re going for breakfast?”

  “No, for interviews,” said Carlos.

  Spinelli nestled his hands on his hips. “Yeah? Who are you going to interview?”

  “People.”

  “What people?”

  He drew a blank. “Tony, tell him what people.”

  I pushed my chair away from the table and stood. “We are not going to interview anyone,” I said. “We are going for breakfast. Sorry, you can go next time. Call us when you have something.” I turned and headed for the door. “Coming, Carlos?”

  He said nothing, but grabbed his coat and followed.

  We got lucky at the Percolator when our favorite seats opened up just as we arrived. It was the booth in the corner with window views of the front and side parking lot, great for keeping an eye on who is coming and going. That used to be more important in the old days when Carlos and I would sneak a beer or two in with lunch. If the captain showed up, we would lose the beers and start sipping on the iced teas that we kept handy just in case. We don’t do beers at lunch any more, and certainly not at breakfast, but the booth remains special to us for all the times we sat there over the years, spinning theories and solving cases. I hoped the old booth might inspire us again for this case.

  “They fixed the rip,” said Carlos, grinning as he slid into his seat.

  “What rip?”

  “In the naugahyde.” He looked down at the seat and thumped it twice with his palm.

  I smiled back. “Hurray for little victories.”

  “Coffee?” said our server. I looked up. It was Trish, or Patricia, or whatever she goes by these days. She had come up from behind with two cups and a pot of coffee.

  “Well, hello there,” I said. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Detective Marcella!” Her practiced waitress smile seemed to yield to one more spontaneous and fresh. “I didn’t recognize you from behind. How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you.” I pointed to Carlos. “You remember Detective Rodriquez?”

  Like a chameleon, her waitress smiled returned. “Sure, Detective?”

  Carlos waved and trimmed his lips without really smiling back. I said to her, “How is Adam holding up?”

  “He seems fine,” she said, “if you didn’t know him like I do.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, he is trying to bury it; I mean not just his dad, but this whole thing.”

  “Does he need help? I can recommend some free counseling—for both of you if you need it.”

  She set the cups down and filled them, her stare momentarily lost in the pour of coffee. “That’s sweet, thank you, but Adam would never go for it. He deals with things in his own way. He’s going fishing, you know.”

  “Is he?”

  “Up at the cabin—what’s left of it. I think it will do him good.”

  I nodded agreeably. “Sure, I remember something in one of his father’s letters about a great fishing spot up there.”

  “Yeah, he’ll be okay.”

  “And you? You going with him?”

  She pulled the coffee pot back. “No, I’m staying home alone.” She stretched across the table and snagged a menu from its holder, her blouse spilling open as she reached, affording me a view more diverting than anything out in the parking lot. As she straightened up, her breast brushed my shoulder softly. I wanted to think it was all innocent, but the look Carlos gave me made me blush just the same. She handed me the menu. “Can I tempt you, Detective?”

  I blinked back my surprise. “Excuse me?”

  “Our breakfast special: two eggs any way you like`m, two sausage links, pancakes, toast and hash browns; only three-ninety-five.”

  I smiled wolfishly. “Yes, of course, that sounds great. Easy-over, please.”

  “You got it,” she said, and winked. “I’ll get it up for you no problem.” She turned and started away, when Carlos raised his hand.

  “Ah-hum, pardon me? Invisible man here.”

  She returned on a spin and a curtsied step forward. “I’m sorry, Detective. What will you have, the usual?”

  “Usual?”

  “Three eggs scrambled; four bacon strips, hash brown potatoes, rye toast and jam with orange juices and a splash of catsup on the side?”

  He looked at her, befogged. “Oh, sure, that sounds o
kay I guess.”

  She tapped her order pad with her pen. “Coming right up.”

  After she left, Carlos leaned across the table and uttered low, “How did she do that?”

  I laughed. “Carlos, it’s the same breakfast you eat here every day. It’s hardly a secret.”

  “Yeah, but she doesn’t know that. She has never served us breakfast before.”

  I opened the menu and pointed to the breakfast schedule. “It’s right here. It’s even named after you. See, the Carlos Combo.”

  He took the menu and recited line four under breakfast specials. “Carlos Combo: three eggs scrambled; four bacon strips, hash brown potatoes, rye toast and jam with orange juice and a splash of catsup on the side.” He folded the menu and stuck it back in its holder. “Damn, how long has that been there?”

  I thought about it and answered, “I’m not sure. When was Reagan president?”

  He flopped back in his seat. “You know this is just blowing my mind, and that girl. What is with her? Did you see how she put the moves on you?”

  “Nah.” I waved him off. “She brushed me accidentally.”

  “Accidentally? Tony, she laid her boobs out on the table for you, and then she raked them across your shoulder like a dragnet. The girl was hitting on you!”

  “Okay, first of all, she was not hitting on me. Secondly, young women do not have boobs. Old ladies have boobs.”

  “So what do you want to call them, tits?”

  “No! Jesus, she’s a child. Show her some respect.”

  “Titties? I mean they were kind of small. I guess you could call them titítas. In Cuba we—”

  “No, Carlos, I don’t care about Cuba. I don’t want to call them anything. I told you, she was not hitting on me.”

  “Tony, come on, look at you. You are not an old man anymore. Has it been so long since a woman hit on you that you don’t recognize it when it happens?”