by Walter Marks
“How sweet, Aaron,” she said, looking up. “Looks like you’re starting to develop a new attitude.”
“Tryin’, Ma. Tryin’.”
He set the tray on her nightstand. She took a sip of the tea. “Thank you, darling. Now come give Mommy a kiss.”
Aaron shuddered with revulsion but leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. He tasted the bitterness of her night cream. As he pulled away he saw the lanyard on her chest with the cellar key hanging from it — his key to freedom.
“Nigh-night, Aaron.”
“Nigh-night, Ma.”
Aaron waited till midnight, when he knew his mother would be conked out from the Xanax. He crept silently into her bedroom and saw she’d fallen asleep with the bedside lamp on. When he approached the bed there was a problem. She was sleeping on her belly and the lanyard was tucked underneath her. If she’d been on her back it would’ve been easy to lift it off. But this would require a lot of pushing and pulling, which might wake her. He decided to try and gently turn her over. Hopefully she was so doped up she’d sleep through it.
He put both hands on her left shoulder and began to tug on it tentatively. She moaned and snorted but did not awaken. Slowly, gradually, Aaron managed to turn her onto her back. Her breathing settled into a slow even rhythm. Now the lanyard with its cellar key was in plain sight, resting between her hateful big tits. Aaron reached over and began to lift the lanyard over her head. As he did, the wristwatch on his left hand got snagged on one of her plastic hair rollers.
As he tried to free his hand, his mother grunted and her eyes shot open. She saw her son above her, one hand on the lanyard, the other jerking at something on her head. She screamed and wrenched at his wrists. “Aaron,” she yelled, “what the hell are you doing?”
Aaron yanked free of the roller and, without thinking, grabbed the braided leather cord with both hands. He crossed the ends over each other, forming a ligature, and pulled tight. His mother writhed and struggled; her sharp fingernails raked at the air, trying to scratch his face. He avoided the nails and then her hands moved to his wrists, trying to wrench them apart. She managed to scratch deep bloody lines into his hands.
In her struggles her torso canted forward, and Aaron yanked back sharply on the lanyard. The leather cord cut into the space between C1 and C2 of her cervical spine and snapped her hyoid bone, creating the so-called hangman’s fracture. Her diaphragm was paralyzed, blood supply to her brain stem ceased, and death was almost instantaneous.
Aaron released the cord. The head of his mother the bitch rolled back, her open eyes glaring sightlessly at him. Her tongue — once an organ of vicious verbal attack — now lolled harmlessly from the side of her mouth.
Aaron glanced over at the teacup. She’d fallen asleep without drinking much of it.
For a few moments he stood looking down at his mother, devoid of emotion. He hadn’t meant to kill her. It just fucking happened.
Then suddenly he was in game mode. He knew his mind was agile enough, clever enough, razor sharp enough to meet this challenge and come out on top.
He pulled the lanyard off her neck and hung it over his own. Crossing to her dressing table he sat down and peered into the mirror. He picked up eyeliner and applied it heavily to his eyes and brows. He added a touch of mascara to emphasize his lashes. Then he used a dark pink lipstick to draw wiggly lines up from his eyebrows — the Marilyn Manson look. Next he found some blue eye shadow and rubbed it under his eyes. For his lips he selected L’Oreal Le Gloss, a bright red — Sean Penn as Cheyenne, the aging Goth rock icon in This Must Be the Place.
He opened the dressing table drawer and spotted his mother’s jewelry box. There were some gold earrings he liked, but he’d have to wait until he got pierced. There was a large Gucci shopping bag next to the table, so he emptied the entire jewelry box into it. He grabbed his mom’s purse and checked out her wallet. There was about a hundred bucks in it. With that and the cash he’d get from selling her jewelry on the street, he’d be in good shape. He took out her car keys and dumped the whole purse into the shopping bag as well.
After admiring his new Goth face in the mirror, he took the shopping bag and went downstairs to the cellar door. He unlocked it, flicked the light switch, and descended to the basement.
There he grabbed his laptop, Xbox, and Nintendo DS. There wasn’t enough room in the shopping bag, so he put all his gear in his father’s old army duffel.
He looked in the hall closet and put on his mother’s black, full-length Marc Jacobs wool coat. He wrapped a scarf around his head like a babushka. As a finishing touch, he took a pillow from the living room couch and stuffed it inside the coat like a bulging bosom. I even got your tits, Ma. He checked himself out in the mirror. Yeah, he was now both his Mother The Bitch redux — and a full-on Goth.
CHAPTER 27
Patrolmen Iannucci and Hurlburt had drawn the eleven PM to seven AM surveillance shift. Iannucci was dozing behind the wheel of the Honda, while Hurlburt watched the Platts’ front porch, lit by a street lamp. A woman emerged and he nudged his partner. “Looks like the mother’s comin’ out.”
Iannucci sat bolt upright and looked through the windshield. “Where the hell’s she goin’ at this hour?”
“Who knows? Maybe she’s havin’ an affair?”
“Ain’t she a little old for that?”
“No. It’s the latest thing — MILFs and boy-toys.”
The woman got into the black BMW sedan parked in the driveway and backed out. She swung the car around and drove right past them. In the driver’s seat they saw a busty woman in a babushka, wearing a black coat with the collar turned up.
“Should we follow her?”
“No,” Iannucci said. “Our orders are to watch the house and keep track of the kid. He’s still home.”
Aaron drove carefully. When he reached the Montauk Highway he stopped and popped a meth pill to counteract the Xanax he’d taken earlier. And he hoped it would ease the pain in his hands from his mother’s scratches. He pulled onto the eastbound lane and headed toward Amityville, about an hour and a half drive. He’d taken Driver’s Ed and gotten his learner’s permit, but without a drivers license he’d be in deep shit if he got pulled over. So he set the cruise control to forty mph, well under the speed limit.
He smiled when he imagined the cops in the morning, trying to figure out what was going on.
Wish I could be there, Aaron thought. They’ll realize I haven’t left for school, which will cause major confusion. They’ll ring the doorbell but nobody will answer. They’ll keep ringing, and knocking, and yelling “Aaron, Aaron, Aaron,” but there won’t be any Aaron. They’ll figure I’m inside but refusing to come out. They’ll want to get into the house but they can’t without a warrant, which they can’t get because there’s no evidence of a crime, and there’ll be no evidence of a crime until the body starts stinking so bad they’ll finally bust in — which’ll probably be in a coupla days. By then I’ll be long gone.
His phone rang and he saw it was Richie Chang. Oh shit, he thought, Richie’s at the shack. I forgot he was waiting.
“Hey, dude,” Aaron said. “I messed up. I shoulda called but stuff happened.”
“With you stuff is always happening,” Richie said, fuming. “I’ve been waiting here with my thumb up my ass and the four hundred bucks. You don’t show. You don’t call. You don’t give a shit about anybody but your own stupid self.”
“Man, I’m really sorry. I’ll make it up to…”
“Go fuck yourself, ass-wipe!”
Richie hung up.
Fuck him, thought Aaron.
CHAPTER 28
The scene the next morning was as Aaron predicted. Patrolmen Nicholson and Koster arrived at seven AM to replace Iannucci and Hurlburt, who told them Mrs. Platt had driven off somewhere the night before and Aaron was home alone.
The day shift guys settled down with coffee and sandwiches, and kept watch on the house. When it got to be nine AM and the kid hadn�
�t emerged to go to school, they were flummoxed. They called the dispatcher, who summoned Detective Jericho.
Jericho arrived and they explained the situation. He rang the doorbell several times, then getting no response he yelled Aaron’s name loudly. Nothing.
“Should we go in, Detective?” Iannucci asked.
“We don’t have probable cause.”
“So what can we do?”
“Not much,” Jericho said. “You say the mother isn’t home?”
“That’s what the night guys told us. And there ain’t no car in the driveway.”
“So either Aaron’s home alone, or he sneaked out,” Jericho said. “Do you think he spotted you on surveillance?”
“No way, Detective,” Koster declared definitively.
“Not on our watch,” Nicholson chimed in.
“Still, he may have sneaked out last night,” Jericho said. “Or maybe he went out with his mother.”
“The night guys said she was alone.”
“But it was dark. Maybe…” Jericho heard the sound of car brakes and saw a truck pulling up about twenty-five feet away from them. A chunky, wispy-haired African-American woman got out and came toward them.
She stopped when she saw the men standing on the front porch. “Who’re you guys?”
“We’re police officers, ma’am.”
“Where’s your uniforms?”
“We’re plainclothes, ma’am,” Jericho said, flashing his badge.
“You mind if I give that a close look?” the woman said. “Ain’t got my readin’ glasses.”
Jericho handed her his badge and she squinted at it. “Jericho,” she said. “That’s your name? Like in the Battle of Jericho?”
“You got it.”
“Very cool,” she said. “Why you guys standin’ on the porch?”
“Police business,” Jericho replied. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m the cleanin’ lady. Name’s Oralia Jackson. I been workin’ for Miz Platt for years.”
“You have a key?”
“Sure. Miz Platt, she trust me.”
“Boys,” Jericho said, “looks like we got lucky.”
“Ma’am,” he said, turning to the house cleaner, “please go into the house and see if Aaron’s there. You know Aaron, right? Then come down and tell us. Okay?”
“You want to talk to Miz Platt?”
“She’s not home.”
“Hey, you right,” she said, looking at the driveway. “No car.”
Oralia Jackson put her key in the lock and pushed the door open. “You comin’ in?” she asked.
“No. We’ll wait for you to come back down.”
“Okay.” She entered the house and left the door slightly ajar.
“Hey, Detective,” Nicholson said. “She invited us in. Now we can…”
“The law is quirky about this,” Jericho explained. “If she’s outside the house, she can’t invite us in. But if she’s inside — well, she has implied consent from the occupant to allow us to enter.”
“So we just wait.”
“Correct,” Jericho said. “When she comes down, with or without Aaron, we’re going in.”
After a minute or so they heard a scream. Oralia’s voice rang out — “Oh my God. Oh my God. Miz Platt…This is terrible. Oh Lord, I think she dead. No. No. She cain’t be.”
Jericho pushed open the door and saw Oralia rushing down the stairs. She was crying hysterically. She ran into Jericho’s arms, crying, “She gone. Lord, Miz Platt gone!”
Jericho handed her off to Koster, and he and Nicholson ran up the stairway.
At the top of the stairs was Mrs. Platt’s bedroom. They saw the woman sprawled on her bed, skin pale white, eyes bulging. Blood had seeped from the ligature mark around her neck onto the sheets and her nightgown, coagulating into blackish-red stains.
“Jesus Christ!” Nicholson said, crossing himself.
“Call for a body wagon,” Jericho said.
Jericho went over to Mrs. Platt’s dressing table. He saw lipsticks, makeup, mascara, and an eyebrow pencil scattered carelessly all over the tabletop. This is not right, he thought. Women are a lot more organized doing their makeup.
It took him only a few moments to figure out what had happened; Aaron must have made up his face, disguised himself as his mother, and driven off in Mrs. Platt’s car.
He called Chief Krauss, reported Edna Platt’s death, and asked him to send over Dobrowolski and Richter, the only detectives on the squad Jericho really trusted.
“Oh, and send a patrolman with Crime Scene materials.”
While he waited, a quick glance at the victim’s fingernails showed small bits of bloody flesh under them. If forensic examination showed the tissue was Aaron’s, that alone would convict him.
When the detectives and the CSI material arrived, they all set about dusting for prints, cataloging the evidence, and photographing the body and the bedroom.
When they were done, there was no doubt in Jericho’s mind: Aaron Platt had murdered his mother.
“Bring the body directly to Alvarez in Hauppauge,” he told Dobrowolski.
“Will do.”
CHAPTER 29
When Jericho got back to his office, there was an e-mail from the medical examiner.
Subject: A Hairy Situation
FYI — Result of hair analysis sample from foot number two: No DNA yet, but on further review hair expert says sample is not Chinese, but rather Malaysian in origin. Malaysian hair, he tells me, is finer in texture than Chinese, but not as fine as Indian. A Malaysian serial killer — that’s a first for Suffolk County! ;-)
Best,
John
Damn, Jericho thought, if we’re looking for someone of Malaysian descent, then we’re nowhere in this investigation. Still — that Malaysian hair could be there for some other reason. So that doesn’t completely rule out Aaron Platt or Richard Chang — or Sanford Richman. But that hair sure muddies the waters.
Thinking of Richard Chang gave Jericho an idea. Since Richard was a close friend of Aaron, he might know where Aaron had gone. But interviewing him would be tricky. He knew from the spray-painting incident that Richard’s father was a lawyer; by Jericho’s definition — a pain in the ass. Jericho looked in Richard’s file, found a number for D. Everett Chang, Esq., and called him.
“Mr. Chang, this is Detective Jericho, EHTPD.”
“What can I do for you, Detective?”
“Well, I need to talk to your son Richard. His friend Aaron Platt has gone missing and we’re trying to track him down. We’re hoping Richard can help.”
“Is Aaron in trouble?”
“Hard to say.”
“Is Richard in trouble?”
“No. No. Not at all,” Jericho said. “We’d like to talk to him down here at the station house — very informal. And of course, you’re welcome to come with him.”
“Well, it’s Friday and Richie has his chess club after school. I could bring him over late in the afternoon, say about five-thirty.”
“Perfect.”
“Detective, I’ll be acting not only as my son’s father, but also as his attorney. Consequently there will be certain legal restrictions regarding the scope of the interview.”
Jericho thought of Shakespeare’s famous line “The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.” But he answered cordially. “Of course. See you then.”
After he hung up, Jericho replied to the medical examiner’s e-mail:
John —
Thanks for the info. There’s another body on its way to you, Mrs. Edna Platt. She’s the mother of one of our serial murder suspects. Pretty certain her son killed her. Cause of death could be strangulation by ligature, or (judging by the angle of the head) hangman’s fracture. But what do I know? I sent the body to you today. I’d like you to arrange to do the postmortem yourself.
Are we having fun yet?
— Jericho
Maria entered the detective’s office. She appeared t
ense.
“The Chief told me about Mrs. Platt’s murder,” she said. “Terrible thing!”
“Yes. Looks like the son did it.”
“I was wondering,” Maria said, “how come you didn’t call me in on it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well…I thought we were working together.”
“Oh, the dispatcher called me and I responded. That’s all.”
“Oh. I just wondered.”
Jericho smiled at her. But inside he wondered too. I didn’t even think about her when I was called to the Platt house. Am I afraid we’re getting too close? Am I pulling away from her?
He quickly changed the subject. “Did you check out Mrs. Richman’s hairdresser at the Amagansett Salon yesterday?”
“Yes. I didn’t find out much,” Maria said. “One thing — I had the feeling Mrs. Richman was afraid of her husband. The hairdresser didn’t come right out and say it, but I got that impression.”
“Based on what?”
“She said Mrs. Richman’s husband made her keep her hair a certain color. The way she described it sounded like Richman was very controlling. So I asked if she thought Ann Richman was scared of her husband. The hairdresser looked nervous, said nothing for a few seconds, then blurted out ‘she loves her husband very much.’ After that she cut off our interview and left.”
“You thought she was holding back something?”
“Yes,” Maria said.
“You’re suggesting Richman could’ve been bullying his wife. Or possibly abusing her?”
“Bullying and abuse can lead to murder.”
“That’s a bit of a leap.”
“I know,” Maria said. “But — he is a possible suspect.”
“That’s true,” Jericho said.
“And he could have any of the usual motives. Maybe he had a girlfriend, maybe he got violent in an argument, maybe his wife had life insurance…”
“Those are all good possibilities,” Jericho said. “But let’s put that investigation aside for the moment. Right now we’ve got to find Aaron Platt.”
