Crimes on Latimer: From the Early Cases of Marco Fontana

by DeMarco, Joseph R. G.

  “Somebody in that group told you to tag the wall, right?” I said.

  “I told you, I ain’t a rat. I got friends and they depend on me. I ain’t rattin’ anybody out.” Teddy concentrated on whatever was at his feet on the pavement. The pain in his voice was pitiful, and if there were even something tiny that I liked about him I would’ve felt some compassion.

  “I’m just trying to save you trouble. They’ll find evidence that it was you who tagged the wall. Fingerprints, fabric, something. That and MacFee telling them about you arguin’ with Bidding… that’s gonna put it away for the police. You’ll take the blame and do the time.”

  “Not to mention you’ll probably get expelled,” Cullen said.

  “That kinda sorta happens when you go to jail,” I said.

  “My friends won’t let that happen. You don’t know about friends like that, do you, Fontana?”

  “Your friends trust you so much, they’re willing to bet you’ll stay silent. So they can get away with murder. And you get a record, a big time record, while they go free. It’s not worth it, Teddy. You’re eighteen. You’ll do time in a real jail, not some juvie facility.”

  Teddy was silent. But he was thinking so hard, I could almost hear his head working overtime.

  “Don’t do this to yourself, Teddy.” Cullen sounded totally sincere. Knowing him like I do, what he’d said was genuine. He hated seeing anybody in trouble for no good reason.

  The silence went on a few beats longer. Then Teddy shifted position. It was a small move, relatively speaking but it was huge for him, I think.

  “Squeaky.” Teddy said the word so low I thought it was just the sound of a shoe scraping the cement sidewalk. “It was Squeaky,” Teddy repeated, louder this time. “He told me what to write and where to write it.”

  “Who’s Squeaky?” I asked.

  “Damian. That’s what we call him. Squeaky. That’s what everybody calls him, even his father.” Teddy shut down completely then and didn’t say another word.

  It didn’t matter. I knew who’d killed Bidding and it wasn’t Mr. Sullivan. Now all I had to do was convince Detective Bynum to ask the right questions.

  ***

  The next morning I got to school extra early. Hardly anyone was in the halls and the building was quiet, which gave me a chance to think. If the detective was already in, I figured he’d probably go to the cafeteria to try and corner people he needed to interview. So, that’s where I headed.

  Deliverymen filed in ahead of me. One trundled cases of Coke to the counter, another struggled with a load of something labeled “Grade D but edible” and others pushed or pulled cases of snacks and candy.

  I stood just inside the doorway, scanning the place and saw the detective talking with one of the cafeteria staff. I didn’t want to interrupt so I approached and waited at just the right distance for him to notice me.

  Which he did. He shook the staffer’s hand and thanked her.

  “Mr. Fontana. Got good news for me?” He looked tired and frustrated.

  “I don’t know if it’s good, but it’s a lead and I think it’s solid.”

  “Let’s move to that corner so we won’t be bothered.”

  I followed him to a table and we both sat down.

  “Did you talk to Mr. Wheelan like I told you?”

  “Sure did, chief,” he said and straightened his back, an amused look in his eyes. “And he told me what he heard. Makes no sense though.”

  “He told you that Mr. Bidding was yelling about something being leaky, right?”

  “Right. Just like you said he would.”

  “And what about Mrs. MacFee? Did she tell you about how Bidding treated the kids here?”

  “She was only too happy to tell me everything. Got herself a promotion, did you know that?”

  “Promotion?”

  “She’s takin’ Bidding’s place till the end of the year.” He gave me a knowing look.

  “Sounds like motive, I guess. But I think you might like to hear what I found out. You saw the writing in the stairwell, over the spot where Bidding fell?”

  “Yep, somebody told me they thought maybe whoever did it was kind of writing a memorial, ‘In the name of Pat’ or something.”

  “That’s what I thought at first.”

  “All rightie then, we’re on the same wavelength.”

  “Not exactly anymore. I’ve been thinking and now I believe it means something else.”

  “Okay, shoot,” Detective Bynum said.

  “The tag was an unfinished sentence. That’s what I think. It’s how we begin and end prayers while making the sign of the cross. ‘In nomine patris’ is just the beginning of a longer sentence.”

  “Let’s say I buy what you’re selling. How’s that help?”

  “It’s kinda complicated and it means you have to put together a few things before it makes any sense.”

  “I don’t like complicated. Murders are simple. Somebody’s got a motive and acts on it. Simple.”

  “Sure. You’re right.”

  “Why, thank you. Glad to know you approve.” His smile was warm.

  “I’m not saying you’re off about motive and things. But in order to get to the motive—”

  “If you think MacFee’s got motive. I don’t buy it. Or, that other teacher you told me to look into. He’s not worth lookin’ at either.” The detective ran his hand over the tabletop as if smoothing down an invisible cloth, then looked at me. “I know it’s not what you wanna hear, but I think we got the person who has the real motive. All I have to do is nail it down.”

  “I’m telling you, you’re wrong. You don’t have the right guy, so you can’t have the right motive. This is more complicated.” I think I really got under his skin by telling him he was wrong. On the other hand, he wasn’t walking away.

  “I’m willin’ to listen,” he said with forced patience and leveled his eyes on me. “But not for much longer. Got it?”

  “You saw that other piece of graffiti in Bidding’s office, right?”

  “What? That ‘Crony Select’ thing?”

  “Yeah, except it was ‘Kronos Elect’ that was written on the door. I gave that a lot of thought, but when I put those words together with the other piece of graffiti, things began to fall into place.”

  “You lost me.”

  “Listen, ‘In nomine patris’ means ‘in the name of the father’ okay?”

  “Still cloudy.”

  “Things’ll get clear in a minute. ‘Kronos Elect’ is apparently some kind of secret group here at school. I’d never heard of it, but it’s real. You know the old Kronos myth?”

  “Can’t say I do,” the detective glanced toward the door, either bored or looking to escape, or both.

  “Kronos was the father of the Greek gods. Zeus was his son and he led a revolution against Kronos. Zeus killed his father and set up a new order on Olympus.”

  “Nice story but what’s that got to do with—”

  “The other piece of graffiti said ‘in the name of the father’ but it was unfinished. The next part of the blessing says ‘and the son.’ They were really saying ‘in the name of the son’! What they left unsaid, was what they were really saying. See?”

  “No. I don’t, young man.” He made as if to stand.

  “Wait! Don’t you get it? The one who killed Bidding made sure we all saw the graffiti. He was tempting us to figure it out.”

  “And you did?”

  “I think so. It’s all about fathers and sons. Bidding abused his son Damian. Some of the kids Damian hung with decided to form a group, The Kronos Elect. They identified with one another because they were all abused in some way by their fathers or even father figures.”

  “And they all killed their fathers?”

  “No. Not yet. So far, just Bidding. But I’ll bet they have plans to do more.”

  “So you’re sayin’ what?”

  “That it was Damian who killed his father. Remember what Wheelan told you he heard?”


  “Yeah about Bidding yelling that something was leaky, or somethin’ like that.”

  “Bidding was yelling something but it wasn’t the word leaky. He was calling out to his son, Damian. Damian’s nickname is ‘Squeaky.’ And he did something to lead his father to the top of those steps where he tripped on the wire and fell to his death.”

  “The hell you say!” The detective looked at me in disbelief. “That’s another good story, son. But—”

  “Question Damian and Teddy Nalan, and Jimmy, and whoever else is in the group. I got some of this from Nalan already. His father abuses him and his mom. Same with the other kids in that group. And they had plans. Big plans. Bidding was just the first.”

  ***

  It didn’t exactly feel good to see Detective Bynum leading Damian Bidding out of the building in handcuffs. Damian didn’t look particularly sad or frightened, though. As I watched him marched out, I kept telling myself that he must’ve been stunned by everything that happened. That and he’d taken plenty of abuse from his father. But if I was really honest about it, I’d have to admit that Damian was cold and calculating. He didn’t show any remorse, because he had none.

  The only thing that felt even halfway good was the fact that I’d helped uncover the truth. That was sweet. And Mr. Sullivan was really grateful, even if he did tell me that he’d be looking for another job as soon as the school year ended. He didn’t feel comfortable at St. T’s anymore, and I could understand that. In any case, seeing him so happy at being exonerated felt good.

  Somehow, I knew we’d remain friends.

  Now, all I had to do was figure out what I’d do with my life after graduation.

  The DaVinci Theft

  If Luke hadn’t been a one man charm factory and if the case hadn’t included a stolen DaVinci, I might’ve turned down the deal and missed a great opportunity. A whole lot of great opportunities.

  I’d known Luke Guan a little over a week. His housecleaning service, Clean Living, came highly recommended by one of my clients who’d had a big mess to straighten up after a certain event he’d rather no one ever mention. He told me because people tell private eyes lots of things they wouldn’t tell their priests.

  Knowing that my mother had scheduled one of her occasional forays into Philly’s downtown, which always included a visit to my house, or more accurately, an inspection tour, I’d decided to hire professionals to clean. They’d make sure every surface was clear and without a speck for mom to find during her white glove treatment. Every dish washed, every cabinet organized, every floor vacuumed. It’d be spotless and sparkling. That’s what Luke promised, and that’s what I got.

  Two days after Luke’s guys had cleaned house, my mother crossed my threshold and I could see in her eyes that she was taken aback by the state of things in the place. It was clean. Not a trace of dust, not a filament out of place, not a streak on any glass surface. She’d been taken by surprise and that was no mean feat. I whispered a silent “Thank You” to Luke.

  The visit had been a success, the only fumble coming as she left the house.

  With my sister in tow, Mrs. Fontana strode through the dining room and into the parlor, marveling at the sparkle and shine. She’d gazed around slowly as she moved toward the foyer. Her sharp, brown, Italian eyes which never, ever had missed a dirty detail anywhere, homed in again on every possible trouble spot. Looking for something I’d missed, some slip up. Some way to bend my ear with a lecture.

  She found nothing to complain about.

  Her smile indicated she was both pleased and disappointed. After all, a son who could take care of his home, could clean, cook, even make the bed, that was something to smile about. But missing an opportunity for a good motherly dressing down, that couldn’t be. Italian mothers lived for those occasions. I’d purloined that moment. From the look in her eye, I knew she realized I’d discovered the secret to cleanliness and she might never get to lecture me on that point again.

  “So?” She’d stared at me accusingly as she waited by the door. “Who is he?”

  “Who’s who?” I asked innocently, knowing she meant who had really cleaned the place. She was too smart to be fooled.

  “The man who did this. That’s who. Who cleans like this?”

  I suppose I figured she’d guess. She’s too good at scoping things out, at calling a liar a liar, at finding the culprit in every situation. I get lots of those qualities from her.

  “What?”

  “No. Who? ‘Ats what I said. Who? You having trouble hearing me?” She stared, defying me to lie.

  “Who what?” I knew I couldn’t make her believe I’d cleaned the place.

  “You don’t fool me, Marco.” She puffed herself up a bit and I noticed my sister looking uncomfortable.

  “I don’t know… I mean…” I lost all sense and reverted to being a Third grader whenever her withering glare focused on me. “All right, all right,” I relented.

  “So, who is it?”

  “His name’s Luke and he owns a house cleaning agency. I should’ve known I couldn’t fool you. But I hadda try.”

  “This Luke,” she paused significantly, then swiped a finger over a bookshelf and peered at the lack of dust. “This man, he’s good-looking?”

  “He’s… yes, he—”

  “And he owns his own company? Makes good money?”

  “I suppose. I don’t know him that well.”

  “Marry him.” She’d said it without a hint of humor. There was nothing light in the way she spoke. It was an order. An order she knew very well I wouldn’t obey, one which she would add to the catalog of my offenses when the next opportunity to lecture me came along. And it would.

  My sister rolled her eyes in sympathy. She’d had her own clashes with our mother and always silently supported me. Silently, because open rebellion wouldn’t be tolerated. Would be crushed and ground to dust.

  They left, and I stood looking at my shiny clean house feeling that it had been a pyrrhic victory at best.

  A couple of days after that visit, Luke called to ask for an appointment.

  ***

  Luke walked into my office, all five foot eight of him, looking serious. His resolute expression did nothing to obscure his classic, handsome face. His manner was equally striking. There was a determination about him which I thought must account, in part, for his business success. Chinese, a little younger than me, and possessed of an elegance and an enviable inner peace, he closed the inner office door and strode over to my desk.

  “You did a bang-up job at my place, Luke,” I said after we’d shaken hands. He had the smoothest hands for a person who ran a housecleaning business. Even if he was the boss and never touched a scrub brush anymore, a callous or two would be a little more earthy. But Luke wasn’t about doing things for show or about deception of any kind, as I was learning.

  “Glad to hear it. My crew did a good job, then?”

  “It was so clean, my mother said I should marry you. She thought you did the job yourself.”

  “Marry you?” Luke smiled. “And she knows I’m a man?”

  “Not everybody makes a good impression on Mrs. Fontana,” I said. “If you can clean a house and keep it that way, she doesn’t care if you’re a man or a woman.”

  Luke laughed. “Well, maybe I should meet your mother before she pushes you down the aisle with me.”

  “That can be arranged.” I looked into his eyes and Luke stared back. I got the feeling that he hadn’t considered this possibility before and was giving it some thought.

  “I’m up for a challenge,” Luke said.

  “But you didn’t come here for a marriage proposal.” I smiled. “When you called, you said you had a problem. Something you thought I could help with.”

  “Not me exactly, Mr. Fontana.”

  “Marco. Call me Marco.”

  “Mikey’s the one with the problem. He’s one of my workers, so his problem is mine,” he said.

  “One of your crew?”

>   Luke nodded. “He’s been accused of something he didn’t do. I’m hoping you can help to clear him.”

  “Something he did on the job?”

  “That’s the way it looks,” Luke said.

  “Bad for business, huh?”

  “I’m not worried about my business, Mr. Fon—Marco. The company will weather it, whatever the case.”

  “Then what’s…”

  “Mikey’s a good kid. He’s been working for me quite a while now. I know him, and he’d never do anything illegal.”

  “What’s he accused of?”

  “Stealing. From a client’s place during a cleaning job.” Luke said, shifting in his seat, as if even the thought this could happen made him uncomfortable.

  I nodded. Maybe I’m less trusting than other people. Scratch that. I am less trusting than other people. It’s my Italian nature to be distrustful. When the cleaning crew came into my apartment, I made sure I was there. Nobody gets the opportunity to search every corner of my place without me supervising. Of course, Luke’s staff was nice to look at, so it wasn’t difficult carving out the time to watch them work.

  “What’s he accused of stealing and from whom?”

  “A piece of art. A sketch by DaVinci. At least that’s what the client says it is.”

  “I suppose he’s got documentation and a photo of the missing piece?”

  “He’s got everything. One of his sons is an art expert and knows everything about everything, so he claims.” Luke gave me a look that told me he wasn’t too thrilled about the art expert son. “I took a tour of the place before my crew went in. Standard procedure. I look over a place and give a price for the job. At the same time I’m checking out the client. I’m used to dealing with the public, and I can tell pretty quickly if someone’s gonna be trouble. This client didn’t seem the troublesome kind.”

  “Did you see the DaVinci?”

  “I must’ve. There was so much art on the walls that I don’t remember one piece in particular. The client’s not the type to brag about what he has. Which is another reason I liked the guy.”

  “Where was the sketch?”

  “He says it was hanging in the den. A room they don’t use much. I was in that room, and the walls were covered with framed pieces maybe more than in the other rooms. I can’t remember anything in particular. Not even a DaVinci.”