5 Bad Moon

by Anthony Bruno

Gibbons leveled a stare right back at her. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe Immordino got the idea from Emerick? You ever think of that?”

  Cummings frowned. “Mental institutions are not like prisons. Psychotics like Mr. Emerick and Mr. Immordino don’t compare notes. Now, I know you don’t believe that there’s anything wrong with Mr. Immordino and you feel that he’s faking his condition, but he has been diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic by a court-ordered psychiatrist, and several doctors have supported that evaluation under oath. That’s why he’s been incarcerated at the state hospital for the past nineteen months. Those were all reputable doctors, and I accept their findings. From the reports I’ve read, Mr. Immordino could not possibly have murdered anyone. He isn’t capable.”

  Gibbons looked at his wife. She raised her eyebrows and shrugged. Even Lorraine knew that Cummings was wet behind the ears on this one. Incarceration never keeps mob guys from pulling off hits. Putting out a contract on someone is no problem for them. It’s like calling out for pizza.

  He wondered if Immordino had ordered a large with Gibbons and Tozzi on it.

  Gibbons reached back for the coffeepot on the counter and refilled his cup. “You know, speaking of reports, I took a look at Emerick’s file. Those women he killed were both blondes. At the time that he killed them, he’d just been asked to leave the seminary where he was studying to be a priest. According to the file, he had been acting pretty nutty at the seminary, doing stuff like breaking into people’s rooms to look for light switches in the wastepaper baskets because he thought someone was stealing his. They finally decided they had to do something with him when he tried to crucify himself to an apple tree, so they sent him home to his parents. No one could really figure out what was bothering him until he murdered those two women. Seems he was at a mall one night a few months earlier when he happened to see one of the priests from the seminary in his civies going into the movies with his girlfriend. Apparently Emerick really looked up to this particular priest, thought he was a real saintly guy. The girlfriend just happened to be a blonde. Emerick followed them in and watched the priest put his arm around the girl. After the movie, he followed them and saw them kissing in the priest’s car. That’s what set Emerick off. The woman was a sinner, he told his shrink afterward, and she had to be absolved with the sign of the cross. Problem was, he didn’t get a real good look at the girlfriend, so he kept mistaking other blondes for her.”

  “Yes, I know all that. I read the file. Do you have a point?”

  “Yeah, I do have a point. If Emerick’s mission in life is to save the soul of some wayward blonde, why would he shoot a couple of wiseguys? Doesn’t exactly fit his profile, does it?”

  “The man’s life is circumscribed by irrational behavior. His ‘mission,’ as you put it, may have evolved since the initial murders. He may be going after bigger sinners now. Mistretta certainly qualifies under that category.”

  “I don’t buy it, Doc.” Gibbons sipped his coffee.

  Cummings narrowed her eyes and stared at him, turning on the arctic blast, total attitude. “Then you’re being deliberately ignorant.”

  He put down his cup and pointed at her. “You know what your trouble is, Cummings? You bought the psychology franchise a long time ago, and now you expect people to buy your version of things no matter what. Give me a little credit for my specialty, why don’cha? I’ve been chasing down wiseguys for almost thirty years now. I’ve seen ’em come and go. When a boss is shot, it’s no accident. It’s a hit. Believe me.”

  “Why is your past experience worth more than mine? Because you’re a tough guy and you carry a gun? I’ve participated in forty-one serial killer investigations with the FBI. I’ve seen how they mutilate flesh. I’ve reconstructed their patterns and preferences. Serial killers are fussy people. They want things just so. This killer fired eight bullets into two victims, repeating a specific pattern twice. He then moved those two bodies. That takes time and forethought, and it takes a good stomach. Mob hits are done fast, in and out. Am I correct? This one was savored. This was done to satisfy an inner need.”

  “Wait a minute. Are you telling me Emerick is a serial killer now?”

  “He exhibits all the signs. If he did kill Mistretta and Rella, then we definitely have a serial killer on our hands.”

  “I don’t think he did it. Only mob guys kill mob guys.”

  And FBI agents sometimes. Gibbons glanced out the sunny window.

  “Gibbons, I don’t care how many years you’ve been on the street chasing mobsters. This is my kind of killer. I know it. I can feel it.”

  “Hey, if you’re so sure there’s a serial killer on the loose, follow up on it on your own time. But as far as I’m concerned, you’re Tozzi’s replacement and I’m senior man on this team, so I call the shots.”

  Cummings knit her brows. “Which means what exactly?”

  “It means we’re treating this case the way it should be treated, as a mob rubout.”

  Lorraine turned back and faced the table. She wasn’t so green now. “Madeleine did receive her doctorate from Johns Hopkins. She had years of clinical experience before she entered the Bureau. Don’t you think you’re being a little bit pigheaded in refusing even to consider her ideas in this case?”

  Gibbons stared at his wife. “No. I don’t.” He knew he sounded like an asshole, but there was no time to dick around looking for this Emerick character, not if there was someone out there gunning for Tozzi. And maybe him, too. But he couldn’t tell Lorraine that. She’d go nuts, and he didn’t want her to worry.

  Gibbons drained his cup, stood up, and looked at Cummings. “I wanna be on the road by quarter of eight.” He sawed his tie under his shirt collar and decided not to tell either of them that he was bringing Tozzi along to interview Immordino. Cummings would object and Lorraine would have a shit-fit.

  He left the kitchen and headed down the hall to the bathroom for his morning sit-down, wondering whether Lorraine picked up on the fact that he’d worn his gun to breakfast. He usually didn’t do that. But with mob guys, you could never be too careful.

  Sal Immordino sat hunched over in a folding chair next to his favorite table on the ward, the one with the checkerboard printed on the Formica top. He was staring at his hands, elbows on his knees, mumbling to them, deep in a three-way conversation. He was trying his damnedest to ignore Tozzi, who was sitting right in front of his face. Tozzi hadn’t said a word to him since he came in five minutes ago, just sat there staring at him, tapping his cane on the floor, the son of a bitch.

  Sal studied his pinkies. He wanted to know what the fuck this bastard wanted. Did he know it was him who tried to whack him or what? Or was it because of Mistretta that he was here? Either way, it didn’t matter. Sal wasn’t gonna tell him anything. He wasn’t even gonna look at him. Mr. Magic, this guy. He dodges bullets and has a fairy godmother who protects him from harm. Mr. fucking Magic the fed.

  Tozzi stopped tapping the cane. In his peripheral vision, Sal watched Tozzi reach into the inside pocket of his jacket and pull something out. Son of a bitch. It was one of those little tape recorders, like the one Tozzi had hidden on his body that time in Atlantic City two years ago when Sal dropped his guard and threatened to kill Tozzi. Thank God, Tozzi sweats a lot. It screwed up the works and they didn’t get Sal down on tape. If Tozzi had gotten that down on tape, getting rid of the bastard wouldn’t do Sal any good because there would’ve been physical evidence against him. But as it was, only Tozzi’s testimony could put Sal away. That’s why he was gonna die.

  Tozzi reached over and snatched Sal’s left wrist. Sal flinched, but he didn’t resist. He was supposed to be mental. Tozzi forced the little tape recorder into his hand.

  “Here, take it,” Tozzi said.

  Sal just stared at it in his hand, deliberately looking puzzled. He kept his eyes down and didn’t look at the one-way mirror on the wall across the room. Tozzi’s buddy Gibbons was in there. Sal was willing to bet mone
y on that.

  “This is so you know I’m not taping you this time. Okay, Sal?”

  Sal almost laughed in his face. How do I know you don’t have another one taped to your back? You must think I really am stupid.

  “Now, let’s cut the shit, okay, Sal? I know there’s nothing wrong with you, and you know that I know, so let’s stop playing games here. My deposition attesting to your mental competency is on file with the court, and there’s nothing either of us can do about that. But if you cooperate with me now, I can talk to the guys at the U.S. Attorney’s Office, see if they want to cut you some slack for helping us out.”

  Sal glanced from the tape recorder to Tozzi to the one-way mirror. Fuck you, Tozzi. Mistretta said you guys would try to get me to flip, This is just what Juicy is afraid of. Get outta my face, Tozzi.

  Tozzi rested his chin on the cane. “You could also turn state’s witness. Give the prosecutors enough good dirt that they can use and maybe, just maybe, you could end up in witness protection. If they think they can get some solid convictions out of it, they’ll drop some of the prior charges against you, make you a deal on the heavy ones. Maybe you’ll end up with a coupla years on the worst charges with credit for time served here. I dunno. I’m not a prosecutor. But it’s worth a shot. No?”

  Sal looked Tozzi in the eye. He let the tape recorder slip out of his hand and smash to the floor.

  Tozzi glanced down at the pieces, then slowly grinned up at him. “I know what you’re thinking, Sal. ‘I’m not gonna rat on my buddies, no way, not me. And I’m sure as hell not gonna go live in some shitty little split-level in the middle of nowhere where the only mozzarell’ you can get is the A&P brand and all the kids are blue-eyed blondes.’ That’s what you’re thinking. But is that any worse than what you got here?” Tozzi looked around at the nuts shuffling around the ward. “Don’t look like the Fontainebleau to me, Sal. And your buddies back in the family haven’t done too much to help you get outta here, have they? The way I hear it, Mistretta really cut you off at the knees. You used up most of your own money on lawyers, then the old man wouldn’t help you out. Some godfather, huh?”

  Not exactly, Tozzi. I got a little stashed away that nobody knows about, not even my sister. Sal stirred the broken pieces of the tape recorder with his toe.

  “Whattaya think, Sal? Was it Juicy Vacarini who did Mistretta? Juicy doing a Gotti so he can be boss?”

  Sal didn’t look up.

  “Or was it you who ordered the hit, Sal? Scraped up your pennies and hired a shooter? Is that the way it went down? I mean, if anyone wanted Mistretta dead, it was you more than Juicy. Right? The old man definitely had his favorites, but somehow you got bumped from that list. So maybe you had him whacked. Whattaya think, Sal?”

  Sal kept his head down. His heart was bashing against his chest.

  “Maybe I oughta ask Juicy what he thinks. I’ll tell him I asked you, but you didn’t have an opinion on that subject. You think Juicy’ll have any ideas?”

  Sal’s heart was going nuts. He kept his chin on his chest, opening and closing his hands, first one, then the other, real slow. He wanted to strangle this son of a bitch. Tozzi thought he was cute, but he knew damn well what Juicy would think—that Sal was cooperating with the feds because that’s what Juicy and Bartolo and all those guys wanted to believe. That’s why they had a friggin’ contract out on him. Shit!

  Sal heard footsteps coming this way, normal-people footsteps. He kept his head down in case it was that other fuck, Gibbons.

  “You the one wanted to see me?”

  Sal knew the voice. He squeezed his eyes shut and stopped breathing.

  “You Charles Tate?”

  “That’s me.”

  Tozzi pulled out his I.D. “Special Agent Mike Tozzi, FBI.” He reached up from his seat and shook Charles’s hand. “Thanks for coming in. I understand this is your day off.” Tozzi pointed to an empty chair.

  “No problem, man. No problem at’all.”

  As Charles sat down, Sal noticed that he was wearing royal-blue sweats and high-top Reeboks, the ones with the air pump inside. Those shoes go for about a hundred fifty bucks or more. They looked pretty new, too. Sal hoped to hell those shoes fell off the truck. This bastard better not be using that grand on fucking sneakers or he’s gonna be one very sorry dude.

  Tozzi took a small notepad out of his pocket and flipped it open. “For the past two months you’ve been the guard on duty on the third shift. Is that correct?”

  “No, O’Connor’s got the graveyard. I’m second shift.”

  Tozzi pulled out a pen and crossed something out. “While you were on duty, did you notice anything unusual going on with Mr. Immordino here?”

  Sal’s eyes bulged. The moolinyam better say the right thing.

  “How ’xactly do you mean ‘unusual’?”

  Tozzi drummed on the pad with his pen. “Anything different from his usual routine. New visitors, phone calls. Did he act funny in any way? You know what I mean.”

  “Well, let’s see…”

  Sal gritted his teeth. Think before you talk, Charles.

  “Well, Sal don’t never use the phone, and the only visitor I ever seen him get is his sister, the nun.” Charles laughed that growly hissing laugh of his. “And Sal, he always act funny. Everybody act funny on this ward.”

  Sal’s gut clenched as something suddenly occurred to him. What if Tozzi recognizes Charles’s voice from that night the moolinyam tried to kill him? What if he already knows Charles was the guy? Why the hell did he call Charles in here? Sal froze, waiting for Gibbons to run in with a gang of state cops to bust the two of them.

  Tozzi flipped a page in his notepad. “The guy who escaped, Donald Emerick. Did he and Mr. Immordino here ever pal around together?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t call it palling around.”

  Shut the fuck up, Charles. Just say you don’t know.

  “What would you call it, then?”

  “I dunno. Sal never pays attention to nobody. Just talks to his hands, all day long, just like he doing now. Emerick, he the kind of dude who goes up and down with his medication. Give him his pill, he mellows right out, easy as could be. But when the medication starts wearing off, he perks right up and gets real curious. Every once in a while I’d see him sitting over here next to Sal, listening to him mumble to his hands. But Sal never talked to him. I always figured Emerick thought Sal was saying his prayers. See, Emerick, he prayed a lot, prayed all the time. The one thing he wanted most was a string of them rosary beads. Every day he’d be asking me to get him some rosary beads. But the doctors said no way, too dangerous.”

  “Were they afraid he’d hurt himself or the other patients?”

  “Both. Emerick’s a little dude, but he one of the worst ones here. They shoulda had him in a room downstairs by hisself. He killed two ladies, you know. That’s how he got in here. I bet he tries to kill somebody again. You watch.”

  Sal clenched his fists. He wished to hell Tozzi would disappear. Charles was talking too much.

  Tozzi wrote something down on the pad, ripped out the page, and handed it to Charles. “This is a number where you can reach me. If you see Mr. Immordino doing anything out of the ordinary, anything that strikes you as different for him, anything at all, I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call.”

  “Will do.” Tate slipped the phone number into the front pouch of his sweatshirt.

  “Thanks for coming. Sorry to disturb you on your day off.”

  “No problem.” Tate got up and walked back across the ward, his new high-tops squeaking on the linoleum.

  Tozzi leaned into Sal’s face. “Last chance, Sal. You got anything you want to tell me?”

  Sal clenched his fists again. He was so mad, they were shaking. He wanted to punch Tozzi’s head off and piss down his throat, he was so mad. But he was afraid to move a muscle, afraid to do anything that might make him look sane. They must have a video camera going
behind that one-way mirror, filming this whole thing. On top of that, Sal couldn’t figure out if Tozzi actually knew something about him and Charles and Emerick, or he was just acting like he knew something, hoping he could scare Sal into talking. He oughta know better by now, the bastard.

  Tozzi stood up and leaned on his cane. “Nothing to say, huh? Well, it’s been nice talking to you, Sal.” He turned to go, but then stopped and turned back. “By the way, you want me to give Juicy your love when I see him?”

  Sal kept his head down, gritted his teeth, and squeezed his fists so hard they hurt. Fuck you, Tozzi.

  “That’s what I thought.” Tozzi walked through the ward, dragging his bum leg behind him.

  Sal followed Tozzi out with his eyes. His face was as tight as his fists.

  You’re fucking dead, Tozzi!

  Chapter 8

  Tozzi helped Stacy out of her leather motorcycle jacket and handed it to the hatcheck girl. Stacy looked incredible tonight. Little black dress cut up to the middle of her thigh, black suede heels, and all that incredible hair. She was a walking dream, and he wasn’t the only one who thought so.

  A couple of guys at the bar were giving her the eye right now, showing their appreciation in their gaga faces. They waved the bartender over and asked for his opinion. It was the same. Tozzi was willing to bet they were wondering whether this was really the Pump-It-Up Girl. All three of them probably had hard-ons for her. He wished he could have one for her. His equipment still wasn’t responding, and it was driving him nuts. There was no good reason for this, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to go to a doctor. It wasn’t like that. It was all mental, and he was pretty sure he could fix it himself. If he stayed around Stacy, the blood was bound to start circulating again. With the right stimulation, it would happen. He was almost positive.

  He got the ticket from the hatcheck girl, and leaning on his cane, escorted Stacy over to the maître d’s register. The skin on her bare shoulder was soft and firm.