Forbidden Birth

by William Rubin

  Michelle, the kids, and I made all the fun and familiar rounds—lunch at Linda Jean’s on Circuit Avenue in Oak Bluffs; bicycling along Edgartown-Vineyard Haven Road; dinner at the Seafood Shanty overlooking the water in Edgartown.

  We strolled in and out of shops featuring Black Dog hats, tee shirts, and windbreakers, and rode the country’s oldest working merry-go-round at the Flying Carousel amusement center before feasting at nearby Giordano’s, the island’s best family style Italian restaurant. We capped one night off filling up on sundaes at Mad Martha’s Ice Cream Shop and dancing to tunes on its fifties-style jukebox. Little Christine showed us some new dance steps, as James looked on amused, giggling his approval. This was all great, and at times, I really did forget about Dietz and his long list of victims. But I knew the case wasn’t totally wrapped up, and I needed to check in.

  We had a trip to Katuma, the Vineyard’s South Beach, planned for later in the day. But first I needed to get a phone call to Kevin out of the way. I didn’t expect it would take long, but had procrastinated the last two days about making the call, determined not to miss the island’s charms, even for a few minutes.

  Christine was growing up fast. So fast, she now helped Michelle take care of James. As the three of them changed and readied themselves for the day’s activities, I got on the line with Kennedy. Cell phone reception was spotty out in the Vineyard Haven Woods so I used a prepaid calling card, the automated voice informing me I had seventeen minutes of talk time remaining.

  I got Kennedy at his desk.

  “Kennedy here,” he said in an unenthused monotone.

  “Any breakfast requests before I stop by the Black Dog Bakery? The apple fritters and hot chocolate with whipped cream are quite good this time of year,” I replied in an upbeat and casual manner.

  “Hey, Chris, how the hell’s it going up there? Been a while since I stomped around the Vineyard. A fritter and hot chocolate would sure hit the spot.”

  “It’s going well, partner. Not to rub your face in it, but the Vineyard’s been the perfect antidote to The Job. The most stress we get up here is deciding if we should eat at the Home Port again or grab some chowder and drinks on the deck of the Seafood Shanty. How about you? How’s the wrap up going?”

  “It isn’t. The Feds and our guys have been busting their humps to gather up physical evidence on Dietz; ADA Byrne would like to take it to trial in two weeks. But we’re coming up empty on all accounts. We can’t find the other evidence in Dietz’s lab that we’d expect to from his notes, and the Mueller woman is still a missing person almost two weeks later.”

  “The squirrel still proclaiming his innocence?” I asked as the familiar tightness and tension returned to my chest and shoulders.

  “Loud and clear for all to hear. He and his Johnnie Cochrane-type lawyer, that jackass Silverstein, have another press conference scheduled later today. The Daily is having a field day. First we were all Messiahs for nailing Dietz, now they’re portraying us as little more than the Keystone Cops.”

  “Typical NYC press bullshit. What do you make of the lack of progress, any second thoughts on the arrest?…”

  “No…not really. I think the doc maybe just committed near-perfect crimes. All his notes are pretty damning evidence, and the city is anxious to put him away and move on with life. I think we have enough for a conviction.”

  The edginess and anxiety that was overtaking me seeped into my voice.

  “You don’t sound too convinced, Kev. Forget about your intellectual take on the case.

  What’s your gut telling you?”

  There was a long pause on the line.

  “We don’t have enough to convince me Dietz is our man. If Spatick hadn’t insisted on this bust, we’d still be taking a hard look at everyone. Kimball’s locked up on another charge. Buehler and Briganti would still be getting tailed 24/7. Any of those guys could have done it and just be laying low. Buehler in particular is an interesting suspect. He may not have tried to abort April’s baby, but he sure as hell could of killed her and concocted the super-concentrated Boxin. I guess what I’m saying is, two weeks without a murder doesn’t tell us squat.…”

  “You’re right, Kev. Any of them could have done the murders, or the real killer could be walking around laughing his ass off at us.” I coughed the words out hoarsely, as the tightness in my chest seeped into my throat. My heart skipped a beat, and my breathing became shallow and choppy. The realization I’d been trying to avoid was hitting me—Dietz might not be our man!

  “Look, Chris, we might be worrying about nothing. We turn up the other physical evidence we’re looking for on Dietz, and we can close the book on him and toss away the key. Everything else fits together well. We’ll get the goods on him before the trial. Relax and enjoy the rest of your vacation. I’ve got some time off myself. The Feds’ll make sure they get the goods on Dietz. They’ve got too much tied up in this case to have it fall apart on them now.”

  I relaxed a little, hoping Kennedy was right. Despite our strong desire for it to be otherwise, murder cases rarely fit together neatly, like they did on television or in the movies. Physical evidence often was missing altogether or incomplete. Timelines were off a bit or the killer’s profile didn’t fit quite right. Maybe an alibi held up better than we were willing to admit. Justice was an inexact science. As detectives, we had to accept that and move forward, gathering facts and leaving it up to the DA’s office to make it fit together or not. They were paid the big bucks. The sleepless nights and headaches should be theirs, not ours.

  My justifications were very logical and reasonable. They were the standard excuses detectives relied on to feel better about cases such as this one—I just wished the intense doubt that gnawed at my gut would subside long enough for me to start believing them.

  Chapter 64

  The Giver was cloaked in a black hooded robe, his face hidden from view. His right hand held a nine inch long wooden rod, a sickle attached at the top. The Giver had modified a standard sickle so that all of its surface area, including the back edge and sides were razor sharp. He slashed the instrument of death through the air several times before turning and walking towards his next victim.

  The elderly woman, in her mid-sixties and naked except for a hood that shrouded her face, was bound by thick black straps to a hospital stretcher angled seventy-five degrees from the floor. Her lips and teeth were the only part of her face unobstructed by the hood. A white cloth, stained red with streaks of her own blood, was tied through her open mouth, choking off her attempts to scream. The awkward positioning of the gag made the woman’s teeth stand out as if she were an attack dog readying for a confrontation. Beneath the hood, the woman’s eyes were wild with fear and confusion, and bulged forward as if freeing themselves from their sockets would somehow lead to her escape.

  Ravello watched, powerless, as The Giver, standing tall and about three feet in front of him in the small circular room, swung his right hand in a flurry of strokes up and down the woman’s body. Each stroke kept the same plane, but landed just next to the previous one, creating an ever-widening red river of blood that ran down her chest and abdomen. The cuts were all-superficial at first, but provided their desired effect: escalating pain and fear in the victim.

  Blinded by the shroud, the woman struggled to break free as the blade ripped into her. The Giver anticipated her efforts and had specially designed the stretcher’s restraint system for such a struggle. Each attempt by the woman to break free tightened the restraints to her sides and loosened those in front of her. The struggles also initiated a steady forward movement of a false backing in the bed, pushing the woman forward, one agonizing inch at a time. As she was driven farther and farther into the blade’s path, small chunks of her flesh flew into the air.

  Ravello struggled to move forward, uncertain what was holding him back. He glanced down and saw his arms, legs, and torso were unobstructed, yet somehow he was unable to move. His biceps and chest muscles strained as blood and fle
sh flew off The Giver’s blade and stained his face with increasing frequency. Words remained trapped in his throat, unable to break through whatever held them prisoner.

  Eleven minutes into the sadistic session, The Giver suddenly halted the onslaught and turned towards Ravello. His voice rang forth, metallic and alien in quality.

  “I hope my artistry is to your liking, dear Doctor Detective Ravello. Sadly, my work here is almost complete.”

  Stepping aside so Ravello had a clear view of the woman, The Giver brought his right arm in a tight arc through the air, tearing through the victim’s shroud. It dangled off to one side of her contorted face. Astonished and horrified, his heart slamming in his chest, Ravello sprang up in bed and yelled, “Mother!”

  Michelle lunged forward, grabbed his sweat-soaked body, and felt his heart racing out of control. “What is it, Chris? What’s happening?” she shrieked.

  Ravello stared straight ahead, his eyes glassy and glazed over, as if those of a blind man. It took a few seconds but he finally came to his senses. He hugged Michelle and told her everything was all right. He told her the dream, leaving out the most perverse and twisted parts, and about his doubts that Dietz was the real psycho killer. A half hour later, after he had calmed down and Michelle had drifted back to sleep, Christopher Michael Ravello saw everything with clear eyes and a clear mind for the first time.

  Nothing would be the same. No one would ever be safe until the real psycho killer was behind bars.

  Chapter 65

  I sat at the kitchen table at home, fooling around with Christine and James, while Michelle prepared the last of her signature chocolate chip pancakes.

  “Fantastic as always, Michelle,” I said in between bites.

  “Thanks sweetie. Just putting the finishing touches on our heart shaped family pancake,” she said with a smile.

  Ding dong.

  “Oh, hun, that’s probably Express Cleaners. I’ve got a ton of stuff from vacation that I need taken care of. Can you finish up over here?” she said with a nod towards the frying pan.

  “At your service, my dear,” I said as I swooped in and Michelle headed towards the front door.

  “Mrs. Ravello? How are you? I’m Jack,” the scraggly haired man with the blue Express Cleaners cap said.

  “Hi Jack, where’s our regular guy, Bill?” Michelle said as she heaved the large light-green dry cleaning bag his way with a smile.

  Jack staggered a bit as he caught the bag. “Whoa, that’s real heavy Mrs. R., any bars of gold in there?”

  “’Fraid not Jack,” Michelle said with a laugh. “Just a ton of my dirty clothes. Take good care of them, okay?”

  “Sure thing, Mrs. R. Bill filled me in on how you like your clothes handled when he called in sick today. Next Tuesday all right for these?”

  “Hey honey, pancakes are getting cold,” I yelled out.

  “Tuesday’s fine, Jack. Thanks.”

  “Oh my gosh, gone two minutes and look at this,” Michelle said with mock horror as she entered the kitchen.

  Christine’s face was covered in Aunt Jemima’s syrup and James was banging on his pancake with his hands like it was play dough.

  “The place is going to the dogs without you, baby,” I said with a chuckle.

  “I can see that, Mr. Ravello,” Michelle said with a sly grin as she hugged me.

  Ah, precious family time; this is the stuff of life, I mused. I wish these moments weren’t so fleeting.

  §

  The Giver twisted his wrist from side to side, examining the hair from every possible angle. “Excellent. This one is completely intact,” he said as he laid down Michelle Ravello’s strand of hair on the counter top and began sifting through the rest of her dry cleaning. “That should be sufficient, but let’s see what else I can find of interest,” he said with a sick laugh.

  Chapter 66

  I drove out of the city, boxes of photocopied evidence stacked beside and behind me. The Firebird’s headlights cut through the crisp, black morning as I topped out at eighty-five miles per hour, heading north, first on the Deegan Expressway, then the Sprain Parkway. I exited on Route 117 and headed east towards Kennedy’s house. Despite my pre-dawn visit, I knew Kev was wide awake with a fresh pot of coffee brewing. My phone call forty-five minutes earlier assured that.

  At first pissed off about being woken up at 4:45 a.m. on his first day off in weeks, Kev’s anger abated when I filled him in on our plan. A rebel through and through, Kennedy jumped at the opportunity to run our own private investigation into what we now called the Dietz case. Since Dietz’s arrest, the case was all but closed. We both knew when we returned to work a week from now we’d have new cases assigned to us and no one from the governor’s office on down would be interested in hearing we might have arrested the wrong man.

  I pulled into the driveway of Kennedy’s four-bedroom, white-shingled, raised ranch that he rented on Bedford Avenue in Pleasantville. Far bigger than his needs dictated, the house was built for partying. Kennedy loved to have a good time, almost as much as he did pumping iron, an activity he had taken up as a teenager to protect him, his sister, and his mother from an abusive, alcoholic father.

  “I got the Krispy Kremes if you’ve got the coffee, partner,” I said as I strolled through Kennedy’s unlocked front door, the box of donuts held up high. Despite his bodybuilding mentality, Kevin had a significant weakness for pastry. Like most cops I knew, Kennedy often left the front door unlocked, but always slept with his 9 mm by his side, in an urban cowboy, bring it on display of bravado. We tapped closed-fisted knuckles together as I met him upstairs in the kitchen.

  “Long time no see, partner. Whatcha bring me back from the Vineyard?”

  “A bad case of the clap and two empty cases of beer, knucklehead,” I said with sarcasm and a sly smile.

  “Shit. Sorry to hear that, buddy. Got both already, though. What’s Michelle think about you and your diseased pecker?” Kennedy said as his stubbled face broke into a wide grin.

  “Don’t know. She was sleeping when I left,” I grinned back.

  We joked around for the next fifteen minutes or so, while downing the coffee and polishing off the donuts. I marveled at my friend, a man whose gargantuan physique and extroverted personality masked a thoughtful, sensitive core. Since losing his sister over a dozen years before, Kennedy had embraced the role of big brother, helping two inner city kids whose own families had been marred by abuse. He also volunteered at Children’s Village in Dobbs Ferry whenever he was able, helping wayward dads straighten out their lives and reconnect with the sons they barely knew. Kennedy didn’t talk about these things much, but I knew they did him a world of good and helped in some small way to fill the void left by Samantha’s death.

  After we finished breakfast and tossed out an old pizza box and a few empty beer bottles that littered the area, we spread out in Kennedy’s living room and got down to business. I sat on one of the black leather couches and Kennedy the other, and with the bright tract lighting bearing down on us, we began our review.

  For the next five plus hours we combed through the eight boxes of evidence and reports I copied at the precinct. Conversation was sparse as we looked for something, anything, to support that feeling in our respective guts that we had the wrong guy. We came up with nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  At noon we decided to take a break. Kennedy went out for food. “Didn’t expect you and your sorry ass to be over today,” was how Kennedy put his need to get out of the house and grab some supplies. I grabbed a pair of his gym shorts, and one of the “Big Dog” tee shirts Kev got on a trip to the West Coast the year before. At six feet three inches and two ten, I had a hard time fitting into most clothes. Not so with Kennedy’s. I looked like a kid trying on his old man’s workout stuff. Years ago I used to joke I was a half-inch taller and a whole hell of a lot smarter than Kennedy but those days were long gone.

  I suited up and headed out the door and down the stairs for a jog. After a short run on B
edford Avenue, I turned around as I neared Route 117. The bright sunny morning we wasted inside was now turning overcast and gray.

  Taking a chance on getting rained on, I jogged past Kennedy’s house towards downtown Pleasantville. I was supposed to be clearing my head, but in fact was turning over every aspect of the case.

  Engrossed in my thoughts, I wasn’t paying attention and was almost run over by a driver backing out of their driveway. After I pulled up short to avoid the collision, the driver stuck his head out the window and cursed me out. As he shot past me, he jabbed his right middle finger at me and then peeled out of the driveway and sped off. Pissed off, I started after him to get the plate number when it suddenly hit me and much harder than the asshole’s car ever would have. I knew why Dietz wasn’t our man!

  I turned and hightailed it back to the house, anxious to confirm my thoughts on the case were correct. In two minutes flat I was up the stairs, through the door, and in the living room, where the files were spread out on the couches. I looked over the ME’s reports on the victims first, verifying how the wounds were inflicted. The pattern was consistent across all five. Now came the hard part.

  Somewhere in my interactions with Dietz or in reading through the files, I had come across information that confirmed Dietz couldn’t be our killer. Like a key that didn’t quite fit a lock, I was unable to piece together where the proof was. I would just have to go through all the records until I came across the reference.

  I began with all the office notes on April Cassidy. There was no proof there. My own notes, Kennedy’s notes, and those of every other officer or agent who worked on the Dietz case also came up negative.