“Nothing. I wish my mom would come out. I want to know what’s happening,” Felicia said. She had an arm around her sister and while she spoke, she hugged the young girl tightly.
By midnight, Michael thought he might fall asleep. No one was talking. Marcia remained distant toward him. Twice she got up to take sips from the water fountain, choosing to completely ignore the soda he had purchased for her.
Felicia stood up and stretched. She ran her palms down her thighs, past her knees, and arched her back. When she stood up, she said: “Why don’t you go home, I didn’t mean to make you stay this long.”
Michael figured that Felicia did not know he had a day job with the City Chronicle, and would need to be up in five hours for work. He tenderly placed his hands on her shoulders. “I’d rather leave after we hear something,” Michael said. The paper gave him two weeks paid vacation. He had his supervisor’s number in his wallet. If the night looked like it might not end, he would call and request the day off.
And at one, Michael called in for vacation.
At two, Felicia and Marcia’s mother came through a set of automated doors. The woman did not look like her daughters. Her hair was dark, almost black, and she wore it short and straight. She had a tissue balled up in her hand and her hand near her mouth. The woman’s eyes looked bloodshot, red from crying.
Felicia and Marcia stood up when they saw their mother. Michael could not get a handle on the situation. He could not read the mother, could not guess the prognosis. When the mother spread out her arms, and the girls rushed into them, longing to be held, Michael thought for sure the father has passed away.
“He’s all right. Thank God, he’s all right,” the mother was saying.
The three of them cried. Michael stepped outside for a cigarette. It was five minutes later, as he took the last drag that the sliding doors opened. Michael expected to see Felicia. He was more than surprised to have Marcia standing next to him. She took a sip from the can of soda he had bought for her. “They say my dad’s going to be okay,” she said, finally.
Michael just nodded. “I heard. I’m glad.” He did not know why, but he felt choked up. A combination of events that had taken place this evening—all of it brewing inside him—seemed like it wanted to spew forth.
“Thanks for the drink,” Marcia said.
Holding it in, Michael nodded and watched as Marcia went back inside.
“I got to get out of here,” he said out loud. Instead, he crossed the ambulance drop-off loop and walked toward a picnic table in the snow. He used his arm to brush snow of the top of the table. When he sat down, the cold wood almost instantly stung his rump through his jeans. Ignoring the burning cold, Michael smoked a second cigarette appreciating the moment alone with his thoughts.
Chapter 20
Wednesday, January 16
It was after five. Mostly everyone at the City Chronicle had gone home for the day. Michael stayed in his cubicle and worked on his computer. He sat reviewing a file he had named OBITS. He kept the folder right on the computer desktop. He knew by naming it something boring and work related no one would be tempted to read through it. Inside, however, Michael kept the drafts on the pieces he was writing about the people at the diner. He also had amassed information related to Casey Hawthorne, the prostitute savagely murdered.
The Rochester City Chronicle was located in an entire high rise downtown. It towered on the west bank of the Genesee River. The structure, designed and built in the early 1900's had a gothic look to it, so much so, a unique gargoyle manned each of the four corners around the twentieth floor.
Crime journalist, Matthew Sinopoli, had been with the City Chronicle, seemingly, since its inception. The old man could still write, was protected by the union, but clearly had lost his vigor, at least to Michael, anyway. He would watch Sinopoli sit at his desk and work on an entire story without ever leaving the office. Sure, computers made things easier. Fax this. E-mail that. Though Michael respected Sinopoli and the man’s many achievements, it was hard not to feel resentful toward the ancient journalist at the same time. If Sinopoli wanted a job that tied him to a desk all day, they should switch places. Let Sinopoli write the obituary column while Michael dove headfirst into his passion and fulfill his dream of becoming a crime reporter.
Sinopoli was famous for his coverage of the Arthur Shawcross case. Shawcross was notorious in Rochester. He had killed many prostitutes, and prior to that, some children. Sinopoli did an amazingly competent job at it. Over the holidays, Michael spent several hours reading the old electronic clippings. What he noted right off was the fact that after Shawcross lost his “Front Page” marketability, Sinopoli’s byline stopped appearing on most of the articles. Many of the smaller pieces just had a byline lending credit to the generic Staff Writer.
Michael did some background checking on Jason Cocuzzi, the homicide detective assigned to both the Shawcross case and the one involving Hawthorne. Cocuzzi came with some impressive background information. Since rising to the level of detective, the officer had solved more cases than any other Rochester homicide detective had. The cop modestly explained during an interview that most cases solved themselves. He liked to point out that public involvement made a world of difference. He appreciated neighbors calling in to report a suspicious car parked on the street, or if they spotted someone in someone’s backyard.
Michael Buzzelli spent time shadowing Sinopoli. He thought for sure by demonstrating his interest, the seasoned veteran would throw him a bone, perhaps put in a good word with the editor. His efforts, however, had the exact opposite effect. At the end of the year, just after Christmas, the chief editor had called him into the office. To sum up the conversation in as few words as possible, Michael was ordered to stay away from Sinopoli.
It was this kind of treatment that got Michael thinking. If he was going to make waves, and he so desperately wanted to do so, he would have to find a way on his own. It made more sense to him now. Following around Sinopoli could never have worked. He would have remained in the man’s shadow. He needed to find his own angle on the story and write about it. A well-written and unique take on the story would attract the editor’s attention. Might he ruffle Sinopoli’s feathers? Sure. Did he care? Not at all. Sinopoli had thrown the first literary punch when he had talked to the chief editor.
It was right after the New Year that Michael got the idea to apply for a job at Jack’s Joint. He had driven by the place a few times and had taken some photographs. The prostitutes hung out on the corners and people sat inside. There was a story around Jack's. Michael had no doubt about it. The story would be a killer, too. Now he understood, maybe working at Jack’s wouldn’t help him solve any murder, but the personal pieces he planned to write could lead him down an entirely new career path. Either way, whether he solved the crime, or wrote astounding personal pieces, he would be writing, reporting, and not just typing up obituaries.
Chapter 21
Friday, January 18
Jason Cocuzzi did not hate winter. He hated shoveling. Though only forty-eight, and in top physical shape, he found the laborious act devastating to his back. Tonight, eight-fifteen, the snow was wet and heavy. Hunched forward and over the handle of the shovel, his back relentlessly begged him to stop. All the muscles in his lower back constricted painfully. Each time he scooped up the snow and tossed it onto his snow-covered lawn, the muscles in his back burned as if on fire. With every scraping pass he made across the driveway he thought he might not ever be able to stand up straight again.
It resembled a blizzard, but the news reports on the television had claimed only a winter advisory. The temperatures had dropped ten degrees in the last two hours. Jason, bundled to the hilt in a heavy down winter jacket, gloves and a wool hat, was sweating. Dropping his shovel, he walked to his front step and removed his jacket. With a heavy cotton sweatshirt and a T-shirt underneath that, Jason went back to the chore of clearing his driveway, until three minutes later when a police car turned onto his street.<
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Leaning on the shovel, Jason watched with curiosity as the squad car drove slowly down the street, shining a beam of light on houses as it made its way, perhaps searching for house numbers. When at last the path of light played over him, and then his house, the police car stopped. Jason noticed immediately that it was an Irondequoit car, and not a town of Greece car. Irondequoit was on the opposite side of the Genesee River.
Jason groaned inwardly. He did not have to wonder why a police car was at his house. He knew, though he found an Irondequoit car odd. Tempted as he was to turn and run, he remained steadfast and stood his ground. When the officer in the passenger seat rolled his window down and stuck out his head, Jason Cocuzzi asked: “Can I help you, officer?”
“Are you Jason Cocuzzi, sir?”
“I am.”
“Detective Cocuzzi, there’s been a body found in Durand, up at the top of White Lady’s Castle,” the officer explained. “The investigating detective at the scene has been trying to get a hold of you, sir, but no one’s been answering your phone.”
“I left the thing inside while I was shoveling,” Jason said. He tossed the shovel toward his yard. Like a sharp knife into a woodblock, the shovel’s blade landed in the snow and the thing stood erect. Walking to the car, Jason tried to nonchalantly massage his lower back in front of the younger officers. “If the body was found in Durand, why is Irondequoit Police calling me?”
“I’m not sure, sir. We were just told to locate you and give you a ride to the scene if you required one.”
“I won’t need a ride, but if you want to hang on, I’ll change real quick and follow you guys? Want to come in for a quick cup of coffee while I change?” Jason asked. As a policeman since the age of twenty-four, he was in uniform for nearly seven years before moving into plain clothes as a homicide detective. On nights like tonight, a hot cup of coffee always hit the spot and made the rest of the long, cold night a little more bearable at times.
“That would be great, sir, if it’s not a bother.”
“None at all, I need a cup myself,” Jason said. He stepped aside so the squad car could pull into the snow-free half of his shoveled driveway.
_____________________________
Homicide Detective, Jason Cocuzzi, of the Rochester Police Department, found investigating murders to be a hideous task. Most nights, when on a case, sleep came with a price. His dreams were anything but pleasant. In his seven years as a detective he had been exposed to more graphic sights than one might imagine. The horrors of seeing murdered victims were always gruesome, despite the circumstances of the actual killing.
People were cruel to other people. How someone could use a hammer to bludgeon to death a girlfriend was beyond him. The thought of someone poisoning their own child made him sick. In the city of Rochester, it seemed the weapon of choice was the gun. Based on his personal numbers, last year eighty-seven people were murdered. Sixty-nine of them had been killed with a gun. Fifty of those sixty-nine dead were between the ages of sixteen and twenty-five. All but three of the fifty were black, inner city people. Most of the killings took place out on the streets. And in Jason’s mind, all of the violent deaths could have been avoided.
Having several unsolved murders going at once, Jason racked his brain trying to figure out which case this new body might be linked with. Since the first month of the New Year was not even over, most people might suspect that the body in Durand would be the first homicide for the year. It was not. This body would make the seventh. The numbers, the victims, the crimes . . . it was disgusting.
Jason knew of only one reason why he kept at his job with relentless enthusiasm and vigor. He was one of the best at it. He was passionate about his work. To be a detective you needed to be passionate. You had to believe in the cause, if you were going to be of any value on the force and in serving the community.
There were others in the departments who were good at their jobs. Jason did not think ‘good’ cut it. ‘Good’ is okay for some vocations, but not for a police officer—at any rank. More often than not, the work of a police officer is thankless. The people get mad and upset when someone is shot and killed by a police officer, especially if the suspect is black and the shooting officer is white. Never mind the fact that the person was in a crack house during a raid, and had pulled a gun on the police officer.
The road that led to what is falsely known as White Lady’s Castle had Lake Ontario to its left. There was no such thing as White Lady’s Castle. Even in the dark, with only a crescent of a moon in the sky, Jason could see the white-capped, rough waves rolling toward the shore. To his right was Durand Eastman Park; acres of ideal land for summer time picnicking, parties and family reunions.
Just past the park, and past a large frozen pond, was a shoulder of the road large enough to park a few cars. Jason parked on the main road, switched on his hazard lights, and walked toward the gathering of official cars. There were several Irondequoit squad cars, an ambulance, the medical examiner’s station wagon, a mobile forensic unit and an undercover police car that, except for it being black, matched Jason’s white company car identically.
Somehow a legend spawned a legend. The Lady in White, the original legend, became known as White Lady’s Castle because of the decrepit structure Jason Cocuzzi now stood in front of. The Lady in White is the urban legend of a young girl who was raped and murdered by unknown assailants. Years later, the ghost of the girl’s mother was said to be roaming the park woods at night, with two large dogs, no less, looking to reek revenge on any boys not treating girls . . . respectfully.
The castle part of the myth was tacked on years later because of a wall that resembles something that might be part of a castle. Actually, the wall was part of a walkway and diner that surrounded the old Durand Eastman Park, built back in 1912. The place sold soda pop and ice cream to beach goers. There was a devastating fire in 1970 that burned down the roof and first floor. All that remained was the wall and a terrace.
It was not until the 1980’s and 90’s that the place really became known as White Lady’s Castle, when witch covens met in the area and desecrated the wall with spray-painted satanic symbolism. Eventually, a local ordinance forbade people to be in the area after dusk.
Bright lights, the ones professional photographers used, stood like lighthouse beacons at the top of the castle wall. Extension cords ran down the face of the wall and into the forensic mobile unit. A police officer stood at the bottom of the stairs and held up a hand to stop Jason Cocuzzi from going any further.
“I’m Detective Cocuzzi, Rochester Police Department,” Jason said.
The officer stepped aside. “Just up this slope, detective. There are rock stairs buried under the snow, and they are covered with ice, so it’s slippery. They didn’t want us to shovel a path until the area’s been combed over more closely. With all this new falling snow, you never know what’s under it.”
“Footprints?”
“These are all fresh, all made by our guys. We know the killer dragged the victim up to the top from the other side. So you can walk a little easy,” the officer said.
“Thank you,” Jason said. He walked up the slope, felt the icy stone steps beneath his shoes, and slowed his ascent considerably. He did not want to slip, fall and roll down the hill.
Once at the top, it looked like a photo-shoot for a pornographic magazine layout. The naked, black woman lying on her back in the snow did not look very erotic covered in stab wounds and frozen blood.
_____________________________
The Irondequoit detective, Peter Cage, stood with Jason Cocuzzi a few yards away from the body, and just out of range from the pool of lights. “We couldn’t find I.D. Could be her purse is buried under a blanket of fresh snow and we haven’t come across it. We’re going to handle it like an archeological dig and explore the area in portions.”
“What made you call me?”
“When forensics arrived, they took a finger print, ran it through their computer and came up wit
h a name, Vanessa Vorhees. She has an arrest sheet, a couple of misdemeanors.”
“Soliciting?” Jason asked.
“Yep. Her regular office is the same as the Casey Hawthorne case you’re working,” Peter Cage said, crossing his arms. “M.O. looks the same, a knife was used. He cut this one up pretty bad. I did not see the other victim’s corpse, but I’ve no doubt that a link between the two exists. So once I realized this, we tried getting a hold of you.”
“Had the phone off. I was shoveling the driveway,” Jason said, patting the phone clipped to his belt. “Can I look more closely at the body?”
The two detectives walked over to the crime scene. The forensic team had already bagged Vanessa Vorhees’ hands to protect foreign substances from contaminating possible evidence trapped under the woman’s fingernails. “Murder didn’t take place here?”
“We don’t believe so. Not enough blood, of course, all the blood could be in the old snow underneath, but if you look at the snow you can see she was dragged up the embankment. Doesn’t mean she was dead, though.”
“Time of death?” Jason asked, looking at the wounds on the victim’s body. Though not identical to the ones found on Casey Hawthorne, they appeared similar enough. The vaginal area looked bad, covered in lacerations. Both women practically had their breasts sliced off. Each woman also shared a long cut from between the breasts down to the pubic area. Definitely, the wounds were similar.
One disturbing thing about the Hawthorne case was the fact, before dumping the body, the killer washed the victim’s body using a powerful hose and abrasive soap. He scrubbed down her skin with a sponge and flushed out every orifice by inserting the hose, as if trying to fill a water balloon. The act washed away any evidence that may have been left behind.
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