Michael liked the way Cocuzzi proceeded. Tactfully. Gently. The careful reference to Casey Hawthorne spoke volumes. Everything Michael had read about the detective suggested a warm personality. It made all the difference, though, to see the man in action.
“Of course I remember talking with you,” Felicia said. “Vanessa’s dead?”
“Her body was discovered a little earlier today,” Cocuzzi explained. “When was the last time you saw her? Can you remember?”
Felicia had tears that continued to roll down her cheeks, but she was not sobbing. She chewed on her thumbnail while she thought. “It feels like yesterday.”
“Could it have been?” Cage asked.
“No. No, it couldn’t have been. I haven’t been around, not since last Saturday,” Felicia said.
“On a vacation, were you?” Cage asked.
Sandy said, “I’ve been calling Vanessa at home since Saturday. The last time I saw her was Friday night.”
“Do you remember where you saw her last?” Cocuzzi asked.
“It was here. We were all here,” Sandy said. She had her eyes closed as if she might be trying to materialize an image in her mind. When she opened them, she was looking directly at Michael. “It was your first night. Vanessa was telling you to call her Venus.”
“I remember,” Michael said, somberly. A pang of guilt gripped him. He knew why he was here, working at Jack’s Joint. However, the thought of why he was here had not troubled him before. He felt his chest constricting suddenly, while his breathing became irregular. The two police detectives, Felicia and Sandy watched him. Michael was not aware of what was going on around him. At the moment, he did not care.
“Everything all right, Mr. Buzzelli?” Cage asked. He held onto a six-by-nine spiral notebook and stopped taking notes long enough to ask his question. “Sir?”
“With me? Yes. I’m sorry. I’m just a little overwhelmed.”
“How so?” Cocuzzi asked.
“I mean, I didn’t know Vanessa or anything, but to think that now she’s dead—that’s a little, I don’t know, unnerving.”
“Vanessa Vorhees was murdered, Mr. Buzzelli. Would you happen to know anything about the crime?” Cage asked, effectively accusing Michael of murder without making any accusations. Michael stood up straight. From his peripheral vision, he knew everyone’s attention was focused on him. He desperately wanted a cigarette, but refrained. He did not want the police to interpret his actions as quirky and nervous
To Michael, this felt like the times when he would be driving down a road and a police car would pull up behind him. Though he had not been speeding, and was actually following all traffic laws, he would think for sure the police officer was just waiting for him to screw up so he could pull him over. At that instant, driving would become an extremely difficult challenge. He would feel drunk. Keeping the car straight and between the lines would seem impossible. And when the police car made a turn onto another road, leaving Michael alone, he would sigh with relief and wonder why he had become nervous in the first place.
“I don’t know a thing about it. She was here, just like Sandy said. The three of them,” Michael said. He wanted to be sure to answer the questions, but not to over do it. He craved a cigarette now more than at any other time in his life.
“Do you remember if Ms. Vorhees was working that night?” Cocuzzi asked, again, using care and grace in his wording. Michael knew the older detective was studying him. He wanted to tell them what was going on, about why he was there. Now was not the time to do so.
“She was,” Sandy answered. Michael was thankful for the break in attention, though Detective Cocuzzi continued to watch him a full ten, intense, seconds longer.
“Did the three of you go out to work together?” Cage asked. He managed not to call the ladies whores, and he managed not to use any other insulting words in his question. Still, his tone clearly voiced his prejudices.
While Sandy and Felicia seemed to wrestle with their memories, Michael remembered the night clearly. It had been his first night working, so everything was more vibrant—an overdose to his senses. Then afterward, he had logged into his journal the accounts of the day. He did not want to bring up his journal. The police would confiscate the electronic file as evidence. Hell, they might take the entire computer.
“She went out alone. It was a cold that night, windy. Sandy and Felicia stayed inside for a while,” Michael said. As much as he did not want to forfeit his journal, neither did he want to withhold information, which might prove helpful in the murder investigation.
Once again, he had everyone’s full attention. He hated seeing Detective Cage writing notes so vehemently. Surely the man was capturing every word he had spoken with dead-accuracy. A journalist stuck inside a homicide detective’s body. The thought almost made Michael smile. The seriousness of the current situation kept him from doing so.
“Know a time?” Detective Cocuzzi asked.
“Three-thirty. No later.” Michael Buzzelli thought at that instant he might be in trouble. He seemed to have more answers than anyone else did. He felt uncomfortable talking. It felt like his tongue was drying out in his mouth and was swelling.
“You saw her go outside?”
“Yes.”
“Would you be able to see Vanessa if you looked through that window?” Cocuzzi asked, pointing to the window in front of the first booth, which provided a picturesque view of the street corner.
“I suppose I could. Yes,” Michael said. His mind chewed on the question, beginning its search for a memory of Vanessa standing outside. He was sure he had watched her, even if for a moment. It fascinated him to think of a woman hopping into a car with a strange man—ready to perform such intimate acts.
“Can you remember seeing her standing out there?” Cage asked.
“I can, I think.”
“What’s she doing?”
“She looks cold. She’s hugging herself. She’s rocking from side to side.”
Both detectives moved a little closer to Michael. Cage asked the inevitable. “Did you see anyone stop to pick her up?”
Michael prided himself on being observant. Details were part of his professional training, yes, but also a part of his person. Perhaps if he did not love writing as much as he did, he would have considered a job in law enforcement. Racking his brain for even the hint of a recollection became almost painful. Michael realized that his eyes had been squeezed shut. “I can’t remember.”
“But you’re suggesting that you might have seen her get in a car?” Cocuzzi asked.
Again, he tried to recall seeing a car stop and Vanessa climb in, but still nothing. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
“Well you sure did do an excellent job remembering a lot of other specific details,” Detective Cage was quick to point out, only he seemed to be talking to Cocuzzi when he made the statement. “What time do you get off work, Mr. Buzzelli?”
“Like, seven.”
“Are you familiar with the police precinct down on Lake and Ridgeway?” Detective Cocuzzi asked.
“I was just there on Sunday,” Michael said.
“Ah—yeah, right, the attempted robbery. Detective Cocuzzi filled me in on that incident,” Cage said. “How about you meet us down there at seven? We have a few more questions we’d like to ask you.”
Michael shrugged. “If you think it’s necessary.”
“We do. We think it’s necessary,” Cage said, while Cocuzzi began handing out his business card.
“Please, call any of those numbers if you can think of anything, anything at all, that might be helpful to us in solving this murder. Maybe you remember seeing Vanessa at the mall on Monday, or at the grocery store on Wednesday. Anything, no matter how unimportant it may seem to you—it could be the exact piece of information we’ve been searching for. All right?” Detective Cocuzzi asked. Most of the people shrugged, nodding their heads.
Fatso, studying the business card, raised his hand, as if he were in school. �
��Detectives, are we to assume that the same person who killed Casey might have killed Vanessa, too?”
“No one is supposed to assume anything,” Cage said in a harsh tone.
“But you think the deaths are linked in some way?” Fatso persisted.
“What are you, a freaking reporter?” Cage said.
Cocuzzi put a silencing hand on Cage’s shoulder. “It is far too early in this investigation to determine if the murders are linked. We know that someone killed Casey Hawthorne, and we know that someone killed Vanessa Vorhees. Right now, that’s about all we know.”
When detectives looked like they might be ready to leave, Fatso asked, “So let me ask you this, then. Are more working girls missing, and you just don’t know about it yet?”
“That’s always a possibility,” Cocuzzi said. “It’s a possibility because most working girls do not work set hours, do they? A lot of working girls don’t have a lot of close family that might become anxious if they haven’t talked to each other in a while, right? It is unfortunate, but without a report, there is not much the police can do. More people need to get involved and let the police handle things. What is even more unfortunate is situations like this, where it is too late to file a missing persons report.”
Cocuzzi waited a while before turning to leave.
“One more question,” Fatso said.
“Who’s he think he is, freaking Columbo?” Cage asked.
“Like you say, since most of these working girls do not have close family ties, if someone called you and told you a prostitute hasn’t been around in a while, would you take that call serious?”
Point well made, Michael thought. Bravo, Fatso.
Unhappy with Fatso’s question, Cage looked like he needed to vent. He pointed an unwavering finger at Michael. “We’ll see you at seven?”
“I’ll be there,” Michael said, stuffing Detective Cocuzzi’s business card into his back pocket.
_____________________________
Jack’s Joint remained silent, long after the policemen left. Felicia and Sandy sat side by side on stools, with their backs to the counter. They held hands, but neither cried. Michael lit that cigarette. A sudden sense of relief filled him as he inhaled the smoke. Fatso ignored his paper and stared at the window in front of the first booth.
Michael knew the moment he met her that Vanessa was high energy, wild and untamable. Her attitude, like an obscenely strong perfume, preceded her into any room she entered.
“So what the hell was that all about?” Fatso asked, finally. He stared at Michael. “Why you think the cops want to talk to you?”
“Do you have a lawyer?” Sandy asked, spinning around on her stool.
“A lawyer? No,” Michael said. He felt touched. These people he had known a few days appeared genuinely concerned for his well being. “Look, they liked the way I answered questions. They think maybe I might know more than I told them—like there’s more in my memory and if they spend a little more time with me, they might be able to piece something together. That’s all.”
Felicia faced Michael on her stool. She reached across the counter and placed her hand over his. “It didn’t sound that way. I think that Cage cop is mean. I wouldn’t want to answer questions for him. He’s the kind of cop who’s good at twisting words around for his benefit. You go in there to answer questions, next thing you know and that cop has you confessing to something you didn’t do. I don’t like him, Michael.”
“Me either,” Sandy said.
“Michael, maybe you should call a lawyer. We know one, Sandy and I, and he’s good.”
“And affordable,” Sandy added.
Michael loved the feel of Felicia’s hand on his. He wanted to turn his hand palm up and envelop her long, slender fingers in his own. Because the others were watching, he did not. “I appreciate this, your concern, I do. Trust me, I’m not in any trouble here. I was here with you guys when we all saw Vanessa last. There is no way I am a suspect,” Michael said trying to convince himself as much as the others.
Chapter 24
Saturday, January 19
The detectives were both drinking coffee out of Styrofoam cups, and offered Michael Buzzelli some. When Michael passed, Detective Cocuzzi led him down a hallway, a file in his hand, talking all the while. “We reserved a room so we could talk more privately. When we talk, we’re going to record the conversation, just to make sure we get everything you say, and that also gives Detective Cage’s hands a break. He’s been scribbling away like a fiend. Do you have a problem with us recording the conversation?”
Michael looked at Detective Cage, who flashed a crooked smile. Michael enjoyed the fact that they were calling it a conversation instead of an interrogation. It made the entire ordeal a little more informal and relaxed, Michael shriugged. “No. I don’t have any problem with that.”
They led Michael into a ten by ten room with bare, pale-blue walls. The room’s only furniture was a slate gray steel table, with four matching chairs. Detective Cocuzzi placed the file on the table and removed a sheet of paper from it. “If you’ll sign here. It’s a form saying you understand we’ll be taping the conversation,” Cocuzzi explained after seeing the questioning expression on Michael’s face.
“Am I going to need an attorney present?”
“Why would you?” Cage asked. “We haven’t placed you under arrest. We just want to talk with you, ask you some more questions. It was hard concentrating at that diner, too many people and distractions. In this environment, we are free of those distracting elements, don’t you think?”
“But if you decide you want an attorney present, you can stop the conversation at any given point and request one. I don’t see why you would. You’re not trying to hide anything, right?”
“Of course not, I’m just—this is new to me. It’s odd, you know? You guys do stuff like this all the time,” Michael said, taking the pen from Cocuzzi and signing the form. Suddenly unnerved by the turn of events, he did not feel safe, despite all the police officers in the building. He felt open and vulnerable. Truthfully, he wanted to leave. If he was not a suspect, then he did not have to be here. If anything, he knew he should have an attorney present to protect his rights. Cocuzzi made it sound like it would be an admission of guilt if he requested to have an attorney present for the laid-back and casual conversation. Though Ellen was not a criminal attorney, just listening to her talk about violated rights, Michael knew differently.
“Have a seat?” Cocuzzi offered, motioning with his hand, while he sat down on one side of the table. Michael sat down and feeling moderately equal with Cocuzzi, but intimidated by Cage, who remained standing.
“Not much of a file,” Cocuzzi said, pushing the manila folder toward the center of the table. “No priors, nothing. You’ve been a good kid. Graduated from Gates-Chili High School with slightly above average grades. You went to SUNY Brockport and earned a degree in journalism—worked for the college paper all four years, but made it as the editor for the last two. Impressive.”
“Thank you,” Michael said, uneasily. It was odd having someone sum up your achievements. It was also odd knowing that they had done a check on him. He could not help feeling violated and vulnerable—it was an inescapable feeling.
“Graduated slightly above average than the rest of your class and landed a nice entry level position on The Rochester City Chronicle,” Cocuzzi said, wrapping up the information. “Like it at the paper?”
“Yes. For the most part.”
“See, I wouldn’t think you’d like it at all,” Cage said. “You went from being an editor at the college paper, to working as the obits columnist. That must suck.”
“Got to start somewhere,” Michael said evenly. The job at the paper did suck. Everyone in the room knew it sucked. He knew Cage had to be shrewd. He planned to pace himself and think before he spoke.
“But writing obits?”
“Some friends of mine, that I graduated with, can’t even get a job on a paper,” Michael said.
It was true. More than half the people at Brockport who graduated with a degree in journalism were without a job. Some were landing jobs as assistants to copy editors.
“I see they pay you pretty good,” Cocuzzi said. “Nice starting salary, benefits, vacation.”
“I can’t complain there.”
“What would you complain about?” Cage asked.
“Nothing.”
“There’s got to be something,” Cage said. “No job is perfect. With my job, I hate all the paperwork. It doesn’t end. When I was in uniform, I hated writing a speeding ticket. It didn’t seem worth the effort. I just would warn everyone. I’d say, Don’t let me catch you speeding again.” Cage wiggled his finger at an imaginary person. Smiling, he looked at Michael and crossed his arms. “Worst part of the job, paperwork.”
“Well, I would like to be an actual journalist and work on a real story,” Michael said, stating an obvious truth. He hoped by giving a little that they would be happy.
“Of course you would,” Cocuzzi said.
“I know if I stick at it, I’ll get my shot,” Michael added. He inwardly cursed himself. He knew he should keep his replies short. Whether they knew of his ambitions or not, he should never volunteer more than what is asked. Still, the silence lingered. He felt compelled to talk.
“Ever think, Hey, if I can get an exclusive on a story they’ll have to move me into a better position with the paper?” Cage asked.
“Only all the time,” Michael said. He knew now why he had been called down to the police station. They did not want more information about Vanessa. Everything he told the police the other night had been written down. They did not seem to have any questions about Vanessa. This preamble of questions was about him. “Can I explain something here?”
“By all means,” Detective Cocuzzi said.
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