Opening Day: A Matt Davis Mystery

by Perrone Jr. , Joe

  “Not so quick there, honey,” says Bryce. “We gotta make it last a while, okay?”

  “Oh crap, Bryce, what’s the big deal? We’re gonna drink it all eventually, aren’t we?”

  “Okay, okay. Go ahead. But, save some for later.”

  Placing a pre-recorded tape in the Teac reel-to-reel player, Bryce adjusts a few control knobs, makes a brief announcement over the studio microphone. “This is going out to all of you about-to-be graduates. Get your caps and gowns ready, because the big day is almost here.” He sets the tape in motion, and leans back in his chair. “Come here, baby,” he says to Linda.

  The first number to come across the air is “Pomp and Circumstance,” but within the studio, the distinguished piece is almost drowned out by the sounds of giggling and lovemaking coming from the convertible sofa. Linda is finally “graduating” – way ahead of schedule.

  Chapter 13

  A week has passed since Frank and I talked, and his idea about the schools is festering beneath the surface of my mind like a tick bite. Val and I are nursing weak gin and tonics in the living room and listening to some Sinatra, while a meatloaf is maturing in the oven. I decide to run an idea by my wife.

  “You know, Val, I keep thinking about what Frank said, about the schools. Do you hear anything over at Walton?”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, has there been any gossip going around about guys hanging out by the school—like maybe drug dealers or strangers trying to hit on the girls?”

  “Not really, honey,” replies Val. “The only guy they all talk about is that disk jockey. What’s his name? Dwight…no…Bryce—Bryce at Night; that’s it.”

  “What about him?”

  “Well, they all just think he’s skeevie. And, he’s the school photographer, so he’s always around the grounds taking pictures. The girls say he gives them the creeps.”

  “Yeah, well he kind of gives me the creeps, too,” I say. “Did you know he’s actually dating one of the girls—and he’s got to be at least thirty-five years-old.”

  “Is he married?” asks Val.

  “Him? I can’t imagine anybody dating him, much less marrying him. Did you ever see him?”

  “Nope,” she replies. “Never have.”

  “Well, he’s about six-feet tall, and probably weighs a hundred and forty pounds, soaking wet. And, he’s got red hair and acne scars to boot.”

  “So what’s the attraction for the one he’s dating?” asks Val.

  “Probably just the radio thing. He lets the girls hang out at the station, make announcements, stuff like that. You know how girls are.”

  You don’t think he’s…you know?” Val make the traditional finger-through-the-circle sign, formed by my thumb and forefinger.

  “What? Screwing them?”

  “Yeah,” says Val. “What do you think?”

  “I hadn’t given it much thought,” I reply. “But, it makes sense, I guess—especially if he’s always hanging around the school, like you say.”

  “That’s what they tell me.

  “Hmmm.” All kinds of images are running around in my head.

  “Hmmm what?” asks Val.

  “Oh, nothing. I was just thinking…”

  “About what; that girl?”

  “Yeah,” I sigh. “I just can’t seem to get her out of my mind. I keep thinking what it must be like for her mother, going to bed at night, and not knowing where her daughter is.”

  “Well, if it were me—and, mind you, it’s not me—I’d check with the superintendents of all the schools in the area. Find out who’s dropped out. Then, go talk to the parents. See if any of their kids are missing.”

  “I’ve thought of that,” I say. “But, I just don’t have the manpower. Besides, I haven’t had one call about a missing girl. Well, I take that back, there was one from the Sheriff over in Greene, but that’s it.”

  “I’ll bet there are plenty of girls gone missing whose pictures never show up on your wall. Some parents are probably glad to see them go.”

  “That’s exactly what Frank and I were discussing the other day.”

  “Well, he’s right.”

  Just then, the oven timer goes off. The meatloaf is done, and dinner is ready to be served. Nothing else matters when Val makes meatloaf. It’s my favorite meal, and I’m not about to let work get in the way of my enjoying it. We abandon the conversation, and I head for the lavatory to wash my hands.

  “I’ll make us another gin and tonic,” I shout at Val from the bathroom.”

  “And I’ll drink it!” she replies.

  It’s late afternoon, the following day.

  “Chief Davis?” The voice comes from a rather disheveled individual, who stands inside the doorway to the office, a green John Deere logo baseball cap in hand, shuffling nervously from one foot to the other. “Sorry to bother you, sir. Ms. Cooper said it would be okay if I came on back.”

  A quick look at the man tells me he’s typical of the dairy farmers in the area. He’s attired in worn, blue coveralls and a Carhartt jacket. His brown rubber boots are covered with redolent cow manure, and the pungent aroma causes my nose to tingle.

  “How can I help you?” I’m making a concerted effort to ignore the smell.

  “I’m Sherman Lovendosky. I’m here about my daughter.”

  “What about her? Is she missing?” Then, just in case she is the one, I decide to re-phrase the question. “What I meant is, is there something wrong?”

  “Well…it’s not anything in particular…it’s just that…” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other; obviously, he’s uncomfortable with whatever it is that’s on his mind.

  “Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Lovendosky,” I say, sliding a chair his way. “You seem upset.”

  He sits down, takes a deep breath, and blurts out what’s troubling him. “It’s that radio feller—Bryce Wilson; you know, Bryce at Night? I think he’s…well…I think he’s doin’ my daughter—her name’s Linda—she’s just a girl. She’s still in school fer Chrissake.”

  “How old is she? I mean, if she’s under age, we can―”

  “She just turned eighteen.” (Not the answer I was looking for). Too bad.

  “Then she’s of age,” I reply. “I’m afraid you might not like this, but there’s not really anything we can do about it.”

  “That’s what the missus said you’d say.” He hangs his head dejectedly.

  “Well, it’s not like we don’t care, Mr. Lovendosky. We do. It’s just that the law is very specific about these things. Have you tried talking to him?

  “Nah. I’m just a farmer. I wouldn’t know what to say. I guess I’ll just have to―”

  “Now, if he’s hitting her or abusing her in some way—well, that’s a different story.”

  The man’s face brightened. “Well, she did come home the other day with a bruise on her cheek. She says she bumped into a door. But, I think―”

  “Okay, I’ll have a word with him,” I say, looking down momentarily to scribble a reminder on my note pad. Ever since Val and I talked about the disc jockey, I’ve had this uneasy feeling. Now, I can put it to good use. When I look up, the man is still standing there. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to be rude. Is there anything else?”

  “No, no,” he replies. “Just…uh…well…thanks, Chief. I really appreciate it.”

  “Not a problem, Mr. Lovendosky. I’ll see what I can do. You have a good day.”

  After he leaves, I call information and get the number for WLUV. I start to dial, then hang up the receiver. I’ve got a better idea. I’ll pay him a visit—unannounced. Always seems to work better that way.

  Driving west along Route 206 toward Walton, I let my mind wander back to the day I first found it (I still have trouble referring to what I found as a body), and the memory it evokes fills me with dread. In some ways, I don’t know if I really want to find out what happened. After all, I moved here to get away from that kind of thing. If I can’t solve it, maybe it wil
l just go away. But, if I do, then it might lead to others. And then what? I’d be right back where I started. After what happened in the city, I don’t think I could take it.

  Before long, I’ve passed through Pepacton, and I’m heading up Bear Spring Mountain Road. A few minutes later, I’m at the summit, and there’s the station straight ahead on the right. It’s not until I pull into the gravel parking lot that I realize he’s not here. Of course, you jackass! He’s an all night DJ.

  I turn off the engine and exit the Jeep. The building isn’t much to look at; it's just a converted American Legion lodge. There’s a big broadcasting tower in the rear that’s probably at least a hundred feet tall. And, on top of the building are the letters WLUV, each about four feet tall, made of metal, and faced with neon lighting behind Plexiglass shields. The edifice itself is whitewashed brick, with a stainless steel door guarding its contents. It’s kind of desolate, if you ask me.

  There’s a card or something taped to the door and upon closer inspection, I find that it’s an advertisement for Mr. Wilson’s portrait studio—along with a phone number and the address. It’s right over the mountain, in Delancy. Great. We’ll just pay Mr. Bryce Wilson a call.

  Route 10 is a two-lane county road that winds alongside the West Branch of the Delaware River, on its way toward Delhi, the county seat. Off to my right, the river meanders peacefully within its banks. It used to be one of my favorite pieces of water. It’s a fickle river however; on some days, you’d swear there’s not a fish in it—let alone a trout. Then, you come back another day, and—bingo!—you hit the jackpot. It doesn’t get much pressure, and now with all the fly fisherman gravitating to the Beaverkill, I consider making it more of a regular destination again.

  As I approach Delancy (it’s really an “area,” rather than an actual town), I start looking at the rural mailboxes more closely, hoping to spot one marked “Wilson.” Finally, my patience is rewarded, when I spot an oversize PVC box with “WLUV – Wilson” on its side. There’s a rundown red VW Jetta parked in a gravel driveway that is overgrown with weeds; its license plate reads BRC@NITE. Somehow, I’m not surprised.

  The house itself is typical for this part of the state. It’s a modular; easily identified as such by the lack of slope to its roof. Probably two bedrooms and one bath; just large enough for a husband, wife, and two kids—or, one pervert, living alone. A “Post It” note, thumb tacked next to the doorbell, says “Out of Order,” and it takes several minutes and numerous knocks on the scarred wooden door before a bathrobe clad Bryce Wilson opens it. I glance at my wristwatch and note that it’s nearly five in the afternoon.

  “Bryce Wilson?”

  “Yeah. Who are you?”

  “Matt Davis―”

  “So?”

  “Chief of Police, Roscoe,” I finish.

  The shoulders beneath the bathrobe sag a bit, and some of the bravado exits Wilson’s face. He seems edgy, on guard. Mr. Lovendosky’s instincts are probably correct, I think.

  “Look, Chief, if it’s about those unpaid parking tickets―”

  “Do you mind if I come in?” I ask. I always find that if I can get inside people’s private space, I have a better chance of lowering their guard, putting them off their game. Just one more useful method I learned “on the job” with the NYPD. “I only need a couple of minutes of your time,” I say, stepping inside.

  “Well…I…I guess―”

  “Thanks,” I say, as I push past him into what appears to be a combination living room, den, and bedroom—in other words, a real pigsty. “Nice place you have here.”

  Wilson looks around at the interior of his own house as if discovering it for the first time; like me, he doesn’t particularly like what he sees. The furniture is dusty; empty beer cans and discarded cigarette butts adorn the coffee table; finger marks adorn the walls next to each light switch. It’s a mess. “Yeah, well, it’ll do, I guess,” he replies. “So, what can I do for you…Chief?”

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything?” Always answer a question with a question; it’s a tactic deliberately designed to put him on the defensive.

  “No, not really.”

  “So, Mr. Wilson, how are things between you and Linda Lovendosky?” Blam! I hit him with both barrels.

  A bead of perspiration pops out on the disc jockey’s forehead. He pulls the front of his bathrobe tighter across his narrow chest. “Excuse me?” he says, obviously rattled.

  “How old are you, Mr. Wilson?” Change of direction—always effective.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t think I understand.” Now he’s really sweating. “What does my age have to do with—”

  “I’m guessing—what?—thirty-four, maybe thirty-five?”

  Now I’ve insulted him.

  “Thirty-two,” he mumbles. Even a slob like Bryce Wilson has his pride. He pulls himself erect. Takes a deep breath. “Look, Chief, what’s this all about?”

  “What it’s all about is about a sleaze-ball like you taking advantage of a high school girl’s innocence.”

  “Now wait a minute, Chief. That girl is eighteen years-old, and―”

  “Exactly my point!”

  “But―”

  “So, here’s what I’m going to suggest. Why don’t you find someone your own age to pal around with?”

  “You have no right to―”

  “And the next time you feel like smacking somebody around, I suggest you think twice about it. Maybe find somebody your own size—and gender.” Wilson is slowly backing away, beads of perspiration dotting his pale skin. I move in closer. Now, I’m really in his face. “Because if I so much as hear that you’ve even raised your voice to that little girl, you’ll be broadcasting from a jail cell. Do I make myself clear?”

  For a man used to making a living with his voice, Bryce Wilson is strangely unable to make a sound. He nods his head up and down, like a deaf mute.

  I start to turn away, then turn back and smile. “Have a nice day,” my voice thick with insincerity.

  Chapter 14

  Rhonda, some time the previous fall – day two

  After spending the night sipping coffee in a booth in the rear of a twenty-four hour diner in downtown Binghamton, Rhonda has come to a decision. She will leave her mother—along with Howie—and go to live with her grandparents. The dilemma facing her is how she will get there. She empties her purse on the booth table and begins to count. She has a grand total of thirty-three dollars and sixty-two cents, not nearly enough to purchase a ticket to North Carolina. She starts to cry. She can’t stay in Binghamton; it would only be a matter of a day or two before she’d be picked up by the local police and returned to her mother—and Howie. No, she reasons, she can’t let that happen. But, how will she get away?

  “Is there something wrong, honey?” It’s the waitress. Rhonda takes a deep breath, scoops up the money from the table, and looks up into the soft brown eyes of the matronly-looking woman standing over her.

  “No, I’m okay,” she lies. “I was just thinking about my boyfriend. He shipped out to Afghanistan yesterday.”

  “Say no more, honey,” says the waitress, who sits down next to the girl and places a flabby arm around her shoulder. “I’ve got a son in Iraq. Don’t know when I’ll see him again.”

  Instantly guilt-ridden, Rhonda begins to cry again, and starts blurting out the truth, rambling on and on for nearly ten minutes—until she runs out of words.

  “Look, sweetie,” says the waitress. “What if I could get you a job here…say…like washing dishes or something? You know, keep you in the back where nobody would see you? You could stay at my place. Then, when you’ve got enough saved up, you could get yourself into the city and catch a bus to South Carolina or wherever it is that you say your grandparents are.”

  “It’s North Carolina,” giggles Rhonda. “And you would really do that?”

  “Sure, honey. Hell, I’ll tell old Nicos that you’re my niece. He’s a pain in the ass sometimes, but he’s got a really good he
art.”

  “Well, I don’t know. What if—”

  “What if nothing,” says the waitress, “I’ll go ask him right now. You just wait here; I’ll be right back.”

  “But, I don’t even know your name.”

  “It’s Glenda. You know, like the good witch in the Wizard of Oz.”

  “Huh?”

  “Oh, never mind. You just wait right here. I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay, it’s all set,” says Glenda. “I talked to Nicos, and he says you can wash dishes. You start tomorrow. It’s minimum wage, but it’s better than nothin’. And it won’t cost you anything to stay at my place. Hell, it’s just as cheap to cook for two as it is for one. ‘Sides, I could use the company.”

  Rhonda is elated. “What do I do now?” she asks.

  “Well, why don’t you come on in the back there; we got a TV you can watch. Nicos won’t mind—long’s you stay out of the way. Besides, I get off at noon. Then, I’ll take you back to my place. It’ll be fun. You’ll see.”

  Rhonda smiles. She can’t help but like the woman. Heck, she thinks, it’d be an adventure. Then, she pictures her mother, and a frown crosses her face.

  “What’s wrong, honey?” asks Glenda.

  “Oh…I was just thinkin’ of my mom. “She’ll be worried to death. And, that Howie. He’ll probably―”

  “Honey, you can’t do nothin’ about that. It’s not your fault. Some people just make bad decisions, that’s all. I have a feelin’ about you. You’ll figure somethin’ out. Don’t worry. What’s most important now is that you get with folks that care about you. We’ve got to see to it that you get to South—I mean North—Carolina, to your grandparents. They’ll know what to do.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  Five minutes later, Rhonda is watching an Oprah re-run; thoughts of her mother and Howie are fading memories.

  Just after noon, Glenda Watson drives Rhonda to her little place on the outskirts of Binghamton. It’s a rundown, two-bedroom house, which dates back to the early ‘50s. The exterior is a mess, with peeling paint, broken shutters, and overgrown shrubbery that threatens to obscure the windows. The driveway resembles a concrete garden, with individual plants sprouting through cracks too numerous to count. But, Glenda has done a remarkable job of sprucing up the interior, and has actually made the place “homey.” That was how her mother had described each of the countless hovels they had lived in during her childhood in rural Mississippi. To Rhonda, it’s a palace.