Opening Day: A Matt Davis Mystery

by Perrone Jr. , Joe

  “Popcorn?” asks Glenda. Rhonda shakes her head, no.

  “It’s okay. We can share,” says Glenda with a little laugh. “Can’t imagine watching a movie without popcorn.”

  Rhonda manages a smile. “I guess not,” she says.

  “Pepsi okay?” asks Glenda.

  “Sure. Whatever you want,” replies Rhonda. Then, relaxing a bit, adds, “Can we have butter on the popcorn?”

  “Of course,” replies Glenda, giving Rhonda’s hand a squeeze. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  The theatre is dark and secure. Glenda and Rhonda find seats midway down in the center section, slumping deep into the tattered cushions, like two schoolchildren playing hooky. Within minutes, the pleated curtain withdraws, exposing an ancient screen, replete with numerous scars and miniature holes, no doubt inflicted by countless thrown gumballs and paper clips launched from rubber bands held by teenaged boys. Still, the sight of the silvery white surface holds the promise of escape that Rhonda so desperately seeks. By the time the trailers have played out, the illusion is complete, and Rhonda settles against Glenda’s shoulder, waiting for the movie to begin.

  The movie is over all too quickly, and as the two make their way out of the theatre, Rhonda’s thoughts turn to her predicament. She knows it’s only a matter of time before Howie will find her. She pulls the collar of her jacket up around her ears, and looks back over her shoulder, expecting the worst. Glenda pulls her close, and whispers in her ear, “Don’t worry. I won’t let anyone hurt you. I promise.”

  Rhonda has her doubts.

  Chapter 24

  Bob Walker has been on the job for about three years, but that doesn’t stop him from voicing his opinion—even if it flies in the face of my own point of view.

  It’s just past midnight, and we’re sitting in the corner of the small bar at Bob Dawson’s motel restaurant, the Mayfly. It’s a favorite hangout for all the fly fishermen during trout season, but after Labor Day, it caters mainly to us locals. Bob has just finished a four-to-midnight and a couple of quick shots of Jim Beam, washed down by some Coors draft. I’m fresh from a Trout Unlimited meeting. I figured Bob would be here, and I was right.

  “If you ask me,” he says, “it’s probably somebody local—the ‘doer,’ I mean. Who else would know about Cathy’s Creek in the first place? Probably picked the girl up hitchhiking. He was looking for a quickie, and she probably said no. A little struggle, he shoves her out of the car, and she hits her head on a rock. End of story.”

  “Okay, so suppose I buy your version,” I say. “What then? How’d she get into the creek? And, where are her clothes, her ID?”

  “Simple,” says Bobcat. “You said it yourself, she was a tiny thing. Probably weighed less than a hundred pounds, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay, so he throws her over his shoulder, hikes back into the woods, takes her clothes off. Hell, maybe even has his way with her—it’s been done before, you know. Then he dumps the body in the creek—figures nobody’ll find the body ‘til it’s nothin’ but skin and bones. Which is what it was, right?”

  “Right,” I say.

  “And, that’s that.”

  “So, what about the clothes?”

  “Burns ‘em.”

  “ID? Same thing?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  I take a sip of my beer, savoring the cool liquid as it makes its way down my throat. “And you’re convinced it’s somebody local, and not some drifter?”

  “Hey, sue me; that’s what I think.”

  “Okay, so presuming you’re right. That still doesn’t tell us how to find the guy. Any bright ideas there?”

  “Nope,” says Bob. “That’s where you come in, Mister New York Homicide Detective.”

  “Yeah, Mister Dumb-ass, you mean.”

  “Suit yourself. ‘Nother beer?”

  “Nah. I haven’t even finished this one.”

  Bob orders another Jim Beam and a Coors.

  “You think he’s done this before?” I ask.

  “Done what before?”

  “Killed somebody,” I say. ”Do you think the guy’s a serial killer?”

  “Do you?” asks Bob.

  “I asked you first.”

  “Probably not,” says Bob. “If you ask me, I think it was an accident—well, sort of.”

  “Some accident.”

  “You know what I mean,” says Bobcat. “Probably sees this young girl, all by herself; she’s cold, hitchhiking or maybe just walking along. He figures, what the hell, maybe he’ll get lucky. Things get a little out of hand, and wham, bang, he’s screwed. What else can he do; call the cops? Not hardly. So, he does what he’s got to do and that’s it.”

  “Maybe the guilt will get to him,” I say.

  “Maybe,” says Bob.

  “Otherwise—”

  “Otherwise you’ll never find him.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “’Nother beer?” asks Bob.

  “Yeah. Why not,” I reply. “You buying?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Cheapskate.”

  “Can’t afford it on what you pay me.”

  “Cheap, cheap, cheap.”

  “Screw you.”

  Chapter 25

  “Oh, Chief, this came for you this morning,” says Nancy. She’s holding up an envelope. “Looks like it’s from some girl—judging from the handwriting.”

  “Let me see it,” I say. She hands me the envelope, which has no return address on it, and a ‘smiley face’ sticker where the flap comes to a point. Inspecting the handwriting carefully, I, too, conclude that it was probably addressed by a member of the fairer sex. There’s no stamp, and of course, no postmark. It just says “Chief Davis, Chief of Police,” on the front, with the word “Private,” down in the lower left hand corner, a box drawn around it.

  “How’d you get it?” I ask.

  “It was stuck between the door and the jamb,” she says. “Found it when I came in this morning.” There’s a funny look on her face, almost like she knows something else.

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing,” she replies.

  “You didn’t open it, did you?”

  “Now, Matt, do you think I’d do something stupid like that?”

  “No. But, the thought did occur to me.”

  “Well, I didn’t.”

  “Good.”

  “Of course I did hold it up to the light—just to see if there were anything else in it, besides a letter.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing that I could tell,” replies Nancy.

  “Well, I suppose we ought to open it; don’t you think?”

  “I suppose so,” she says.

  “Good. Let’s open it. Why don’t you get me a—”

  “Got it right here,” says Nancy, holding up a letter opener.”

  I gently remove the delicate tool from Nancy’s hand, and insert the point at one corner of the pink-tinted envelope. I carefully slide the blade along the crease, lifting gently as I do, creating a perfect opening.

  “Wait,” says Nancy.

  She disappears into her office, and returns momentarily with a pair of rubber gloves. “Just in case,” she says with a wry smile.

  “Good idea,” I reply. I take the gloves from her and insert first one hand, then the other, into the thin, latex gloves. With great care, I extract what appears to be a single sheet of paper from the envelope.

  The words hit me like a locomotive.

  “She ain’t the first,” it reads.

  A chill runs down my spine and my hands begin to shake.

  “What is it?” asks Nancy.

  I start to hand the letter to her, then think better of it, and hold it out at a distance, just close enough for her to read its contents. She gasps.

  “Not what you expected?”

  “No. Just what I was afraid of,” she replies.

  “Me, too.”

  At long last, the eigh
t-hundred pound gorilla has entered the room—and, in this case, it’s not a welcome addition.

  “This doesn’t leave the office,” I say.

  Nancy smiles. “It never does.”

  “Now what?” asks Rick. He and Bob are seated across from me in the large closet that serves as our interview room. Their faces are hard to read. On the one hand, I’m sure they are excited about this latest development, but, on the other, they fear the worst. Neither has ever dealt with even a single homicide before, let alone something more.

  “This information goes nowhere – and I mean nowhere,” I say. The tone of my voice leaves no room for interpretation.

  “What if it’s a joke?” asks Bob. “You know, somebody playing with us?”

  “Some joke,” says Rick.

  “Anything’s possible,” I reply. “But, for now, we have to assume it’s the real thing. I don’t like it any better than you do.”

  “Do you think this means it’s somebody local?” asks Bob.

  “Hard to tell.”

  “Yeah. Could be anybody,” says Rick.

  “Well, if it’s genuine, it changes everything. The only good thing is there’s nobody local missing.”

  “Not yet,” says Bob.

  “And, hopefully, it stays that way,” says Rick.

  I nod in agreement.

  “So, here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll run the letter for prints, and you two will start looking at any possible dump sites – rest areas, pull offs, any place where somebody could dump a body.”

  “Like lookin’ for a needle in a haystack,” says Rick, with a frown.

  “We’ve got to start somewhere.” I’ve seen cases solved with a single hair before, but I don’t have any illusions about this one. “We’ve got one more bit of information than we did yesterday. It’s something.”

  “It’d be nice if we get some prints,” says Rick.

  “Yep, but don’t count on it,” I reply. “And, even if we do, it doesn’t mean we’ll know whose they are.”

  “Still, it’d be nice.” Rick’s voice has a hollow ring to it.

  “Okay, you know what we’ve got to do. So, let’s do it.”

  Both officers sigh deeply as they make their way out of the office. Confidence is in short supply all around.

  I fear the worst, but hope for the best.

  Who am I kidding? This shit storm might just be beginning.

  Chapter 26

  Peggy, December, the previous year – early in day two

  Thank God, I wore this coat, thinks Peggy, pulling the hood of her LL Bean “Weather Challenger 3-in-1” jacket tighter over her head. She has hitchhiked and walked through the night. It’s nearly sunrise, and she is shivering slightly as she moves methodically along the asphalt shoulder of Route 17, placing one foot in front of the other in a forced-march cadence. In the distance, she spots an art deco neon sign atop a familiar, whitewashed building. The ancient display should read “Red Apple Rest,” except that the E and the D in red and the second P in apple are out, making it read “RAple Rest.” She giggles to herself, and recalls the last time she was there. It was back in late spring, and she and several girlfriends from school had taken a bus out from the city, planning to camp overnight in nearby Sterling Forest. A heavy downpour just before daybreak, had collapsed their tent, and the three girls, soaked to the skin, had hiked the two-and-a-half miles out to the Red Apple Rest. They had spent the entire morning drinking coffee, and taking turns running into the ladies room to use the electric hand dryer to dry their clothes.

  Recalling that weekend, she thinks how wonderful a hot cup of coffee would taste right about now. But, with no purse and no money, she quickly pushes the image out of her mind. Then, it hits her; the emergency twenty-dollar bill she always keeps in the little Velcro pocket on the interior of her coat. She slips off the woolen mitten from her right hand, and rummages inside her coat. Yes! The wadded up bill is there, right where it should be. Hot coffee, here I come. She quickens her pace, and several minutes later, jogs through the huge parking lot, filled with potholes, and up to the front door of the dilapidated building. Yanking it open, she is greeted by a blast of warm air, filled with the aroma of frying bacon, eggs, and coffee. It doesn’t get any better than this, she thinks.

  After devouring a Taylor Ham and egg sandwich on a hard roll, washed down by not one, but two cups of delicious, hot coffee, Peggy is raring to go. Slinging her knapsack over her shoulder, she bursts out the front door into the crisp December air, nearly colliding with a somewhat disheveled looking young man of about twenty, similarly burdened with an overstuffed knapsack of his own.

  “Sorry,” she says.

  “No problem,” mutters the young man.

  “Coffee’s great,” she exclaims. Quickly adding, “If you like coffee.”

  The young man smiles. “Yeah, coffee. Love it.” He disappears into the restaurant, and Peggy is left standing by herself. Suddenly, she is overcome with loneliness. Maybe he’s hitchhiking home, too, she thinks. It’d be nice to have company. Taking a deep breath, and making a wish, she re-enters the front door, scanning the interior for the young man. He has just finished paying for his coffee (he really does like coffee, thinks Peggy), and is starting for a table. As soon as he is seated, Peggy walks over and stops in front of him. “Mind if I join you?” she asks. The young man looks up, sees who it is, and replies, “Not at all.”

  “My name’s Peggy,” she says, extending a mittened hand toward the young man. He reaches out and shakes it. “I'm Jake.”

  In the next twenty minutes, Peggy learns that Jake is an art student at the School of Visual Arts, on his way home (like Peggy) for Christmas vacation, and similarly low on funds; he’s got twenty-three dollars. He’s also nineteen-years old, not dating anyone “at the moment,” and would love to join her on the road. She tells him her tale of woe, spicing it up a bit for dramatic effect, and informs him that she, too, is unattached.

  “It’s a lot easier to get a ride if you’re a couple,” he tells her, as they exit the restaurant. “For some reason, when people see two kids together, they immediately assume they’re romantically involved—not that we are—and they don’t feel threatened.”

  “Guess they never heard of Bonnie and Clyde,” jokes Peggy.

  “Guess not,” he agrees.

  An hour later, the two are picked up by an elderly man with white hair, driving a commercial van. The lettering on the side of the vehicle says “Joe Ricca’s Food Supply,” and the driver informs them that he is, indeed, “the” Joe Ricca. Jake sits up front, alongside Joe, while Peggy climbs in back, settling for the small jump seat, surrounded by boxes of food.

  After a minute or two of awkward silence, Joe asks, “So, where are you two heading?”

  “Corning,” says Peggy.

  “Buffalo,” says Jake.

  The two look at one another and burst out laughing. Neither had had the slightest idea of where the other was going.

  “Oh, so you’re going to different places together?” says Joe.

  “Duh, yah,” says Peggy. “Do ya think?”

  “Well, I just meant—”

  “Oh, don’t pay any attention to her,” says Jake. “We’re on Christmas break. Just tryin’ to get home.”

  “Yeah,” says Peggy, “we’re taking the Quickway west.”

  “Well, I’m only going as far as Harriman,” says Joe. “Then I’ve gotta head up the Thruway. But, I guess that’ll help a little, right? At least it beats walking in the snow.”

  “Yep,” says Peggy. “We really appreciate the ride.”

  “Hey, don’t mention it. I appreciate the company.”

  For the next twenty minutes, the three exchange small talk, and before long, they arrive at Harriman, where Joe has to pick up the Thruway North. “Well,” he says, “I guess this is where you two get off. I have to head up to Hunter Mountain. Gotta drop off this load of steaks. Can’t let the skiers get too hungry, huh?”

  “Yeah
, well, thanks for the ride,” says Peggy, as she clambers out of the back seat. “This is just perfect.”

  “Yeah,” chimes in Jake. “Have a nice Christmas, okay?”

  “Yeah, thanks. You two do the same.”

  “We will,” they reply, in unison. The van pulls away, and they’re left standing by the side of the road. It’s cold, and the snow has picked up in its intensity.

  A few minutes later, and Peggy is marching, lockstep, head down once again; only, this time, she has company, and it feels good. Although Jake is a good deal taller than she is, the two settle into a steady rhythm, taking turns facing the traffic, thumbs extended, soliciting passing cars for a ride. Occasionally, Peggy smiles at Jake, the horror of the previous day’s encounter all but forgotten. With a little luck, perhaps she’ll get home tonight. It’s getting colder, and she shivers involuntarily, glancing over at Jake, who smiles and puts his arm around the girl’s shoulder. Together, they move steadily alongside the road, the only sound is that of the passing traffic accompanying their movement.

  Chapter 27

  It’s a couple of days later, and Bob enters the office, flops down in the chair adjacent to my desk, and sighs softly. “Well?” he asks.

  “Well, what?”

  “Find any prints?”

  I walk over to the ancient, cast-iron safe in the corner of my office, dial the combination, and extract the clear, plastic evidence bag, containing the envelope and note, and return to my desk, plopping the bag on its scarred, wooden top. Bob picks it up; not surprisingly, he holds it at a distance, as if it were a venomous snake.

  “No prints, no nothin’,” I say. “Whoever wrote this note must be watching lots of crime shows on TV, ‘cause it’s clean as a whistle – envelope, too.”

  “Well, that doesn’t come as too much of a surprise,” says Bob. “You didn’t really think there’d be prints, did you?”