Opening Day: A Matt Davis Mystery

by Perrone Jr. , Joe

  It’s 1965, and two years in the Army have done nothing to dull Red’s desire for Claire. If anything, his time in the service, and the separation from the girl, has only intensified his passion. Lucky for him, his tour consists of nothing more than a steady diet of “KP” and guard duty; the latter providing him with invaluable experience in the fine art of bullying men less fortunate than he. He spends the entire two years Stateside, at Tobyhanna Army Depot in Pennsylvania, and returns to the Catskills relatively unscarred, except for a broken nose sustained in a drunken bar brawl with some Navy men. His mother tells him it gives him “character.”

  Once back in East Branch, he joins the auxiliary police force, under the watchful tutelage of Harley Cooper, while working fulltime at the lumberyard over in Walton. One Saturday, while attending a high school football game between Delhi and Margaretville, he is formerly “introduced” to Claire Andrews by an under-aged senior who owes him a favor for a surrogate beer purchase Red has made for him.

  From that day forward, it is only a matter of time until Claire is finally his. He woos her like there’s no tomorrow. Smothering her with affection, and showering her with inexpensive gifts. By the time she turns eighteen, their actual marriage is a mere formality, an exclamation point to his realized fantasy. For Claire, life will never be quite the same again. It will be a nightmare.

  Chapter 60

  The letter arrives with the morning mail. As with the first one, there is no return address. The handwriting on the envelope is in the same distinctive style, but this time the contents are different. For one thing, it’s not just a one-sentence note; this is a rambling three-page missive. I’m incredulous. Not only do the details spell out exactly how Rhonda Jeffries was killed, but who it was that killed her. And, the most amazing thing of all is what I find at the end—a signature. My mind races as I read and re-read the letter.

  One passage in particular captures my attention: “He killed her. He didn’t do it on purpose but he done it just the same.” I’m reminded of the many cases of second-degree murder I investigated when I was with Homicide, back in New York City. In virtually every case, there were “extenuating circumstances” surrounding each killing. The most common explanation (as if there could ever be any acceptable explanation for killing another human being) was “she made me do it,” or “she drove me to it.” It was all bullshit. When it came right down to it, they all knew what they were doing. They were all weak, flawed, crippled – no matter how they were portrayed by some fast-talking lawyer – bullies. And, so it is with this murderer.

  I sense someone in my office, and look up from the letter to find Nancy, standing as she often does, with hands on hips, waiting for me to notice her. “What is it, Nancy?”

  I finally remembered,” she says.

  “Remembered what?”

  “Do you recall when I found out about the pair of boots—the size 15s? I said the name Andrews rang a bell, but I couldn’t remember why?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Well, it came to me last night. It was Claire Andrews.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “You do?”

  Without saying another word, I hand Nancy the letter, and begin to plan my strategy.

  “Well I’ll be a…”

  Chapter 61

  Rhonda, some time the previous fall – day twelve, just past dawn

  The sun is just beginning its journey across the dull gray winter sky, and although it has yet to make its appearance above the rolling hills of Delaware County, its presence is evidenced by the cool yellowish glow crowning their tops. There’s a dry, pasty feel to the inside of Rhonda’s mouth, and a dull ache in the back of her head. She wonders where am I? And, for a brief moment, the girl is truly clueless. But then, a sound, not unlike a buzz saw, coming from the direction of the nearby chair, and emanating from Bryce Wilson’s open mouth, brings a faint recollection of the night before.

  Quietly, so as not to disturb the slumbering disc jockey, Rhonda reaches over and retrieves her knapsack from where it lies alongside the couch. She crosses carefully past Bryce’s sleeping form, and gently lifts her jacket from the hook on the wall, where she had hung it the night before. If she’s lucky, she can get out of this place without being discovered. Bryce’s steady snoring offers her some reassurance, and she decides to take a chance. Tiptoeing past his inert body, she moves to where his jacket hangs against the wall. With practiced dexterity, she quickly rifles the pockets, extracting a wad of crumpled bills from the one on the right. She stuffs the money into the pocket of her jeans, thinking, it serves him right, before slipping through the side door of the studio and out into the frigid, early morning air. God, it’s cold. For a second, she considers taking his car, but decides that that would be too dangerous, and would almost certainly result in her return to Binghamton and her mother—and, worse yet, Howie. Instead, she begins trotting across the gravel parking area toward the road.

  The lights of a car coming up over the mountain catch her attention, and she sprints for the highway. What a break it would be if she could catch a ride right away. Who knows, maybe she can get to the city today? Rhonda reaches the road just as the car crests the hill, and immediately sticks out her thumb. Oh shit, she thinks. It looks like a police car. That’s just great! Maybe if she just turns and walks away it’ll continue on without noticing her; after all, she reasons, it’s pretty dark. She turns away, and starts to drift slowly away from the road. But, the car doesn’t pass on by; it stops. The only sound now is the noise from the heavy-duty police generator, and the soft, mechanical beating of the engine. Crap.

  A blinding light sweeps through the darkness, its beam stopping when it encounters the girl’s face. Like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights, Rhonda is paralyzed by its brightness, and freezes in her tracks. Then, a voice rings out in the darkness. “Hey, kid. It’s okay. Do you want a ride?” It’s a man’s voice, but he sounds friendly enough; he doesn’t sound like a cop. What choice does she have? Really?

  “Yeah, sure,” she replies.

  “Great. Come on,” says the voice. “Hop in. It’s too damn cold to be walking out there. Besides, you might get hit.”

  Rhonda walks slowly over to the passenger side of the police car, and cautiously opens the door. “Hell,” says the man. “I almost hit you myself. Come on, get in.”

  “Thanks, mister,” says Rhonda. “For a minute, I thought you were a cop.”

  “I am,” he says. The driver is a big man, and he extends a hand toward the girl, saying, “The name’s Red.” Instinctively, Rhonda grabs for the door handle, opening it part way, before Red reaches out and quickly pulls her back. “Relax,” he says. “I’m not a cop anymore. Actually, I used to be Chief of Police. But now, I just play at it. Close that door, and we’ll get you someplace where it’s warm. My house is just over the mountain. We’ll be there in no time at all.”

  There’s a faint odor of alcohol on the man’s breath, and a voice inside Rhonda’s brain is shouting a warning. What have I gotten myself into? But it’s so cold, she thinks, and she’s so tired of running. Maybe it’ll be okay. She reaches out, grabs the door handle, and pulls the heavy door shut. Immediately, the car lurches forward at breakneck speed, and the warning inside Rhonda’s brain grows louder. But then, as Red eases off the gas pedal, and the cruiser’s speed levels off, Rhonda dismisses the warning, and decides it’s safe after all. Red looks over with a smile and says, “My wife can fix you up some hot cocoa; maybe get that chill out of your bones. Sound good?” Rhonda nods in agreement. God, could I use some hot cocoa.

  Five minutes later, the car lumbers off the main road and onto a gravel one carved between the trees, and disappearing up a steep hill toward a cabin that is silhouetted against the gradually lightening sky.

  Claire hears the sound of tires crunching on the gravel, and looks at the dimly lit alarm clock next to the bed. It reads just past six. It seems to her that each time Red goes out now, he comes in later still. Claire pra
ys he hasn’t brought home another one. As it turned out, the girl with the pierced tongue had been pretty smart after all, and had been able to get Red drunk enough to pass out, before fleeing for her life.

  Before Claire can get dressed, she hears the front door slam, and Red’s booming voice shouting. “Hurry up, Claire. Put some water on the boil. We’ve got company.”

  Chapter 62

  It all makes perfectly good sense, I think, folding the letter and returning it to its envelope. A murderer needs three things: opportunity, means, and motive. Red certainly had the opportunity; being a cop, with the power of the badge to stop anyone without being questioned. And means? If having a patrol car at his disposal, and being able to travel anywhere without suspicion wasn’t means, what the hell was? But, what about motive? Here is where I have the greatest difficulty. Had he gotten the girl pregnant? No sign of that. So what was his motive? Then, it hits me. He didn’t have a motive. The letter says, “He didn’t do it on purpose but he done it just the same.” He probably panicked, got physical, and finally lost control completely, and killed her. It’s a classic case of second-degree murder—and one that will probably stick. I can’t help but feel a sense of sadness. From all accounts, Red Buckner was a good Chief of Police. He was active in the community, and probably helped solve a murder or two himself. What a waste.

  It’s doubtful that Red poses a threat to anyone else at the moment, except to his wife—and then, only if he should learn of her attempts to give him up. Of course, a wife can’t be made to testify against her husband, but Claire probably doesn’t know that. Besides, we have the notes. Perhaps Red might even welcome the opportunity to relieve himself of the millstone he’s been carrying around for the last eight months or so. Confession is good for the soul, or so they say. Maybe Claire has done her husband a big favor. But, there’s no point in taking any chances. I decide to err on the side of caution, and have Nancy summon Bobcat and Rick to my office.

  “This can go down one of two ways,” I say to my officers. “Either Red will give it up easy, and hope that a good lawyer can convince a jury that it was an accident—”

  “Or he’ll try to run,” says Rick, “and we’ll have to take him down hard.”

  “There’s a third possibility,” offers Bobcat. “He might try to fight it out. He’s always been a nut for guns. He probably has a small arsenal out at his house. Christ, I remember him buying semi-automatics like they were kids’ Transformers when he was chief. For what it’s worth, my money’s on him fighting.”

  Although I’d never bet against Bobcat’s intuition, I’m hoping he’s wrong just this once. “Personally,” I say, “I think he’s too smart for that. If what Claire says in her letter is true, there’s no reason for him to run. His best chance is to go to trial—maybe get a friendly jury. Who knows, he might even be acquitted. It’s happened before.”

  For the next couple of hours, Bobcat and Rick discuss the various options available to us, while I head over to Monticello for the arrest warrant. I’ve decided to make the arrest as soon as I return.

  Chapter 63

  Rhonda, some time the previous fall – day twelve, early morning

  “What’s your name, honey?” asks Claire. She’s dressed in a powder blue “duster,” her name for a house robe, and her hair is put up in little paper rollers that her mother showed her how to make when she was a child. She can’t remember any of the other girls’ names, but it doesn’t matter, because they were just trash—especially the last one, the one with the black fingernails. This one seems decent enough, thinks Claire; at least she hasn’t got any tattoos or body piercings. She actually seems normal. Too bad. “My name’s Ronnie,” answers the girl. “What’s yours?”

  “She’s Claire,” says Red, eliminating the need for his wife to speak. Rhonda supposes that this is how it usually goes in this household. “There’ll be plenty of time for us to get to know Ronnie later, Claire. But, right now, how about makin’ the girl some hot cocoa?” He reaches up, and rummages through the small pine cabinet above the stove, looking for the bottle of bourbon he generally keeps there. The cabinet is empty. “Where’s my bottle, Claire?” he asks.

  “I ain’t seen it, Red. I swear to God.”

  “Well, it was here just the other day. Did you throw it out, Claire? Did you?” Red’s hands are clenched into fists, and he appears ready for a fight.

  Claire senses the danger, and rushes over to another cabinet alongside the refrigerator. Squatting down, she opens the door, reaches inside, and pulls out a small, amber bottle. “Here,” she says with a frightened smile. “Here it is, Red.”

  Red yanks the bottle out of his wife’s hand, and quickly unscrews the cap, downing half the contents in one, long draught. “You moved it,” he barks. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand damn times. Never move my liquor!”

  “I’m sorry, Red. Honest I am. I just thought it might be better if it wasn’t over the stove. I didn’t want it to evaporate. That’s all. I swear it.”

  “Yeah, well…don’t be thinkin’ so much.”

  Rhonda watches all this in amazement. What is it with men? Are they all like this? “So, uh, do you think maybe I could get that hot cocoa?” she asks with a nervous laugh, hoping to break the tension. “I really could use something warm.” Maybe she can just have the hot cocoa, and get on her way. Then, the two of them can fight it out without her. Red shoots her an angry look, and Rhonda instantly regrets her decision to speak. Okay, okay, just be quiet. Maybe they’ll really get into it, she thinks, and she can run out the door.

  “Claire, why don’t you make our guest here that hot cocoa? Can’t you see she’s just about froze to death?” Red reaches out and puts his arm around Rhonda, who, at first, recoils in terror, but then permits herself to be hugged. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Old Red ain’t gonna hurt you. I just want to warm you up a bit.” He gives her shoulder another squeeze, then lets go. A shiver runs up and down Rhonda’s spine, and it’s not the erotic kind.

  A glance out the window tells Rhonda that it’s snowing again, and she worries that this might not be such a good time to leave after all. Suddenly, she feels that unmistakable pressure that signals her bladder is full and needs to be emptied. “Hey…uh…Claire; do you have a bathroom around here?”

  “Sure, honey,” answers Red, once again denying his wife the opportunity to speak. “Come with me, and I’ll show you right where it is.” He feigns an awkward curtsy, and says, “Follow me. Right this way,” leading her down a narrow hallway to a door at its end. “There ya go, Missy. The light switch is on the right.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re more than welcome, sweetheart. Claire ought to have that hot cocoa ready by the time you come out.”

  Rhonda switches on the light, and quickly closes the door behind her, locking it securely. As she goes about her business, she can hear the muffled sound of conversation coming from the kitchen. Mostly, the speech is whispered, but occasionally Rhonda hears Red raise his voice in apparent anger. At one point, she thinks she even hears the sound of a slap against someone’s flesh. It’s a sound she knows all too well from living with her mother and Howie. Suddenly, there’s no noise at all. Oh God; he’s killed her. Rhonda flushes the toilet, takes a deep breath, and then reaches to unlock the door, turning the little knob carefully to avoid making a sound. As she opens the door, she is startled to find Red standing just outside. “Boo!” says Red, catching her by surprise. Rhonda jumps back, with a scream, and Red laughs hysterically. “Jesus,” she says, “you scared the hell out of me.”

  “Well, well, Missy,” he says, bending down and putting his face in front of hers. “All done?”

  Rhonda can smell the liquor on Red’s breath, and pictures Howie on that awful night, causing her to shudder involuntarily; the specter of what may lie ahead rendering her speechless.

  “What’s wrong?” asks Red. “Cat got your tongue?” This causes him to snicker, and soon, he is laughing so hard
at his perceived cleverness that it starts him coughing.

  I hope he chokes to death, thinks Rhonda.

  At last, he manages to stop, and wipes his mouth with a handkerchief, saying, “Come on, Ronnie. Claire’s got your hot cocoa waitin’, and I think she’s even got some cookies.”

  Rhonda follows Red to the kitchen, and is surprised to find everything as advertised: piping hot cocoa with whipped cream, and a stack of home made oatmeal cookies sitting on a napkin, beside the mug. Relieved, she pulls up a chair, and is soon sipping the hot beverage and nibbling away at the baked goods, her fears long forgotten. Thank goodness she didn’t run.

  Thank goodness indeed.

  Chapter 64

  I‘ve decided to keep Red’s arrest “in house,” choosing to bring along only Rick and Bobcat for support, and foregoing any help from the State Police—at least for the present. I don’t expect there’ll be any trouble. More than likely, the ex-chief will come along quietly, especially when I tell him about the note his wife has written, which makes it appear that the girl’s death was an accident. The three-car convoy winds its way out of town, on its way to Buckner’s weather-beaten house up off of Bear Spring Mountain Road, with my old Wagoneer leading the parade. The crackle of the police radio is my only company, aside from my thoughts, which right now are focused on what I’ll say when I’m face-to-face with my predecessor.

  Getting the warrant had been no trouble at all; Claire’s note had seen to that. Bill Bauer had taken one look at the writing scrawled on the piece of paper, and had immediately begun dictating to his secretary. In less than ten minutes, I had my warrant, and was headed back to town; no doubt leaving the DA salivating at the possibility of prosecuting the former Chief of Police of Roscoe. Apparently, Nancy wasn’t the only one who harbored bad feelings toward Red. Bill had virtually jumped at the opportunity to prepare the warrant. I didn’t bother to ask why he felt as he did, but had merely accepted the signed warrant with a handshake and my spoken appreciation.