Opening Day: A Matt Davis Mystery

by Perrone Jr. , Joe

  The minute Red pulls his car halfway up the driveway, he sees Matt’s Jeep and the other two vehicles, and breaks into a cold sweat. Shit! Now what? For a second, he thinks they may have found out about the girl, and instantly, various alibis start circulating around inside his head. Hell, he thinks, they can’t make Claire testify against him; she’s his wife. And there damn sure isn’t any physical evidence. He’d made sure of that. So, why else could they be here?

  Then, it hits him; it’s the posters. He starts to laugh quietly. Damn fool, Matt, probably thinks I’m actually out there beating the bushes for his suspect. Hell, he figures, they’re probably just checking to see if he’s had any more luck than they have—which is probably nada. Well, he’ll show that Big City detective. I’ll send him on a real wild goose chase.

  Red virtually bounds up the stairs, and bursts into the living room, grinning from ear to ear.

  “What’s up, boys? Come to hear what the old Ex-Chief has found about your victim? How ‘bout it, Matt. Do you wanna hear the latest?”

  I turn slowly to face Red, my hand moving carefully to the inside pocket of my jacket, withdrawing the warrant for his arrest. Bobcat and Rick slowly remove their firearms from their holsters, positioning themselves on either side of the big man.

  “I’m afraid not, Red. Actually, I was intending to tell you what we’ve uncovered.” I hold out the signed warrant for Red to see. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Rhonda Jeffries.”

  Red looks over at Claire, who appears unusually calm, in spite of the unfolding drama in her living room. “Are you behind this, Claire? Are you?” he asks, incredulously. Claire looks away. “I knew it. Damn it. I knew I couldn’t trust you.”

  “Don’t blame Claire, Red,” I say. “You’ve got nobody to blame except yourself.” Pulling my revolver from its holster, I motion for Red to turn around. “Cuff him, Bob.” Bobcat grasps Red’s wrists in front of him, and quickly snaps on a pair of handcuffs, ratcheting the clasps tight enough to make Red flinch. “Take it easy, Bobcat,” says Red. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” I start to tell Bob to cuff Red’s hands behind him, textbook style, but stop short of saying it, allowing for the ex-chief’s docile demeanor. Besides, there are three of us, and only one of him. I don’t want to appear smug.

  Indeed, all the air seems to have come out of Red’s sails, and the bravado he had exhibited earlier is fading like the rays of the sun, which is just beginning to set behind the nearby mountaintops. Claire watches her husband from a safe distance, apparently gaining confidence with each passing minute. And, who can blame her? Now that her lifelong tormentor appears to be a threat no longer, I can only imagine the relief she must feel. A little guilt, too, perhaps, but nevertheless a quiet satisfaction in knowing that she’s done the right thing—at long last.

  “Claire tells us it was an accident, Red,” I say, my voice somewhat lacking in conviction. “With a little luck, you might get a sympathetic jury, and if you’re real lucky, maybe you’ll only be convicted of first-degree manslaughter.” Red shakes his head. “After all, I’m sure there must be some kind of explanation for what you did. Anyway, you’ll probably be out in five to seven years. It’s not the end of the world.”

  “Maybe for you, it’s not, but for me…well…”says Red dejectedly, his voice trailing off. I can see his point.

  “Okay, Rick, Bob, put him in the back seat of my Jeep. I’ll be right down.” The three men exit the front door, leaving me momentarily alone with Claire, who is visibly upset. Under most circumstances, I’m never at a loss for words, but right now, I can find no phrases or well-worn clichés that won’t come out sounding just like what they are. Instead, I gingerly place my arm around her shoulder, and provide the only comfort I can.

  BAM!! The sound of a single gunshot rings out from the front yard. I rush to the door, just in time to see Red’s body fall to the snow-covered ground. Instantly, a puddle of blood begins to pool beneath his now lifeless form. “What happened?” I shout.

  “He shot himself!” yells Bobcat, who is pacing back and forth in the snow, wringing his hands in despair. “I don’t know. I mean, it happened so fast. He grabbed my gun, and the next thing I know, he sticks it in his mouth and pulls the trigger. Jesus, Matt, I couldn’t stop him, I swear to God.” Bob is beside himself with guilt.

  “Is he dead?”

  “Deader than Kelsey’s nuts,” says Rick, never one to mince words.

  “Jesus, Matt,” blubbers Bobcat. “I should’ve know better. It’s all my fault. I never should have cuffed his hands in front. I just thought, with him bein’ the ex-chief and all. Shit, if I’d have only known—”

  “It’s not your fault, Bob. It’s mine. I saw how you cuffed him, and I should have made you re-cuff him. Goddamn it! I should have known better…”

  Claire has joined me on the porch, and when she sees what has happened, it’s as if all of the torment and grief of all those years never happened. She rushes past me, and hurries down the stairs, falling onto her knees beside her husband’s body, crying uncontrollably. “It’s my fault,” she sobs. “I always knew what he wanted, but I never gave it to him.” She turns toward me, her face full of tears. “He wasn’t a bad man, Chief,” she cries. “He wasn’t. I swear it.” There’s no accounting for a woman’s selective memory. I shake my head in disbelief.

  Rick reaches down, and gently helps the distraught woman to her feet. “Come on, Mrs. Buckner. There’s nothing you can do for him, now. Red’s with the Lord. It’s not your fault.”

  I go to the Jeep, and call EMS. In less than fifteen minutes, the sound of sirens in the distance announces their arrival. I tell Bobcat and Rick to meet me back at the office. Claire and I will follow the ambulance into town.

  Chapter 69

  Two months later

  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why Red Buckner took his own life. There’s no worse fate for a cop then to spend time “inside” with the general criminal population. No amount of money or muscle would be sufficient to keep some wise guy from trying to prove his mettle by knocking off an ex-police chief. Besides, Red carried a hefty life insurance policy, its suicide-clause waiting period having long since expired. Making the money available to Claire was the least he could do for his long-suffering widow. It was the right thing to do.

  I’ll always have to live with the guilt I carry for not insisting that Bobcat cuff Red’s hands behind his back, where he couldn’t have accessed the patrolman’s gun. I had to put him on official leave for a week, and enter a formal reprimand into his file for permitting a prisoner to capture his weapon. It’ll take a while, but he’ll recover. Or, maybe he won’t, and I’ll have to find a replacement. Only time will tell.

  As for me, just being able to allow poor Rhonda’s mother to put her daughter finally to rest, secure in the knowledge that her killer had paid the ultimate price, will be some consolation. It’s not much, but it’s something.

  It’s late October, and it snowed again yesterday. It looks like it’s going to be an early winter. Soon, everything will be covered in a white, protective blanket. And, for a while, at least, it will be as if nothing ever happened. Life will go on as it always does in Roscoe.

  Maybe by February I’ll be able to think of tying flies again. And, in early March, I’ll go through my gear, checking my waders for leaks, and filling in the empty spools of tippet material in my vest. In April, I might even go fishing again with Val—maybe try to catch that big brown. But just not on opening day, which somehow will never be the same.

  A Note from the Author

  “In 1998, the Psychological Services Section of the International Association of Chiefs of Police (IACP) empanelled a committee to examine the issue [of police suicide] and to propose specific recommendations to address law enforcement suicide [in particular]. This article, a longer version of which was previously published by the Federal Bureau of Investigation in “Suicide and Law Enforcement,” and highlighted by The Police Chief magazine, r
eviews that work and the committee’s findings. According to the National P.O.L.I.C.E. Suicide Foundation, Inc., more than 300 law enforcement suicides occurred in 1998. This figure is often quoted in comparison to the 174 new names that were added to the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial in Washington, D.C., for line-of-duty deaths during that same year. The statement that twice as many peace officers die by their own hand as are killed in the line of duty implies a suicide rate for law enforcement personnel of epidemic proportions.”

  QUOTED from an article on “COMMUNITY POLICING DISPATCH, The e-newsletter of the COPS Office/ Volume 2/ Issue 4/ April 2009

  Acknowledgements

  Writing a book is something that is never accomplished alone. I am indebted to so many people that it would be impossible to list them all here. But, there are some that, without their encouragement, support, knowledge, and inspiration, creating this book would have been impossible.

  My thanks to William R. Bauer, attorney; Chris Freitag, retired police captain; and Tom Koestner, retired FBI agent, for their professional expertise and their willingness to share it with me. Also, the “real” Bill Bauer, the “real” Nancy Cooper, the “real” Rick Dawley, the “real” Dave Hinson, the “real” Frank Kuttner, the “almost-real” Warren Joseph, and the “very real” Bobcat Walker, for permitting me to use their names for my characters, and allowing me to alter their personalities to suit my purposes. They are all special friends, and I cherish every one of them. Also, to my good friend, Frank Elge, for allowing me to use his late sister Olivia’s name for a character.

  My gratitude to my friends: Brenda Bauer, Don Brann, Rick Dawley, Tom McTigue, and Bob Walker; and to fellow authors DB Pacini, Margy Rydzynsky, and Nancy Lynn Jarvis for their opinions and suggestions. You were of more help than you can ever know. To my brother, Gene, for finding those “little glitches” in the manuscript.

  To my children, Lauren, David, Jared and Matt, for loving me and always being behind me.

  And, last, but my no means least, as always, my extreme gratitude to my wife of more than thirty wonderful years, Becky. Not only is she my “plot maven,” but my “constant and final editor,” as well. I love you, honey.

  Oh, I almost forgot. Special feline thanks to my “girls,” Cassie and Callie for helping me sleep.

  If I’ve left anyone out, please forgive me, but know that I appreciate all of you.

  As always, I welcome correspondence from my readers, who can reach me via email at: joetheauthor@joeperronejr.com or on my website at: http://www.joeperronejr.com.

  BONUS

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  SPECIAL PREVIEW

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  TWICE BITTEN

  The Latest

  Matt Davis Mystery

  by

  Joe Perrone Jr.

  Copyright February 28, 2010

  All rights reserved

  © 2010

  TWICE BITTEN by Joe Perrone Jr.

  The meeting “hall” is situated on a flat mountaintop, several miles from the center of downtown Oneonta, New York, up a dirt road off the main highway. It is nothing more than a battered metal trailer with a wooden platform in front of it, covered by a sort of arbor made of branches. Two metal gates, fastened in the middle by a short length of chain and an oversized padlock, is the only security necessary to keep curious passersby from investigating the small trailer located a quarter mile further up the road in a narrow clearing. The heavy woods surrounding the makeshift venue guarantee privacy, and ensure that the sound of the singing and shouting that generally accompanies the service will not escape beyond the confines of the clearing.

  As usual, the gathering this evening is small, with less than two dozen young people in attendance. They range in age from late teens to early twenties, about equally divided by gender. All wear jeans and black tee shirts; their necks adorned with decorative strings or chains with crosses suspended from them. They are all students at nearby colleges, and all are natives of Southern Appalachian states, drawn together by a common interest—religion. Five or six cars are parked on either side of the road leading up to the clearing, and the students mill around in small groups by the locked gate, awaiting the arrival of their spiritual leader, known simply as Brother Ron.

  Ron is a man in his late fifties with a graying blond ponytail, who promises “salvation for all those who come with an open heart.” He attracts participants through a website he maintains, and by posting notices on bulletin boards in dormitory lobbies. Tonight’s service will be special – he assured them of that fact at the end of the previous week’s gathering – and will provide the promise of salvation to all those in attendance. As a result, there is a feeling of great anticipation, and a nervous murmuring like the sound of an active beehive that fills the air.

  Several of the boys carry guitars, and at least half the girls have tambourines or finger cymbals. Periodically, brief smatterings of improvised music burst forth, and singing and laughter can be heard. At exactly eight o’clock, a weathered black Chevy pickup slowly approaches, the sound of its tires crunching on the small stones in the roadway announcing Ron’s arrival. Immediately, all activity ceases. Everyone crowds together and grows silent.

  As Brother Ron exits the pickup, all the girls gather around him, their eyes focused upon a large wooden box he is carrying, held aloft in front of him with both hands. The top is made of metal mesh, and there appears to be something alive within the confines of the container. As Ron makes his way through the hushed crowd, a palpable tension spreads among the followers who move back to permit him to pass. He stops at the gate, places the box carefully on the ground, unlocks the padlock, and removes the chain. Several boys immediately open the two gates, and everyone files through the opening behind Ron, who marches directly to the trailer, enters it, and closes the door behind him.

  In a little while the religious leader emerges, dressed in a pale green, medical-type shirt, worn outside his jeans, a gold cross dangling from a chain around his neck. He is carrying the box, which he places gently behind him on one of the steps leading into the trailer, and a leather-bound copy of The Bible. With the flip of a switch mounted on the side of the trailer, the wooden platform is immersed in bright light, emitted by numerous floodlights strung across the top of the arbor. Holding the bible aloft for all the young people to see, Ron closes his eyes and mutters a brief incantation that sounds as if it is in a foreign language—perhaps Latin, perhaps something else entirely. One thing is for certain; no one other than Ron can understand its meaning. When he is finished, he opens his eyes and rolls them upward, permitting the whites to be seen, then closes them again. More incantations follow. Then, just as suddenly as all of this had begun, it ends. The sounds of night birds and frogs can be heard distinctly above the hushed human silence blanketing the gathering.

  “Brothers! Sisters! We are gathered here for one purpose. What purpose?”

  To worship the Lord! The crowd answers in unison.

  “What sayeth the Lord?”

  Love is the truth, and the truth shall set you free!

  “And the truth is the Lord. What is the truth?”

  The truth is the Lord!

  Ron closes his eyes again, and begins to sway side to side, chanting in a language that no one can truly call his own. The young people also begin to sway, and several of them shout unrecognizable words; whether they are answering Ron or repeating his words is not clear. This behavior goes on for another ten minutes or so, until Ron raises both arms in the air and shouts “Hallelujah! Amen!” into the night sky. Everyone answers with Hallelujahs and amens of their own, and Ron smiles with pleasure.

  “Brothers and Sisters, I promised you tonight would be a special night, and I intend to keep my word. But, first, we need to get right with God. Let us sing our blessed hymns, in His name, amen.” As if on cue, several of the boys begin strumming their guitars, while the girls with tambourines and hand cymbals join in with a rhythmic beat of their own. Ron, who is n
ow swaying side to side and clapping his hands, begins by singing, “A-a-a-a-a-men, a-a-a-a-men. A-a-a-a-a-men, amen, amen!” with the young people joining in, answering his verses in counterpoint, with choruses of amens.

  “Sing it over!”

  A-a-a-a-a-men, a-a-a-a-men. A-a-a-a-a-men, amen, amen!

  “See the baby. Wrapped in the manger”

  A-a-a-a-a-men, a-a-a-a-men. A-a-a-a-a-men, amen, amen!

  “On Christmas mornin’”

  A-a-a-a-a-men, a-a-a-a-men. A-a-a-a-a-men, amen, amen!

  “See him in the Temple,”

  A-a-a-a-a-men, a-a-a-a-men. A-a-a-a-a-men, amen, amen!

  “And, savin’ all sinners…”

  The hymns continue unabated for at least half an hour, accompanied by frenzied shouting and hand waving, climaxing with the singing of Amazing Grace. When the music has ended, everyone grows silent once more. Ron gives The Bible to one of the young women, and reaches behind him for the box. A hush spreads through the group. Total silence. Brother Ron slowly raises the box above his head for all to see. At first, nothing happens. Then, a very soft buzzing sound begins to emanate from the box. At first, no one recognizes it for what it is. Then, as the noise grows louder, and its source becomes more apparent, there is anxious murmuring, interrupted periodically by shouts and screams. Ron slowly lowers the box to a folding table that has been erected in front of him, and reaches for the lid. By now, the buzzing has become a loud chorus of rattles. With great care, Brother Ron opens the box…