Murder Has Consequences

by Giacomo Giammatteo

  “You heard me right. They used a hacksaw, standard variety found at a hardware store, but whoever did the head didn’t do the hands, feet or private part.”

  “So we got two sick fucks out there?”

  “I can’t swear to it, but that’s what it looks like.”

  “Goddamn, that’s all I need. All right, see you later, Kate.” He hung up and turned to Sherri. “In case you didn’t hear, we got two assholes to catch now.”

  “We need to get busy then,” Sherri said.

  “Hey, Miller. The way I figure this is that one of them has got to be a woman. We’re probably looking for a pair of crazies. Maybe drugged-up psychos.”

  “Why a woman?”

  “No way a guy is cutting another guy’s dick off. Just doesn’t work that way.”

  Sherri laughed. “That’s one theory the profilers probably don’t have in their playbook. So, yeah, we got nothing else going we might as well run with that. How about we start with missing persons, though. See if we can turn up someone who cares about this dude.”

  ***

  TOM JACKSON SAT ON the edge of the sofa and watched the news on each channel to see how they reported on his masterpiece. He didn’t like two of the journalists but the third was a cute young blonde—perky and full of life. After a few minutes of watching, he chose her.

  “Lisa, get me the number for whatever station Cindy Ellis works for.”

  Lisa was in the kitchen fixing tea when he called to her. She ran in, panicked. “What?”

  “Cindy Ellis. Find out where she works and get me a phone number.”

  “What for?”

  He turned to Lisa, slowly stood and headed toward the kitchen. “Did you make tea for me?”

  She hurried ahead of him. “No, but I’ll get you some—”

  He punched her in the back so hard she fell forward, gasping. She reached for her back with one hand while trying to break her fall with the other. Before she got her balance, Tom hit her again, this time in the neck. She collapsed in a heap on the floor. He stepped over her and got the tea kettle. For a moment he held it above her, tilted, almost letting the boiling water drip onto her face, but then he decided not to. He still had to look at that face—for a while anyway. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. Already he’d broken one of his cardinal rules—a man doesn’t hit a woman. And now she’d made him go and do it. He breathed deeply, calming himself.

  “Get up and get that number now, will you?” His voice was calm and pleasant.

  She struggled to get to her feet. “I’ll get it right away.”

  Tom went back to the sofa with his tea and waited for her to return. When she brought him the number, he pulled out his disposable cell phone and called. “I need to speak with Cindy Ellis.”

  “I’m sorry but Ms. Ellis is not available. Would you like her voicemail?”

  “Yes, please,” Tom said, and when he got her recording, his message was brief. “I wanted to let you know that there will be more bodies. Soon.”

  CHAPTER 7

  A Long Wake

  Wilmington, Delaware

  After the incident with Bobby, I got Angie and Rosa and told them we were leaving. We offered condolences again to Mrs. Donovan, then Angie and Rosa kissed Bugs goodnight.

  “You coming to the wake?” Bugs asked.

  “You know I’ll be there.” I hugged him. “Really sorry about your dad. It’s been a while since Pops died, but I’ll never forget how it made me feel.”

  “Thanks. And don’t worry about Donna and her husband, they’re—”

  “I’ve already forgotten. See you tomorrow.”

  Angie sat in the passenger seat and Rosa got in the back. We rode home in silence, but as soon as we got in the door Rosa asked if she could go to her friend’s house.

  “It’s just down the street, Dad.”

  I looked at the clock. “It’s already ten.”

  “How about for one hour? I’ll be home by eleven.”

  Angie shook her head. “You heard your father. Go upstairs and make sure you have something to wear for tomorrow night.”

  “Do I have to go?”

  “You know you do,” Angie said. “Frankie is your father’s best friend.”

  Rosa looked at me but I gave her no encouragement. Angie was right; Rosa needed to go.

  She bolted up the hardwood steps, feet stamping with a little too much defiance. “I’m calling Jennie, so don’t come busting into my room.”

  Angie looked as if she might say something but I tapped her arm. “Why don’t you change clothes. I’ll pour wine, and we’ll sit on the stoop and talk.”

  “That sounds good,” Angie said, and disappeared up the steps.

  I opened the wine, let it sit on the counter, and started toward the bedroom. Angie was already on her way back down. “Nobody changes clothes as fast as you,” I said.

  She opened her robe to reveal nothing but a pair of panties. “Keep that in mind when considering other women,” she said, and smacked me on the butt. “I’ll be outside, so hurry up.”

  It took me almost ten minutes, but I was meticulous about hanging up my clothes and putting shoe trees in my shoes. Angie was already on the stoop. As I sat next to her, she handed me the wine glass.

  “What was that all about with Bobby?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It looked like something to me,” she said.

  I thought about how to answer. I didn’t like lying to my wife. After an uncomfortable moment of silence, I decided. “The guy I shot that night at Woodside was Bobby’s brother.”

  Angie took a big sip of wine. “I never knew that. A lot of bad blood then?”

  “A lot.”

  Angie sipped her wine. “Rosa brought it up.”

  I nodded. “She’s getting to that age. Kids notice everything, and then the questions start.”

  “She’s trying to get leverage,” Angie said. “And the best way for her to do that is to find something we do wrong.”

  “Yeah, well she’s got an edge there. Lot of material to work with.”

  Angie kissed me on the cheek. “You’ve changed. No one can complain about you now.”

  I kissed her back, on the lips. “Thanks. I need that now and then.” I didn’t tell her I needed it more than occasionally, and I didn’t mention how much it helped, but knowing Angie, I’m sure she knew. We sat and talked for a few more minutes, finished our wine, then watched TV and went to bed.

  I WOKE TO THE smell of Angie’s red sauce simmering on the stove, and of meatballs cooking—perhaps two of the most wonderful aromas in the world. Many nights in prison, I closed my eyes and recalled that sensation, let it fill my mind until I could almost taste the red sauce and meatballs. I swear on some of those nights, some of the more desperate ones, it actually sated my hunger.

  After dressing I went downstairs, stole a few of the not-yet-ready meatballs while deftly dodging Angie’s spoon, then kissed her goodbye and headed to work.

  “Take an umbrella,” Angie hollered from the kitchen. “It’s supposed to rain.”

  I frowned, but grabbed an umbrella from the closet before heading out. As the door closed behind me I heard an angelic voice say,

  “Bye, Dad. Love you.”

  Those few words, hollered from an upstairs bedroom, brightened my day. Suddenly the prospect of rain didn’t seem so bad.

  I HAD A HELL of a lot to do at work, and the day raced. For a while I even forgot about my problems with Marty. And despite my aversion to wakes, as the day came to a close, I found myself in a good mood though I hated viewings. I swore long ago that I’d never go to another one, other than my own, but this was different; Bugs was my best friend, and he had been there for me when my father died. Besides being the right thing to do, I owed him.

  Angie was dressed and ready to go before Rosa and I were. I could always count on her to be on time and wearing a smile. When I came down the steps and saw her, I whistled. “Looking good tonight, lady.”


  “Tonight?”

  “Yeah, tonight. The rest of the time you look terrible.”

  She laughed, but still, I was glad her wooden spoon wasn’t within reach.

  Rosa rushed past me, grabbed her mother’s arm, and said, “Lock the door, Dad,” as she raced down the sidewalk. Both of them were laughing. I felt strange being in such a good mood before going to a wake, but sometimes that was best. It made it easier to deal with the emotions that were sure to come. I started the car and reminded Rosa of the names of Frankie’s sisters. “Donna’s the oldest, then Marie, and—”

  “I know them, Dad. I met them all last night.”

  “Okay,” I said, and pulled away from the house.

  As I turned on Dupont Street, Rosa said, “Do I call him Mr. Donovan or Frankie?”

  “Mr. Donovan,” Angie said.

  “So what’s Uncle Frankie like, Mom?”

  “He’s great,” I said.

  Angie turned to face Rosa. “Frankie is a lot like your father, but if I had to explain the difference I’d say…your father remembers the day everybody was born; Frankie remembers the day they died.”

  Rosa just said, “Oh.”

  I laughed.

  IT WAS A SHORT drive to the funeral home. Ten minutes later we pulled into the lot at Jimmy Maldonaddo’s, early enough to have our pick of spots. I parked in the back, saving the close spaces for the older people.

  “Christ’s sake, Dad, why are you parking back here?”

  I gritted teeth and slammed the car into park, afraid if I spoke now I’d be too harsh. Rosa had gotten into a habit of saying that particular phrase—Christ’s sake—just like Tony did, and it pissed me off. Raised the hackles on the back of my neck. Goddamn, is it genetic or something? But how can a curse be genetic? Neither Angie nor I used that expression, and Rosa never knew Tony. Go figure.

  “Cut the shit. If I hear that come from your mouth again, it will be bad.”

  We entered the funeral home through big double doors. A man at the front pointed us toward the Donovan room. Angie signed the book for all of us, her handwriting being the best. We were the fourth ones there. After signing, Angie walked into the room where the services were being held and took a seat near the back, second row from the last.

  I looked around. “I’m going to find a restroom.”

  Rosa pointed toward the back. “Right over there,” she said, then, “I’m going to catch a smoke.”

  I gritted my teeth yet again. I hated her smoking, but I encouraged her to be open with me, and she took full advantage of that.

  Angie grabbed her arm before she left. “Stay away from the front door. There’s no need to show other people you smoke at your age.” Angie shook her head and huffed. “Fifteen years old and smoking…”

  “Don’t worry, Mom. No one will see me. And Thanks.” She smiled at me as she left, knowing I’d been the one who broke that barrier for her. All in all, this had been a good year for us. Not without trying times, but good.

  I headed back to the rest room and by the time I returned the place was filling up—must have been twenty-five or thirty people with more coming every few minutes. I said hi to Mr. Chinski, telling him how sorry I was to hear of Eddy’s passing, then I nodded to Patti McDermott, standing across the room talking to someone I couldn’t place. Patti was the girl we all dreamed about as kids, and right now she looked better than ever. I had to fight the urge to keep from staring.

  I let a few people pay their respects, and then Angie, Rosa and I got in line. I walked up, hands folded before me, head bowed. I didn’t want to look at anyone; recognition brought smiles and I didn’t want to smile. I dreaded looking at Bugs, still remembering how I felt when my father and Mamma Rosa passed away. I remembered, too, how Bugs helped me, stayed out all night walking the streets with Mick. That thought hurt too. Goddamn Mick. Him gone as well.

  Angie knelt and said her prayers, Rosa alongside her. I followed them, placing a small ceramic frog in the coffin with Mr. Donovan. Sounds like a stupid thing, but he always liked it when I caught frogs as a little kid. At least he said he did, and knowing Mr. Donovan, I doubt he’d lie about it. Way I figure it, maybe he liked frogs, so I thought I’d bring him one last one. There weren’t many things in his coffin. That’s the way it was with traditions—either people bought into them or they didn’t. Most people had long-since abandoned the tradition of placing favorite things in the coffin, but I kept firm to it. Mamma Rosa had taught it to me and I figured if the tradition was important to her, how could I do less.

  Angie kept to it too. She told me she placed a picture of us in her dad’s coffin. That created a big stink with her husband, Marty. He looked at what she put in there! That was against all the rules. He accused her of being lots of things that night and none of them nice. One more reason to hate Marty Ferris.

  Bugs embraced me as I passed by him on my way to offer condolences to his mother. I didn’t want to go, not with Donna and Bobby sitting next to her, but it had to be done. I leaned down and hugged her. “You know how sorry I am, Mrs. Donovan.”

  An already-damp handkerchief wiped a steady flow of tears from her eyes. “I know, Nicky. Thank you for coming. You were always such a nice boy.”

  I moved to Donna, leaning in to hug her, but she glared at me and threw out a warning. “Don’t touch me.”

  I wanted to smack her, but held myself in check. This was Frankie’s sister and it was her father’s wake. Respect was due no matter what. I straightened. “I’m sorry for your loss, Donna.” I looked to her husband. “You too, Bobby.” After that, I quickly consoled the other sisters then went back to give Bugs a last hug.

  As I embraced him and patted his back, he whispered, “I don’t mean to sound irreverent or anything, but I just saw Patti McDermott, and I’d still do her right in the middle of church.”

  “Easter Sunday?”

  “Yep.”

  It was difficult not to smile at that, but I managed it, or I thought I had. When I got back to the pew and slid in next to Angie, she leaned over and whispered.

  “I see you two had your mandatory discussion about Patti.”

  I gulped. Talk about sweating it out. I didn’t want to be this close to a funeral home if Angie had Patti McDermott on her mind. That was a deposit on a ticket to the next room.

  ***

  THE CROWD WAS BUILDING, and, with each person that passed, Frankie felt more tears welling up inside of him, but he wasn’t letting them out. If he did it would be like a dam bursting, and that plain wasn’t happening. Not now. Not ever. Frankie looked at the people in line, searching for those he recognized. Several of Patti McDermott’s brothers were there, and Mr. Chinski followed by the DiNardo family. He hoped the DiNardos didn’t bring any roaches with them, though he figured they came for the food that would be served afterward. Frankie greeted all of them with a fake smile and a warm hug—even Jack McDermott, Mick’s older brother, who had busted their balls a dozen times when they were younger. After Bonnie DiNardo passed, he was surprised to see Sister Mary Thomas, her habit dusting the floor and seeming to propel her across the room. She hugged him and used her handkerchief to wipe tears from his eyes.

  “Frankie, I haven’t seen you in so long. It’s a shame for it to be under these circumstances.”

  He hugged her back. “Say a prayer for him, Sister. Please?”

  “I already have. And I’ll get all of the sisters to join in tomorrow. Father Tom will dedicate a mass on Sunday.”

  Frankie smiled, a genuine one. “Thank you, Sister. We appreciate it.”

  Sister Thomas left, heading toward the back where Nicky and Angie sat with Rosa. Frankie focused on the remainder of the people in line. The crowd wasn’t huge, not like Nicky’s dad or Mamma Rosa, but a decent number of people had showed up. Frankie was disappointed that nobody from the smoke shop came, but he hadn’t really expected them. They never knew his dad, and Frankie had been gone a long time.

  The crowd soon dwindled to nothing. F
rankie and his sisters got in line to pay the final respects. He waited to go last. After Donna took their mom to her seat, Bugs blessed himself and knelt in front of the coffin, staring at the man he hated for so many years. His father had stuck by him, though, and from what he could tell, loved his son, even if he didn’t show it much.

  Frankie blessed himself again, said the Trinitarian formula, and reached into his pocket and pulled out a badge. It was the first one he got when he became a cop. He laid it on his father’s chest, tucked under his left hand. “I love you, Dad,” he whispered, and kissed his cheek. As he stood to leave, he said, “Take care of him, God.”

  ***

  BUGS INSISTED WE COME to his house after the wake. Even though I didn’t want to, Angie gave me the glare—the one that promised retribution, lameness, death, and worst of all, withholding of sexual favors, all with one look. With a look like that she could have made a good nun. Having no option, I agreed, so we left the funeral home early. Angie and Rosa had made more food, which we stopped to pick up on the way to Bugs’ house to prepare for the onslaught of people. When we got to Bugs’ house Angie took over, issuing orders to everyone, even the relatives, as to who should do what.

  Before long they all arrived, Mrs. Donovan’s sister and her husband ushering her in, followed by Bugs and his younger sisters. Donna and Bobby came in last.

  She shot me a look, then whispered to Bugs, although it wasn’t much of a whisper. I heard her from halfway across the room. “What’s he doing here?”

  Bugs was responding to her when I stepped up. I didn’t want to cause him any trouble. “I was just leaving.”

  He grabbed my shoulder. “No need for you to go, Nicky. She’s—”

  “There is a need for him to go,” Donna said. “I don’t want him here.”

  I started for the door, but she continued her ranting.

  “And take that slut wife of yours with you.”

  I froze. Spun around and grabbed her by the arm. Despite my anger I was able to keep my tone at a respectable level. “Maybe this is all an act for your husband, or maybe you think I forgot what really happened that night. In either case, you seem to be counting on me to keep quiet; I wouldn’t count on that holding up for long.”