by Jim Stevens
“Whose?” Jonas asks.
“Lizzy.”
“Christina’s partner,” I explain.
“Why?”
“Lizzy isn’t a Lizzy and maybe not a lesbian,” I tell the Chicago detective.
“Which way are you leaning?” Jonas asks.
“Straight.”
“They didn’t look too straight at the funeral.”
“Yeah, but Tiffany’s gaydar didn’t go up when we talked to her, so Lizzy’s maybe a lesbian in name only.”
“You know you’re right, Mister Sherlock,” Tiffany says. “I didn’t get all weirded out when I met her.”
“Voila.”
Colin comes over to take our order, breaking the conversation. When he finishes it seems like a good time to play: Who do you think did it?
Norbert goes first. “The last wife, Doris, she had the most to lose.”
“Heffelfinger, the accountant,” Steve says.
“I’m still with Brewster,” Tiffany says and adds her reasoning, “Them momma’s boys are always a little screwed up.”
I finish up the round. “I have no clue.”
“We’re no farther along than we were the day we found Alvin’s body.” Steve makes the point for all.
“I hate that,” Jonas says.
Statistically, if a crime isn’t solved in the first seventy-two hours, the odds against success skyrocket, as well as the amount of time that is going to be put in to bring it all to a conclusion. The three detectives have no desire to work this case the rest of their careers.
“Can’t put the puzzle together until you have all the pieces,” I say.
“What’s missing?” Our Chicago colleague plays a good devil’s advocate.
“Plenty.”
Jonas takes out his list. “The two wall safes in the condo were empty, nothing on the murder weapon used to kill Joey Villano, the trader who worked for Alvin. The condo was too trashed to give us anything good, and no money trail yet to speak of.”
“Maybe it wasn’t about money.” Norbert is thinking out of his usual realm of thinking.
“That much money,” Steve says, “it is always about money.”
“Then where is it?”
“According to Heffelfinger, the accountant, Alvin was making bad trades, lousy investments, throwing money down a sink hole,” Steve answers.
“Maybe it was a mercy-killing; do him in before he does himself in?” Norbert surmises.
“Or maybe they were trying to stop him before he lost it all?” I ask.
“Maybe he’s not dead?” Tiffany perks up to say. “He faked his own death?”
“Remember, we found the body?”
“Oh, yeah,” Tiffany remembers now. “I saw this movie on cable about a guy who did that.”
Colin brings over plates of greasy food and refills of beers. We dig in with gusto. Tiffany abstains.
“What else do you know that we don’t know, Sherlock?” Steve asks, being his usual self.
No matter what I say, it won’t matter because Tiffany’s reaction to the question is unmistakable.
“I’ve told you everything.”
“How dumb do you think we are?” Norbert says.
I try to get out of my own lie. “The only thing I’m sure of, is that whoever wanted Alvin dead wasn’t taking any chances. Shoot him, blow him to kingdom come or stone him, they were going to get him one way or another, either by doing it themselves or hiring out. You would believe it was all carefully planned out; but the act of destruction sure doesn’t point in that direction. And what was he doing the night before? Why kill him at home, and why take Joey, the junior trader, down with him? Too much of it doesn’t make sense. And where the hell is the money?”
“Hopefully in your pocket, Sherlock.” Norbert passes me the bill.
“You’re holding back, Sherlock,” Steve says.
“I don’t have it all straight in my head, yet. When I do, I promise, you’ll be the first to know.” I hand the bill to Tiffany.
The three detectives stare at me while Tiffany asks, “What happened to chivalry?”
“You women want to be equal,” Steve says, “this is where it starts.”
27
Like Prada on a purse
The envelope comes in, addressed by name to the detective in charge. The person opening the mail sees it has no return address. The handwriting is odd, and the stationery is as common as can be. Ah-ha, the mail-opener realizes, an important clue in the big case!
All parties go into evidence mode: Handle the envelope only by its corner, don a pair of latex gloves. Then with painstaking skill, slit the piece open and peer inside to see the one folded page. Yes, it must be an IMPORTANT key to the case. Pull the letter from its envelope with a tweezers and unfold, without a foreign finger or substance contaminating the evidence. Lay it upon an inert blotter, free from any disruptive chemical or agent. Hold breath as you examine. Search for smudges, ink types, or paper fibers that can be traced back to the store where purchased or the pulp manufacturer. Use a magnifying glass to discover any typed letters where the strike key may be off center, chipped, or out of proper ink; so the typewriter can be found and linked for a positive identification. Use a camera of quality and take photos from every conceivable angle. Then the detective in charge orders the evidence techs to proceed in a full investigation.
Unfortunately, this never happens. Never.
Mail comes into a police station like it does to any business. Whoever sits at the spot where the mailman drops it off, rifles through the stack, separating the magazines, and tossing out the circulars, post cards, promises of a once-in-a-lifetime deal on carpet cleaning, and oversized ads for twenty percent off at Bed Bath and Beyond. The remaining mail, which is probably merely more cleverly designed junk, is put on a pile to be opened whenever time permits. Then, when the low person on the totem pole finally gets around to the stack, more pieces hit the circular file; and the remaining envelopes and whatever are sorted by addressee and slipped into the cubbyhole mail slots of the folks who work the precinct. Why should it be any different in a police station than at any other home or business in America?
In this case the letter, addressed to “Steve Burrell, Detective,” isn’t noticed as being odd, even though it is first class mail; and who gets first class mail anymore that isn’t a bill? The handwritten envelope sits in Steve’s in-box for two days. By the time Steve gets around to ripping it open, it has been manhandled by the desk sergeant, two secretaries, the cleaning people, and patrolman Timmy Badau, who constantly pulls the mail from the wrong slot.
Too bad. The letter is a confession to the crime.
Except for two spelling mistakes and one misplaced comma, the letter is very well written. It begins with: I can no longer live with myself. I am the person responsible for the death of Alvin J. Augustus. It continues, noting how Alvin swindled him out of his business, savings, house and car. It goes on about his wife leaving him, kids refusing to speak, parents being heartbroken, blah, blah, blah. It was very touching. If it was a woman writing, it could have been the basis for one of those Lifetime TV I Hate Men movies.
The best part of the correspondence, by far, was the explanation of how the deed was done. It described how Alvin was lured into a rock garden he personally help design; and met his death by being forced to watch a wall of stones fall upon him and crush him like the “vermin he had become.”
Not only was it all bullshit, it was bad bullshit.
In almost any murder case, there is bound to be one, two, or twenty nuts out there who will confess to the crime. The bigger the case, the bigger the confession pile. It is my theory that the confessors are only trying to spice up their lives after days of working the grill at Burger King, or picking up trash alongside the expressway.
In a high-profile case like Alvin’s, phone calls, letters, personal notes, untraceable emails and text messages always come in, confessing to the crime. Detectives hate them because each has to be check
ed out, a boring, pointless, time-consuming waste of manpower and energy.
The rule of thumb is: Whomever the mail is addressed to, it is that person’s responsibility to check it out. Steve isn’t happy about it. He stops by my apartment on his way downtown. “I hate these things.”
I read it quickly. “I like this,” was my initial reaction.
The reason this confession was of particular interest was that it was sent to Kenilworth, where there is only one station house, and postmarked 60601, which is the zip code of the Board of Trade. Confessors might be loons; but no self-respecting self-incriminator would ever send it from anywhere close to where he lived or worked. Or be dumb enough to mention something that wasn’t in the papers or on the news.
“Whoever wrote this had something to do with the murder.”
“The reference to body position?” Steve asks.
“And the timing of the delivery.”
Confession letters usually arrive while the body is still warm; maybe there is a contest among confessors of who can be first. This one was postmarked a week after he was charbroiled.
“Sent to throw us off?” Steve asks.
“Pretty stupid way of going about it; wouldn’t you say?”
“Stupid is what stupid does,” Steve quotes Forrest Gump. “Want to tag along as I check this out?”
“Can’t. Jonas called and he’s got a match on Lizzy’s prints.”
“Come on, I’ll give you a ride.”
___
Steve must be mellowing, because on the way downtown he asks about my daughters, speaks of his family, and tells me of he and his wife’s vacation plans, to visit his brother and family in Vermont. I can sense a bit of worry since, if the case isn’t closed, he won’t be able to go.
“That’s the problem with buying non-refundable airline tickets.”
“Tell me about it,” he says.
Jonas is waiting for us and, surprise-surprise, Tiffany is with him.
“You were right, Mister Sherlock.”
“Why should that amaze you, Tiffany?”
Jonas has a mug shot of an Amy Zebelski, aka Lizzy, taken a few years back. She has blond hair, black roots, a snarl on her lips, two piercings above her right eye, yellow teeth, and dirt on her cheek. Flattering, it’s not.
Why is that people take such lousy mug shots? Of course a nobody such as Amy, aka Lizzy, doesn’t count; but Mel Gibson, Gary Busey, Glen Campbell, Lindsey Lohan, and the hottie from Baywatch-people who make their living looking ravishing - all take terrible mug shots. Why don’t they ask for a comb, and time in the washroom to freshen up? And why, oh why, don’t they ever smile, or at the very least pose in a thoughtful and professional manner? They’re actors, for Christ’s sake. There is no law that says you have to frown for your mug shot. Somebody famous getting busted has to know that the next picture snapped of himself is going to hit the internet, and be seen worldwide in a matter of hours. So why don’t they make the slightest effort to perk up and look good? Isn’t that a part of their job?
In the interim between when Amy’s mug shot was taken and when I met her as Christina’s lover, her looks sure have improved. Could this mean that becoming a lesbian has agreed with her?
“She got busted in a Boston confidence game back in 02,” Jonas tells us. “I got a call in to the arresting officer.”
“Could you fax a copy of the picture of our mystery man? So he’ll have it before you speak with him?” I ask, then explain, “I have a feeling we’re going to find lovebirds.”
“I’ll get Norbert right on it,” Steve says, dialing his cell.
“I knew she was no good,” Tiffany adds.
“It’s about time we started checking cell phone records, emails, and test the printers to see if we can match up.” I still hate my job, but I’m more animated than I have been in weeks.
“No judge will allow that,” Jonas says.
Steve asks, “Maybe we should bring Romo in to check out the phone records?”
“You want to work with him?” I ask.
“FBI’s got better resources than we do in that area,” Steve says.
“You must really want to take that vacation.”
Steve nods.
I suggest, “Could we get Norbert to fax the picture of our guy to every motel on the Northside, so we know where to look when we need him?”
“Send a picture of Lizzy along with it. I’m sure these two hooked up along the way.” Steve adds to my idea.
“This is so exciting,” Tiffany says. “What do I get to do?”
“Take this stuff back to Lizzy’s office,” I say.
“But how do I do that without blowing my cover?” Tiffany says she doesn’t watch a lot of TV. Yeah right.
“Leave it all in a stall in the women’s bathroom. Lizzy will find it sooner or later.”
“Excellent idea, Mister Sherlock.”
“And at five, when she’s off work, I want you to follow her.”
“I’ll be on her like Prada on a purse.”
Jonas says, “I’m seeing Joey Villano’s parents this afternoon. I’ll check out his bank account.”
“What are you going to do, Mister Sherlock?”
“It’s Tuesday, Tiffany, my kid day.”
___
The instant Care gets in the car, she talks a mile-a-minute of the fact that there are only nine days before summer vacation begins. Kelly isn’t so talkative. She is either in a snit, or some element of preteen life is troubling.
“What’s the matter, Kel?”
“Nothing.”
I cook burgers for dinner, but don’t tell the girls I use half beef, half tofu, supposedly healthier than pure cow. By the time they slather it with ketchup, mustard, mayo, lettuce, onion and tomato, even a professional taste tester couldn’t tell the difference.
Homework follows dinner. They do math and social studies. I rearrange the cards on the wall. They finish well before I do.
“Figure out who did it yet, Dad?”
“Nope.”
For the next two hours we mix and match the cards according to suspect. Doris, Clayton, Brewster, Christina, Joan, Heffelfinger, escorts, Millie, Joey, Lizzy, “mystery man,” and an “x” factor for a person yet to materialize. This is exhausting.
“Dad, we’re not getting anywhere,” Care says the obvious.
“Duh,” I speak their language.
There is something I’m missing, an aspect that I have not seen, a way of thinking I haven’t yet tried. It is all right in front of me; I just have to arrange it so it all makes sense.
“Maybe you should figure out who couldn’t do it,” Care suggests.
“And work backwards,” Kelly adds.
I sit at a loss for words.
“Just trying to help,” Care says, noticing my funk.
“And I appreciate that.”
I put the girls to bed without a story. I call Tiffany, wake her up. She is parked outside Christina’s condo where Lizzy went right after work. “Go home,” I tell her. She doesn’t argue.
I call Steve next. Nothing new from him and he tells me nothing new from Norbert either. Jonas tells me that the Villano family is still in shock.
I can’t sleep. I place the cards back over the Original Carlo the way they were when the three of us entered the apartment that night. Back to square one, except for one difference. I leave a hole right after Lizzy and before the “mystery man.”
“Dad,” Kelly says, coming out of the bedroom.
“What’s the matter?”
“I can’t sleep.”
“I miss my old friends,” she says.
“The girls you used to sit with at lunch?”
“Yeah.” She sits on the couch next to me. “The new table doesn’t have as much fun.”
“I hate that.”
“I don’t know what to do. If I leave the table I’m at now, they’ll never speak to me again; and I’m not sure my old table wants me back,” she pauses to yawn. “It’s a conundr
um.”
“A lot of those going around lately.”
“What should I do?”
“Well, Kel, I’m not going to tell you what to do, because you got yourself into this and you’re the only one who can get yourself out.”
“But that’s not fair.”
“Get used to the ‘not fair’ part of life. It’ll happen a lot from this point forward.” I pull her closer to me. “All I can tell you is that, when you are young, these things seem to change at a much faster rate. What happened today can be quite different tomorrow. So, you might want to merely wait it all out. Don’t forget you only have a few days left to eat lunch in the cafeteria, anyway.”
“I didn’t think of that.”
“Don’t feel bad, the obvious is often the most difficult to see.”
I give my oldest a kiss, put her back in bed, come back to the Original Carlo and take every card down, leaving them in a big pile. I sit in front of the pile for about five minutes, then begin placing the cards back up on the painting, this time by suspect. Who could do it and who couldn’t.
Three hours later I fall asleep.
28
Well, I'll be doggoned
Augie Rinaldi is the mystery man. A small-time hood, Mafia wannabe, hailing from upstate New York, his first stretch was two years for assault when he was eighteen. From there he had a number of minor infractions and short incarcerations. At twenty-six, he was convicted of running a real estate Ponzi scheme in Wooster, Massachusetts, but doing only eighteen months after he turned state’s evidence against his accomplice, Amy Zebelski. This fact alone would question his quality as boyfriend material; but Amy might have known something I didn’t, or maybe love does have no bounds. Reading his resume tells a cop that Augie is not the tastiest morsel in a criminal pot of stew.
The detective in Boston, Mickey Flynn (and what better name could a Boston cop have?), was kind enough to send along a one-sheet of Augie’s driver licenses, all with the same picture; but with the names Paul Lennon, John McCartney, Harrison Starr, and Buddy Ringo. Two things astound me: why stores and businesses consider a driver’s license proper identification, since it is probably one of the easiest documents to get; and how totally unoriginal criminals can be in choosing phony names. If I ever become a criminal, one of the first items I would steal is a “What Should We Name the Baby?” book.
