CHAPTER 47

 

9:25 a.m., Sunday, May 14

Joan Swanson was really annoyed. She and Maria Caruso had a date for doubles tennis at ten o’clock, and she was anxious to get the scoop on her friend’s date last night. It was already nine twenty-five, and if they didn’t get moving soon they would probably miss their game. The two of them usually walked the three-and-a-half blocks to the West Side club, but now they would probably have to take a cab. She dropped her Adidas tennis bag on the floor outside Maria’s apartment, and rang the buzzer.

“Come on, Maria,” she shouted at the metal apartment door, “it’s getting late.”

After knocking loudly for almost five minutes without a response, she was no longer annoyed, but instead was becoming increasingly concerned. It wasn’t like Maria to be late. Just then, the door to the adjacent apartment opened, and an elderly woman poked her head through the narrow opening allowed by the limit of the security chain.

“Are you looking for Maria?” asked the woman.

“Yes I am,” replied Joan. “Have you seen her this morning?”

“No,” said the neighbor, “but I think she had company last night.” Then, realizing her last statement might make her appear to be a busybody, she quickly added, “We watch out for each other, you know. When I heard a man’s voice, I opened my door.”

“Did you see him?” asked Joan.

“Yes and no,” she replied.

“Well,” said Joan, “I’ve been knocking for quite a while, but she’s not answering.”

“So I noticed,” said the woman. “Maybe we should call the super?”

Joan glanced at the designer watch on her wrist and considered going on alone, but a nagging sense that something was wrong made her inclined to agree with the woman. “I think you’re right. Maybe we should call somebody,” she said.

Moments later, the neighbor returned with the janitor, an elderly gentleman smoking an oversized, blackened pipe that spewed a steady stream of noxious, blue smoke. His head was encircled by a cloud that moved along with him much like a personal weather system. Reluctantly, he selected a key from a large metal ring attached to his trousers. “Ya know, I don’t really like to get involved in other people’s business,” he said.

“Please,” said Joan, “could you just open the door?”

“Okay, okay,” he said. He inserted the key in the cylinder of the deadbolt, and gave a twist. “That’s strange,” he said, “the deadbolt’s not locked.” He slipped a different key into the worn lock opening of the doorknob below and gave a twist. The door opened easily.

The first thing they noticed was how quiet the apartment was. “Maybe she’s not even here,” said Joan. “If she went without me I’m really going to be pissed.”

The superintendent started down the narrow hall toward the bedroom, followed in turn by Joan and the neighbor. “Miss Caruso?” he called softly. “Are you there?” There was no answer.

“Maria,” said Joan, “It’s me. We’re late.”

The door to the bedroom was ajar, and Joan gently pushed it open. Then, she looked inside. “Oh, my God!” she cried.

The superintendent barely had time to react, as Joan fainted, and then collapsed silently into his arms. While struggling to hold her limp form upright, the man peered past her into the dimly lit room. He wanted to get a better look at what had caused such a reaction. Before him was a scene not unlike one of many he had witnessed countless times before in a movie—a horror movie—and he gasped for breath in order to scream. Almost immediately, as if in a bizarre show of support, came the shrill cry of the elderly neighbor, whose voice joined his in a morbid duet.

 

Davis, Freitag, and Valdez got there at 9:57. By the time the detectives arrived, several uniformed patrolmen had already secured the scene; yellow crime tape crisscrossed the opening to the weathered apartment building. They flashed their badges, and hurried upstairs. The door to the apartment was open, and inside, men from the forensics lab were busy collecting evidence. Davis and Freitag donned latex gloves, and stepped inside. Rita did likewise. They moved through the hallway and entered the bedroom.

“Just like the others, huh?” said Davis, addressing one of the uniformed patrolmen. His practiced eyes scanned the room.

“Certainly looks like it,” said the patrolman, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-years of age. Matt could sense his discomfort. He’ll get used to it. Shit! Who am I kidding? You never get used to it.

“We’ve got three witnesses,” said the officer, pulling a small pad from his pocket. “Let’s see; there’s a friend, a Joan Swanson—she’s in the other room. And then there’s the super. The two of them discovered the body. Then there’s the neighbor, Mrs. Milam. She’s the one who called the super.”

Freitag left the one bedroom, and entered what appeared to be a second bedroom, which had been converted into a makeshift exercise room. The Swanson woman, who by now had regained consciousness, was sitting on a folding chair, sipping a Coke that one of the officers had brought to her. “Ma’am,” he said. “Do you think you could answer a few questions?”

“Well,” she sighed. “I guess so. But I don’t think I can help you much.”

The two of them went into the dining area of the living room and sat down at the small, Formica table. Freitag pulled out his notebook and a pen.

“Had you known the deceased long?” he asked.

The woman sitting across from him sagged in her chair, with her upper body limp, nearly assuming the contours of its back. Her blue eyes were moist from crying, and her dyed blond hair was matted against her damp forehead. It was obvious that she was devastated. The use of the word “deceased” cemented the fact that, indeed, her friend was actually dead. It pushed her over the edge. Softly, she began to cry, tears cascading down her cheeks. Freitag offered her his handkerchief, which she accepted with a sigh. He waited until she had regained her composure, and began again.

“Had long had you known Miss Caruso?” he inquired.

“Almost two years,” she replied.

“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to do this to her?”

“No,” she said. “Maria was a wonderful person. Everybody liked her.”

“Do you know if she was seeing anyone?” asked Chris.

“You mean, like a boyfriend?”

“Exactly,” said Freitag. “Usually, when something like this happens, it’s somebody the victim knew.”

“Well, she wasn’t dating anybody,” said Joan. “But, she was getting pretty friendly with some guy she had met online.”

“Did she mention a name?” asked the detective.

“No, but I know she was supposed to have a date with him last night.”

“Did she say where they were going?” asked Chris.

“No, just out for dinner,” she said. “I don’t think she wanted to say too much, in case it didn’t work out.”

Freitag reflected on the irony of her statement. “Well, thank you, ma’am,” he said. “If you think of anything else, here’s my card. Just give us a call.”

She nodded, and Matt offered to have one of the patrolmen drive her home, but she declined, saying the walk would do her good.

“Oh, detective?” she said. “There’s is one thing.”

“What’s that?” asked Chris.

“She met him in a chat room. You know, on the Internet. The guy she was supposed to go out with, I mean.”

Freitag jotted the information down in his notebook. He’d have to impound the computer, have forensics run a search of the hard drive, and see what they could come up with.

“Thank you, Miss Swanson. We really appreciate your cooperation.”

“I just hope you get the son of a bitch,” she cried. “Maria didn’t deserve what happened to her.” Tears had begun streaming down the young woman’s face again, and Chris moved closer and gently cupped her shoulder with his hand.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said quietly, before stepping away.

Outside the apartment, in the dimly lit hallway, a small cluster of tenants stood at a comfortable distance, their heads close together in muted conversation.

“Excuse me, is one of you Mrs. Milam?” asked Rita.

“Yes,” replied a voice. “That’s me.”

The elderly neighbor, who had been leaning against the wall, stepped forward, her hands clasped tightly at her sides. Her face was ashen, and perspiration dotted her forehead. Rita smiled at her, trying to put her at ease. It was always hardest on these people, the ones left behind, he thought. “Do you mind if we ask you a few questions, Mrs.—” Rita hesitated, not remembering the woman’s name.

“It’s Milam,” said the woman. “Margaret Milam. No, I don’t mind.”

“Did you hear her come home?” asked Rita.

The woman shifted nervously, not offering an answer.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said Valdez, “I asked whether you heard her when she came in?’

“Well,” She hesitated. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea,” she continued. “I mean, I’m not a busybody or anything—”

“But, you did hear her come in,” said Rita.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Was she alone?”

“No,” responded the neighbor.

“Did you see who she was with?” asked Davis, who had joined Rita in the hallway.

“Yes and no,” she replied.

“Well, did you see the man or didn’t you?” asked Rita. Matt gave her a look as if to say: ease up. Rita backed away.

“Sort of,” said the woman. “The lighting’s not so good in the hall.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“Maybe, but I’m not sure. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” said Matt. “You’ve been a big help. Thank you.”

“I could try,” said the woman. “I mean I liked her. I just want to help.”

Davis pulled a card from his wallet and held it out to her. “If you think of anything else, anything at all. Just call me.”

The old woman nodded in the affirmative, then added, “I’m old, you know,” almost as if her apology weren’t enough and she needed to explain. Then she silently accepted the card, turned away, and shuffled into the sanctuary of her apartment.

 

Several hours later, after searching the Caruso apartment thoroughly, the three detectives were convinced they would find nothing more to help them. Everything was there, of course: the body bound to the bed, the heart with the two sets of initials—everything. Everything the same—except for one thing; there was no New Testament!

“Are you sure there’s no bible?” asked Matt.

“Absolutely,” said one of the forensic detectives.

“That’s really strange,” said Chris.

“What?” said Matt. A funny look crossed his face. “You’re not thinking about that copycat shit again, are you?” asked Matt.

“I don’t know,” said Chris. “I sure as hell hope not.”

“Well, she’s the first one that’s not married,” added Rita. “That’s certainly different. I just hope it’s not a copycat. I don’t think I could take it.”

“I know, I know,” said Matt, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. The threesome stood quietly, not looking at one another, until at last Matt broke the silence. “Fuck it!” he shouted. “I just can’t buy it. It’s too easy! I want that fucking computer dissected like a goddamn fetal pig. Find out who she’d been talking to, who she knew, who her fucking pharmacist was – everything! I want to know all there is to know about this woman!”