Murder My Love (13 page)

Abby stepped forward, adjusted the microphone, and looked at the DA before she began. “The information and the evidence we have gathered have purposely been sealed. I do not apologize for that. It is crucial that we not reveal our evidence or its source until we make an arrest. We do not want the perpetrators of this crime to know what we have that might incriminate them. Therefore, you will not have access to that information, at least until we make an arrest.”

A reporter interrupted her. “What about a free press?” Abby strayed from her prepared speech to address the individual. She told him that it was exactly what they were trying to do. They were holding a news conference specifically to include the press. But she stressed that gathering evidence without publicly revealing the nature of it would help them solve the crime sooner. She added, while looking at DA Rocklein, that evidence submitted at trial, uncorrupted by speculation or contamination, would help the prosecution.

Someone shouted, “What about the other victim?”

“His name is Stanley Klopowitz. He was Miss Greenwell’s nephew,” she related.

“Why was he there?” The chief declined to answer the question.

Another reporter interrupted, “Hey Chief, what evidence do you have that we can share with the public?”

Wilson said they had prepared a briefing document for the press. They were free to use any information contained in it to report the crime. Timely updates would be provided as they gained more information. Abby knew it was a white lie, as she had reviewed it and knew that few incriminating details were in it. The bloodstain on the flowerpot was not in the briefing document. She hadn’t enough time to tell the DA, let alone the press. Nor did she want to reveal that crucial piece of evidence. A third reporter created a stir by asking, “The Mayor said that one of the victims was a woman. Does that compromise your ability to conduct the investigation?” Abby glared at him and said, “Crime is gender neutral, sir,” emphasizing the last word.

Abby’s eyes remained fixed on the reporter until he turned away. She stepped back and gave the microphone to Rocklein who said, “I have nothing more to add at this time. Thank you all for attending this briefing.”

The reporters surged forward waving their hands, all asking questions at once. The police ushered everyone out of the auditorium. Wilson, the Mayor and the DA retreated from the stage and assembled in the Mayor’s office. It was a little past five o’clock. The Mayor reached into his desk and pulled out a bottle of Maker’s Mark whiskey. He held it high above his head and asked if anyone wanted to join him. Abby and Greg raised their hands. Guido poured two inches into each of the three glasses and handed one to each of the public servants. “You’ll have to drink it neat. This isn’t a tavern.” Abby laughed somewhat nervously. It was the first time she could feel the release of tension. The events of the preceding week had caught up to her. She was grateful to relax in the presence of her peers, even for a moment, even for a silly comment about the lack of ice. “Isn’t that the way you’re supposed to drink good bourbon?” she asked.

Guido held his glass up to his lips and said. “Salute.”

They sat in silence for several minutes until the Mayor spoke. “So, Abby, how are we going to move the investigation forward?”

She took a sip of her drink and replied, “Basic police work. We need a piece of evidence, an informant, a snitch, call it what you wish. But rest assured, I’m not sitting on my ass waiting for it. We’re out pursuing every lead.”

Rocklein leaned back in his chair and said, “You have nothing solid?”

Abby sipped and coughed while she blurted, “Jesus, Greg! Did you have to notice that?”

As she wiped her face, everyone laughed nervously. Guido remarked that he was surprised Dean Judson hadn’t attended the press briefing. They agreed that his presence would have provoked endless questions on how the crime would impact the college. They were grateful that the press conference did not provide a platform that allowed him to rant about petty problems between the police and the student body. There were no further comments. They all agreed that the weekend would give them respite, a time to think, a chance to get away from the pressure. Guido stood up and ended the meeting with, “It’s been one helluva week!”

He downed the remainder of his bourbon with one swallow, sat back down and leaned back in his chair.

Abby and Greg left the mayor’s office and were walking toward the exit doors, their footsteps echoing from the terrazzo tile in the cavernous hallway. When she was certain there was no one who could eavesdrop, she pulled him aside and whispered, “We found blood on the flowerpot. We’re pretty sure it’s from one of the perps.

He looked at her and smiled. “Now all you have to do is find a match.”

Chapter 14

Saturday began early for Jeff Stanton. It was an hour’s ride to the rendezvous and he didn’t want to be late. Missing breakfast with his buddies was not an option. Bikers from the Portland Motorcycle Club began to assemble at Jenny’s Egg Palace at the crack of dawn. Its name bore no resemblance to the structure which was a scruffy diner set back from the highway on a bluff surrounded by a dirt parking lot with no markings. The Palace was open seven days a week from 5 a. m. to 11 a. m. and served only breakfasts. Most every member of the club had his fill of eggs, sausage, bacon and grits before the ride. Rarely did anyone order a stack of pancakes, and if they did, they were subject to good-natured ribbing. Members of the Club included doctors, dentists and truck drivers. There were laborers, merchants and store managers. There were men from every economic stratum. What bound them together was their love of riding. There was no social pecking order. Anyone who enjoyed the open road was welcome in the club. They were equal in every respect atop their bike. Some wore jeans; others wore leather. Some had extensive tattoos; others none. Many had “River Rats” emblazoned on their helmets. Almost every bike was personally stylized. The only distinction among them was that some rode with their wives or girlfriends, and others rode alone. Jeff was in the latter group. He wore blue jeans, a black tight fitting tee shirt, and a leather jacket with silver studs. His boots reached to mid calf.

More than seventy bikes were scattered helter-skelter about the parking lot. They were mostly Harleys, but Yamaha, Suzuki and Kawasaki were well represented. The sound of kick-started engines began soon after nine. The riders walked their bikes to form a line two abreast along the soft shoulder of the highway. When the last twosome completed the lineup on Route 66, the lead biker raised a flag signaling the start of the run. With a deafening roar the convoy of motorcycles thundered down the highway. They would ride for several hours. The warm spring breeze in the bright sun slapped their faces. Sometimes the run ended at Old Lyme by the Long Island Sound. Other times it might end in Niantic where a string of bars welcomed the riders and their lusty appetite for beer. When the weather was very warm, as it was that day, they ended their run at the Ice Cream Shack that was an extension of the Salem Four Corners dairy. The store looked like a throwback in a western movie. It was a one-room wooden structure that sat in an open field, one hundred yards from a rural road. A natural fence of pine trees separated the shack from the dairy farm behind it. There were only two picnic tables and several trash barrels in the field. A wooden planked porch two-steps up from the field was as wide as the store and deep enough for three people to stand in line at a window where orders could be placed. The horde of riders formed a line that extended several yards into the field. On any day when the store was open for business, there could be up to two-dozen varieties of ice cream available.

When the pack of bikers had arrived their motorcycles appeared to have blanketed the entire field. It was always incongruous to see big burly men, some with full beards and total body tattoos who, in another time and place, would look menacing, standing about licking their double scoops of ice cream from a cone. Jeff Stanton was comfortable in the company of these men and women. The camaraderie made him feel welcome. In an otherwise lonely life, membership in the bike club was as near to family and love as he could find. The only thing that could compete was his love of policing.

Stanton was enjoying his scoop of vanilla and peach ice cream when several of the riders who knew him well sidled up to him.

“So Jeff, anything new about the ‘les-bo’ killing?”

The question caught him off guard. Another asked with a snicker, “I hear a fag was part of the pussy-party.”

It was impossible to answer them. It would have been unprofessional to provide any information. To say that he knew nothing would brand him as foolish and would betray a friendship. After being admonished for using the word ‘chick’ he wasn’t about to engage in a conversation about ‘les-bos’ and ‘fags.’ If he did and it made the rounds of the gossip mill, it was sure to reach his boss’ ears. That would have ended any attempt to reconcile his previous behavior with Alice Chicciarelli.

“You’ll know when I know,” he replied. He dumped the mushy end of his cone in the trash barrel and mounted his bike. Dr. Tucker, the dentist from Colchester, drew his bike alongside and without turning his head said, “Mindless creatures!”

“Don’t get me started,” Jeff said from the corner of his mouth.

“Let’s just ride!”

In the afternoon Bruce Devlin packed his family into their truck and drove to the Woodstock Agricultural Fair. There would be farm animals on display; horses, pigs, sheep and goats. There would be oxen pulls. It would be a perfect venue for his two boys to learn the rigors of farming. Best of all, since it was spring, they might be in luck to see an animal giving birth. They would certainly see young foals nursing at their mother’s teat. What better way to teach sex education to pre-adolescents? Bruce and Julie were like kids themselves, eating hot dogs and hamburgers, sipping soda and watching their children cavort about the animal enclosures. The eating orgy was a one-time exception to his rigorous diet and he knew he would have to exercise harder to work off the calories. He rationalized that the indulgence was worth it because of the fun he and his family were having. Every weekend, especially when the weather permitted outdoor activity, they would plan to spend quality time with their children. It had been a long winter and the Spring Fair was a perfect place to begin warm weather events. They were sitting in the makeshift stands watching the parade of prized animals when a neighbor spotted the couple and bid them well wishes.

“Hey, Sarge, Your kids grew some since last year.”

“Thanks. They’ll be taller than me soon.”

“Are you working the case, Sarge?” he asked.

“Yeah,” he replied.

“Anything to tell?”

“No.”

“Don’t be such a tight ass.” The neighbor sneered and walked away.

They stepped down from the stands and walked a few yards away from the crowd. Julie asked, “What the hell was that all about?”

“Human nature. Everybody wants to be the first to know something so they can go bragging all over town. Makes them feel important.”

Julie put her arm around his waist, squeezed and said, “I know better than to ask?”

Abby, Sam and the two boys drove to Greenwich to visit her parents. It was the weekend before Memorial Day and more convenient to travel than on the holiday itself. Abby’s parents were still living in the same second floor apartment where she grew up. Her father and mother were retired, both living on Social Security and his pension. They never once complained about their lot in life. As a proud man, he felt it was unbecoming to moan about it. Rather, he took pride in his daughter’s accomplishments. Her mother cooked a feast of roasted chicken, boiled potatoes with peas and carrots. For desert she served a pound cake with vanilla ice cream.

After lunch Abby asked, “How are you doing, dad?”

“Holding my own,” he answered. “Getting old isn’t what I expected.”

“Why don’t you take a vacation and go back to Ireland?” she suggested.

Her mother piped in, “And have him spend some of his money?”

The conversation was always the same. They teased each other but it was indicative of their love for each other. Teasing was a ritual. It was like attending mass. It was predictable. The boys were bored to tears and busied themselves with their toys. Sam acted politely by refraining to engage in the barbs. At last Abby’s father spoke. “I hear you have a donnybrook up there in West Warwick.”

“You heard?”

“It’s in the papers. “

“What are they saying?” she asked.

“The usual crap. Nothing you can sink your teeth into. I only read it to see how many times they mention your name.”

Abby got up from the couch in which she was seated, walked the few step to the easy chair where her father was imbedded and hugged him until he could barely breath.

“Off of me, woman!” he shouted in mock annoyance.

“I love you dad,” she purred.

Sam stood up and announced that he couldn’t possibly compete with the love fest and suggested that it was time to go home. They said their good-byes and at the doorway Abby told her father that whatever was written about her should be taken with a grain of salt. She was on top of the investigation and she would not embarrass him by screwing up.

“That never crossed my mind,” he said. In a rare display of affection he kissed her on her cheek.

Steve Huff couldn’t wait for spring to arrive. It had been almost six months, just before Thanksgiving, since the last time he’d gone fishing. He opened his storage shed which was packed like a sardine can with tools and lawn equipment. He gathered his gear from where he’d last placed it. He took down his G. Loomis NRX casting rod and his Shimano spinning reel and wiped away the dust that had accumulated over the winter. He snapped the rod to see if was as flexible as when he’d last used it. Karen came out to see what he was doing. She took one look and asked, “How long will you be gone”

“Only a couple of hours,” he replied.

“You can’t get to the Salmon River and back in a couple of hours,” she pleaded.

“I’m not going there. I just want to do some casting down by the marina.”

“I’m home alone enough,” she whined. “The least you can do is spend a little time with me on weekends.”

He picked up his tackle box, placed it in the trunk of his car with his rod and reel. “I won’t be long. I promise,” he pleaded and drove off.

The marina was situated at the foot of Maple Street. More than one hundred boats were moored in slips or tied up to stanchions anchored in the river. They ran the gamut from skiffs to powerboats to yachts. Fishermen were permitted to line the pier at the far end of the dock. Access was gained by walking along a narrow catwalk that abutted a culvert, which was carved out by rainwater from storm drains that emptied directly into the river. Huff found an isolated spot at the river’s edge and began to cast his lures. For well over an hour he cast and reeled in, not expecting to catch anything as the water still ran cold from the spring thaw. The repetition of casting and reeling in his line had an uncanny calming effect on him. He so looked forward to summer when the fish would return. For Huff, fishing was total escape.

As he walked back across the catwalk to return to his car, he noticed an object in the culvert. Although it was partially buried in mud, it shimmered in the noonday sun. He jumped into the slop to retrieve it. He plunged his arm into the water and grabbed the object. It was hard. It was metallic. He pulled it out of the water and wiped off some of the mud. He gasped. It was a pistol. It was a .38 Smith and Wesson Special. He ran to his car and placed it in a plastic bag, one that he would have used for his catch. He knew he had discovered something of momentous value and couldn’t wait to show it to his boss. He drove as fast as he could to Chief Wilson’s house to show her his prize, but she was not at home. He called the stationhouse to learn where she was, only to be told she was away for the weekend. Huff didn’t know how he could survive the next day without telling someone what he had stumbled upon. He didn’t want to leave it with anyone at the stationhouse for fear of it being mishandled. He spent his Sunday pacing about like a crazed cat. He couldn’t get the thought out of his mind, how fortuitous it was that he had gone fishing.

When Rita and Conrad had returned to Zephyr Cove after the killings, they attempted to resume their normal routine. On the drive home it was Conrad who told Sheila what had happened. He provided a remarkably condensed version of the carnage. She displayed no emotion. She remained as enigmatic as a Sphinx. He may as well have been reciting the dictionery. School was almost in recess for the summer, and Sheila who was about to graduate went looking for a job. Rita went to work every day. She shopped for groceries as she’d always done. She made no effort to see Conrad, except to call him and demand that he say nothing to anyone. She reminded him that he was complicit in what she had done to Linda. She commanded Sheila to return the rented car. She spent her free time with her daughter. She felt certain that her behavior was in no way different from what it had been prior to their trip to West Warwick. The one exception was that she’d removed all the clothing she’d worn that day and burned them in an empty barrel in the rear of her home. She assured herself that no one would notice, as many of her neighbors took to burning trash and leaves that had accumulated over the winter. From the day Linda left her to the day of the murder, Rita’s life was filled with an endless torrent of tears. From the day she’d returned home from the murders, she shed not one tear. Having spent her rage, a curious calmness enveloped her.

Conrad busied himself in his salon. If he wasn’t there, he was at home with his mother. He made no trips to his various hangouts. He did not want to speak to anyone, for fear of saying something inadvertently that he might regret, something that might incriminate him. He had several scheduled appointments during the week and on Saturday he could rely on several women to enter his salon without first calling ahead. He looked forward to Saturday because it was his busiest day, and he could get his mind away from what he had done. Pleasant weather usually prompted the ladies to look their finest. During the week after the carnage, he was as nervous as a cat in a dog kennel. His hands shook. Beads of perspiration ran down his cheeks. The ladies attributed it to the weather but they noticed that Conrad was not his usual self. His conversation was muted. He paid no one a compliment. He seemed distracted. He was mechanical. He did his job but it was without energy or enthusiasm. He kept looking at the door as if he was expecting someone or some thing to enter and haul him away. He complied with Rita’s order not to call or see her until she told him otherwise. The absence of her company was driving him crazy. If ever there was a time when he needed emotional support it was now and the one person who could provide it had abandoned him.