Red Painted Lips #3

 

 

 

 

The Case of the Red Painted Lips

Part 3

by

B.D. Adams ©2015

N

eal Scarpetti -- a detective in the lower-Manhattan’s 5^th Precinct. The last few days had more drama than needed.
            First off, a serial killer made himself known in lower Manhattan and had expanded to Brooklyn. No doubt, the five murdered women were by the same killer. The same MOs.  

Their deaths were attributed to cranial blunt force trauma (bashed heads) and massive loss of blood. No fingerprints or DNA from the killer; none. They were raped (a condom was used) and, as side effects, they had multiple broken leg bones and their breasts were missing, cut-off. A brutal bastard! Also, the killer had painted their lips grotesquely in red paint, as his signature.

            Second, there was a dead vagrant connected to each dead women. The bums died from pure heroin overdoses, not blunt force. The syringes only had a bum’s prints. One bum lived from the heroin and was in Belleview. He lived, but was mentally a mess from the heroin, according to the doctor. Neal hoped to question this survivor later that evening.

            And third, the five women had attended an 8-week bartending class last Fall.

Neal had had dealings with other serials, but this Perp was more personal towards him. The problem was that his girlfriend, Maria Bertiani, might be in danger. She had attended the same classes. Today, her business card was found in the throat of the last victim.

She was a manager and bartender at O’Luigi’s Pub, where Neal had met her and would often down a few after his shift. Anyone could pick up her card from the card-holder on display on the wall. Could the Perp be hanging at the bar? Watching Maria?

Neal called her a little earlier to invite her to a late lunch. With the way her business card was found, he wanted to ask mostly about the class and see if she knew the victims other than at the classes.

He was a good detective, but he didn’t want to alarm her. He was falling in love with her.

They decided to meet at this quaint Irish restaurant near the Precinct called The Lazy Goat. A very Irish restaurant with authentic Irish cuisine, which Maria enjoyed. They made a great Shepherd’s Pie.

 The restaurant was on a corner and had large, plate-glass windows with antique-white lace, café curtains. The curtains reminded him of the restaurants where he’d eat when he made his trip to Ireland and Italy many years ago. Being of those bloodlines, he wanted to visit the countries of his ancestors. He was not disappointed. A lot of history.

A very busy restaurant, even after the lunch hour. He arrived ahead of her and was shown to sit in a booth in the middle of the large room. He sat to face the main entrance. Even though he was on his food break, he wouldn’t drink alcohol. More than anything, though, he still wanted to smoke. However, he remained true to his word. Actually, it had become easier to make it through the day. He took a sip of his cola, as he waited.

A detective, from a different precinct, saw Neal and sat at the booth to chew-the-fat. This would happen at times, where ever he went. Neal always enjoyed the comradery, but he was more on his mission. He saw when Maria entered.

He motioned to her and, when she was by the booth, he said to the other detective, “Joe, this Maria, my lady-friend.”

“How nice for you, Neal. I’ll talk to you later,” Joe approved with a pleased grin and

vacated his side of the booth for Maria.
            She gave Neal a pleasant face while she removed her winter coat to hang by his on
the hook. They kissed briefly before she sat.
           “I’m so glad you called, Neal,” she commented.
           “Oh? What’s up?” he inquired.
           “It’s probably nothing, but one of my bartending friends hasn’t been heard from in
a while, like over a week. I mean, she’s an adult and knows a lot of people, but this is really not like her,” Maria said and rolled her eyes in despair. “There are a couple others that I haven’t been able to reach either. One is helping her ill mother in Brooklyn, but we haven’t been able get ahold of her for a few days either. Her cell just goes to Voicemail.”
           “Good friends?” Neal queried in his police manner.
           “Good enough. We met at that class. Remember?”
           Yes – he remembered. He tried to pick his words as calmly as possible without sounding
to much like a detective. He asked, “What’re their names? I can check the computer to see what
comes up.” He took out a small notebook and a pen from the inside pocket in his suit jacket.
           “Thanks, sweetie,” she said relieved. “Amanda Fischer, Sara Wallace and Marcia Jacoby. Amanda lives in mid-town. She came down here because she knew Pete Lewis, the instructor and a renowned Mixologist.”

Neal knew all women’s names. Amanda was the woman in the cemetery. He could only guess how Amanda knew the instructor -- no smile at this thought.

 Sara was the latest victim and Marcia lived in the Tribeca area and was one of the first, just after the classes ended. And, with Maria’s statement that the women hadn’t been heard from in days told Neal the women were probably kidnapped and kept somewhere to be brutalized! Where – but, where? He wanted to ask the questions without upsetting Maria.

The waitress brought a cola for Maria and a pitcher of cola to freshen Neal’s glass. Maria expanded, “One thing about Amanda, when you look her up, I hope you don’t get too ‘detective’ on me about her. She’s a Call-Girl and is trying to get out of the business.” Maria watched his reaction. All he did was to shrug his shoulders slightly. She went on, “I wasn’t that close to Marcia, but Sara was. Sara lives in Brooklyn, but not with her mother. I think Marcia lives in Tribeca. We’ve kind of talked like we all should go to Atlantic City. Ya know, for fun.” She sipped, and then added, “They could have gone without me, but I, and one of the other classmates, don’t believe that. We just want to know where they are and that they are fine.” She slowly shook her head in thought.

            “Has anyone gone to their apartments? You know to scope them out.”
            “No. Neither of us wanted to be, ya know, too nosy. We got concerned when the phone calls and texts stopped suddenly. We knew that Sara goes to her German mother’s very often. She might be her mother’s only caregiver. No time for her personal things.”
            “What’s the name of the friend you’ve spoken to recently? Yeah, I’m being a nosy Cop.” He smiled to her with his genuine affection.
.           “Samantha Bachman. She’s married and wouldn’t have gone on a Girl’s Road-trip. But she’s a really nice person.”
            Neal wrote her name, but knew a married woman wouldn’t be on the killer’s list. Possibly, Maria didn’t know the other two victims in lower Manhattan. Gail Schwartz and Anne Ratliff.
           “If you don’t mind me asking, how many students were in the class? Were there men
and women? Just women?” Now, he was only a detective.
           “Hold on. There’s a guy I know – a delivery guy. He just saw me and is coming this way from the kitchen,” Maria informed quietly.

            The guy came from behind Neal, but he didn’t turn in the booth to see him. Oddly, Neal became surprised that he actually felt a twinge of jealousy -- that a man he didn’t know would know Maria. Silly, but true.

            Maria smiled a small smile and greeted, “Hi, Marvin.”

           “Maria – are y’here for a new job or th’good food,” Marvin inquired with a grin. He stood more by Maria and seemed to ignore Neal, didn’t look at him.

            This man was of average height, but quite lean with sunken cheeks. He was dressed neatly in a deliveryman’s uniform – dark blue shirt and trousers with an opened, heavy cardigan sweater -- with a clipboard in hand and comfortable sneakers. His hair was dark and curly and his eyes were very light blue.

            “This is my gentleman-friend, Neal Scarpetti -- a police detective. We come here often to eat. And, we agree – good food.” She smiled, but was savvy of how he treated Neal.

           “Whoa! A policeman? I confess – I did it.” Marvin chuckled a little and held up his hands
slightly, as if to surrender. He showed Neal a tight, wry smile.

And, Neal thought this guy looked at him as if he knew him. Gave Neal an uneasy feeling.

“Sorry, sir. I have a dry sense of humor. Most people don’t understand.” He looked back to Maria and parted with a very sweet, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Maria.” He turned on his heels and exited by the one side door towards the back.

“Has he always been a deliveryman to the bar? Does he go to the bar when he’s not working?” Neal queried. He so hoped that since he knew that Maria was not “alone,” he would not have her on his list.

If Marvin was the killer, he fit their killer’s profile to a degree. Not tall or heavy; common, everyday occupation. Lyn Martin, the profiler detective in Brooklyn, would jump on this.

“For a few years. He’s a little strange, but harmless. He has come to the bar a few times. He’s not ‘a regular.’ And, no – he didn’t go to the bartending classes.” Maria knew where Neal was going. “There were more women than men in the class.”

            “What’s his last name? Is he married? Yes, because I’m a Cop.” He smiled his known smile to Maria. “He might have info about a case we’re working on. About a deliveryman.”
            She thought a moment, kind of screwed up her adorable face and confessed, “I’m not sure. The paperwork I sign has the company’s name and just Marvin’s name for the delivery. Can’t say I know his last name.” Then, she added, “I have no idea if he’s married. That’s never come up in conversations. But, his eye color makes me think of “Village of the Damned” – that 60’s movie. Kind of creepy.”
            “Has anyone ever complained about him when he’s in the bar … that you know of?”
            She shook her head, no.

The Shepherd’s Pie for two arrived, so they began their meal. There was no further talk about her friends, Marvin or the class. However, he promised to check for her friends. Of course, he knew they were dead, but now he might have a possible ID of the killer.

í=======î

 Later, at his desk, Neal called the restaurant. “Hello, Ryan. This is Detective Neal Scarpetti with the 5^th Precinct.”

            “Ah, Poίlίn Scarpetti! You just ate here today. Shepherd’s Pie, yes? Did he put too much onion soup?” Ryan, the manager, spoke quickly and somewhat concerned in his Irish brogue.
            “No. It was very good. Always is,” Neal assured. He never tried to speak Irish. His mother tried to teach him, but he was doing well to get through his English classes in school and Latin during Catechism. He continued, “If you don’t mind, I have a question about one of your deliverymen.” He had no idea if Marvin was a deliveryman for the restaurant, but he went with that assumption.
             “Sure. Are you going to open a restaurant?” Ryan chuckled calmly.
             Neal also chuckled and assured, “No, sir. You’d be too much competition for me.” He knew this would get Ryan to relax.
             “You are very polite,” Ryan said. “How can I help you, Detective?”
             “A deliveryman came to our booth and spoke to Maria, my lady friend ….”
             “Ahhh … the lovely Maria. Yes, I know her,” Ryan said complimentary. “I wish she would
work for me, Detective. She is so good for O’Luigi’s!”
             “I think so, too,” Neal agreed. Then continued, “She said his first name is Marvin, but didn’t know his last name. Would you have his last name, Ryan? He might have information on a case we’re working on.”
             “Yes, I know who you mean. The man with the very blue eyes. In fact, he was here earlier to pick up an order sheet for tomorrow.” Ryan said and commented, “Detective, we are very busy now and I’m not in the office. Can I call you in an hour? I am sure I have his name.”
             “Thanks, Ryan. Do you have my number?”
             “I still have the card you gave me before. Is it the same number?”
             “Yes, it is. Call as soon as you can.”

The call was ended. However, as soon as Neal was off the phone, the secretary came to his desk with an old man and a younger woman.

“This gentleman is German and speaks little English. The young lady will interpret. She’s his great-granddaughter,” informed the secretary before she went away.

The old man was dressed in his winter clothing of heavy hiking boots, heavy trousers (no lederhosen), and dark-gray wool sweater with a long wool scarf around his neck and a sock hat that he held in his arthritic hands. His hair, of which he had a lot, was all white and his cheeks were tinted in pink from coming inside from the cold to warmer place. His blue eyes were watery, but they seemed very aware. He more than reminded Neal of his Irish Grandfather, who immigrated with his grandmother and two children to New York in 1950. His mother was one of the children. (Neal never really knew his Italian relatives. No one emigrated from Italy. Just a few photos.)

The woman was probably in her late twenties or early thirties. She was pretty without heavy make-up. She wore a mauve cable knitted sweater and nice wool slacks in dark gray with stylish boots for the weather. Her blue eyes and wavy, hair in a beautiful blonde shade said she was of northern European descent. With what Neal remembered from high school and some college history, this reminded Neal of what Hitler wanted for Germany. To only have blonde haired and blue eyed Germans. Aryan.

Neal shook their hands – the gentleman first -- and asked them sit in the provided chairs by his desk. With a nice smile, he asked, “How can I help you folks?”

            The woman spoke in a definite American, New York accent, “This is my Urgrossvater, my great-grandfather -- Günter Jäger. I am Heike Rozen. I live on Staten Island – he lives in this Precinct on Mulberry Street. He was born in 1925 in Germany and went through WW2 as a young man. He is very old and not a Nazi,” Heike stated as a fact. “May I refer to him by my name for him?” she asked politely. Neal nodded his approval. “Urpa is very lucid and has many actual memories, even now. He is like a walking encyclopedia.” She seemed to pause because he looked to her.
             “Sag ihm. Jetzt,” the old man said. He seemed anxious.
             “He speaks some English and he wants me to hurry up. May we take off our coats?”
             “Please do. I’d like to know why you were given to me, though. I’m in Homicide. Do you – does he --- believe someone has been murdered?”
              She spoke to the old man in German, they removed their winter coats to rest on a spare chair and this seemed to calm him down. She began her explanations, “As I said, he was born in Germany in 1925 in a small town northwest of München – Munich.” Heike paused and explained better, “Sorry. Even now, when I’m with him, I lapse so easily between the two languages.” She gave a small smile. Neal gave a slight hand gesture that that was no problem and to continue. “Thank you. Actually, a small village called Holzgarten – Wooden Garden – like a suburb of the town of Dachau. There is a memorial for the Nazi concentration camp. Are you aware of Dachau?”

            Günther understood some of what was said. He cringed at the mention of Dachau.

            Neal nodded that he knew of that history.

            “Anyway, he became agitated within the last few weeks because of an odor he had been smelling. With the last recognition of the smell, he said it reminded him about an odor …”

          “Sweet, Aber schlecht! Not good,” Günther firmly interrupted, as he waved at his nose.
            “He said …” Heike began, but was interrupted.
           “I got it. It wasn’t something he wanted to smell.”
           “Exactly. The odor would happen when the war was going full force. When the wind came from the northeast, the direction of the Political Prison’s Camp, the odor was more pungent. The wind, from any other direction, there was no odor other than animal fertilizer, excrement, from the farms. As the Nazi SS officials explained to the town folk, the odor was only the smell from the furnaces to keep the political prisoners warm. Even in the summer?” She said this as if she addressed a Nazi official. She sighed and continued, “When he was older, the war continued, but his parents finally told him what the odor was. He hated the Nazis! Everyone knew what was happening, but it was kept hush-hush. They didn’t want to anger the Nazi SS soldiers.”
           “I can only imagine how that affected him,” Neal said sincerely, then asked, “I’m not being rude, but why are you folks here?”
           Günther began to rattle faster and more excited. Heike calmed him with her speed and words. “He has smelled that same odor recently. Like flesh was burned in the furnace in his building’s basement. He tried to tell the younger German Super, but he didn’t believe it was human flesh. Probably a rat or a cat, nothing more.”
          “Keine Ratte – keine Katze,” he shook his head defiantly. “Sag ihm mehr.”
           “There are a few other older German tenants in the building, who agree with him.”
           “Ja – Ja! We know,” he said what he could in English. He definitely nodded his head and made a hand gesture for her to go on. She assured him that she would tell all.
           “Detective Scarpetti, do you believe people have body odors like animals? That each person has a personal identifying odor?” she asked with a bit of embarrassment. “He believes that. It’s not a religious thing, but many of the older ones believe this. They can smell their family.” She paused again, this time a little longer. He had to nudge her. Then, she said, “He believes he has smelled another of his great-granddaughters!”

            Neal didn’t know what to say. Did he believe that? No, he didn’t. However, the older relatives he had known as a child, did believe. His Irish Aunts and Uncles. His grandfather always knew when he was near. He always asked his grandfather what gave him away and the old man would say, “I can smell you.”

“He really believes that she has been burned. That’s what he’s smelled!”

Did Neal believe? No, but his grandfather taught him that it was possible.

“What is the name of the other great-granddaughter?” Neal was afraid that this was another victim. Perhaps, something new from the serial. He always had his hunches, but this was more than unusual.

            “Sara Wallace – she lives in Brooklyn. We've tried to tell him that he can't smell her in his building. But, he insists. She’s been taking care of her mother, Urpa’s granddaughter. Wallace is her married name. She’s divorced, but kept her married name.” Heike appeared stunned by Neal’s reaction and asked, “Why are you staring at me? Do you know Sara?”

í=======î

 Neal had to do one of the hardest jobs of his profession – to tell a family member that their loved one was dead. The body would be released to them as soon as possible.

              
              He arranged for a car to take them to Brooklyn and called Sid Roselli and Lyn Martin, the Brooklyn Detectives, so they could take them to that morgue. Afterwards, Sid called to say that they positively identified the body and left with more questions than what could be answered.
   
            Güther and Heike were much relieved that she wasn’t burnt. They weren’t shown her entire body, however.

               When Neal was able to just sit at his desk, he tried to digest the new info about this victim.

Günther was very sure he “smelled” another one of his great-granddaughters. He believed she was burnt, like in Dachau. That description really affected Neal, as well. But, they were shown her body – her body hadn’t been burned.

Then, Neal’s light-bulb switched on! The only part of her they didn’t have were her breasts. Neal began to have thoughts of committing homicide of his own. If this killer did, indeed, burn the removed breasts in the furnace of his building. Could the killer live there?

Neal would need to get a warrant to question the Landlord and to search the basement and the furnace. Could Günther be considered as a “reliable source” to get a warrant?

            Frank Mallory, Neal’s partner, came to him and said, “We have some new evidence from the bodies.” He took a sip of his coffee, and then added, “Both M.E.s have found the minute traces of bread and vegetables, not green vegetables, but like mushrooms in their hair. I think it was determined the mushrooms were Button Mushrooms. The girl in the Brooklyn apartment building had the most and had a torn fingernail on her left index finger – like she tried to fight.” He sat at his desk to finish his coffee.

            Neal began to fill Frank in about what had gone on while he was away. About the guy, Marvin, and the old German’s speculations. Then, his phone rang.

            “Scarpetti.”

            “Hello, Poίlίn. This is Ryan O’Reilly. I believe I have your information.”
           “Yes, Ryan. Thanks for calling back today.”
           “His name is Marvin Stevens. He works with The Moonlight Deliveries, Inc. I hope that helps,” he said.
           “Would you have an address for him?”
            “No. Sorry, he isn’t on my payroll.”
            “Okay. I understand,” Neal said a little disappointed. He had another thought as he then asked, “What does he deliver?”
            “Mostly nuts, breads and some produce.”
            “Produce?” Neal perked up and Frank noticed this. “Uh, what kind of produce?”
            “Nothing special. Mostly mushrooms. Button mushrooms – very common.”
            “Ryan, thank you. This is a big help,” Neal stated. 
            "You're welcomed." They hung-up. 

To Frank, Neal informed, “That guy delivers breads and mushrooms. Button Mushrooms! I believe I know where he lives. Call Sid and Lyn. Let’s get that warrant. I think now we have Probable Cause to search his apartment and his delivery vehicle, as well as the furnace.”

Neal had a new confidence. This killer was going down!
 

To be continued. The conclusion will be in April

 

 

 

 

The Spider Sat Beside Her - 2

          Readers, this is another excerpt from the novel I've been writing. Just to remind, it is a suspense, crime drama. With a touch of romance. The novel/story is finished, but I'm still working on the editing part -- to make it as perfect as possible for publishing. My Minor in college was English. Since my medical dilemma, however, most of what I had learned in high school and college has gone by the wayside. I have been very happy, though, that I have had helpful folks who have loaned their knowledge to me. I hope who reads this will be intrigued. Cheers!!!

 

Just some info about character and places --
       Travis Withers - a detective with Columbus Police Department (Columbus OH).

       Liz (Elizabeth) - the heroine in the story.       

       JD - Liz's 24 year-old son.

       Nikki's - an up-scale restaurant where Liz's son works as a bartender.
        Luke -- a local mob boss (not Italian).

        Pete Young - a patient in the same hospital as Liz and has become her nemesis.

        Scott - the Physical Therapist Intern and Liz's new love interest.

        Ms. Cox (Maureen Cox) - another patient and has become  Liz's friend.

        COSI - Center of Science and Industry, a museum in Columbus.

 

       All names are fictitious -- no one alive or deceased.

 

The Spider Sat Beside Her

Chapter XXX

 

by

B.D. Adams ©2015

 

 

          Travis had just dropped Liz’s son off at Nikki’s. JD was a polite young man, but was very concerned about his mother, which any son would be. He gave as much info as he could to the lad, but remained confidential. Travis would tell Liz her son was polite.

            He used an unmarked car to drive JD, so not to draw too much attention. There was no guarantee that Luke or Luke’s men would leave Liz’s son alone, but it was better to be cautious. Travis assigned a plain-clothes and a uniform at Nikki’s, just as a precaution. The management was agreeable without too much explanation.

The “3-C Connection” (Cincinnati, Columbus, Cleveland) had begun alliances with some other organizations, other mobs. One was the Russian's.

Sy Moretti, the Midwest Italian boss, had already hit some of that mob. Luke wanted to make nice with the Italians, so he loaned-out some of his soldiers.

            However, Travis had to forget that for now. He was in a hurry to get back to the Head-quarters because he had just gotten a text message from Roger, the Head Lab-tech. All Roger said was that Travis needed to return. Soon!

It had to be about that partial print on the bullet casing that old Chuck had given him. Chuck really believed that the bullet had a “real story” connected to it, which gave Travis the same uncanny notion.

            Saturdays were calmer days -- unless it was an OSU football game day. This was a regular Saturday afternoon in July. Also, he wanted to do some internet search work to scrutinize what might be going on with Pete Young.

Pete had become more active with Liz. She had had a bracelet stolen just the other day out of her room; out of a drawer. He stole it, without a doubt – he’s a known cat burglar. However, with the new material he learned about Pete, Travis never thought he would ever escalate into a hitman, a total criminal act. He never seemed the type. Even the Profilers said that. But now?

 

           Scott had called him late last night to let him know that Liz had another room intrusion by a short, skinny creep with bad teeth. He really frightened her. That sounded like Sid Borocco, one of Luke’s dependable soldiers. Another local mob untouchable. Travis would have to get a uniform for Liz, like he had for Ms. Cox. Scott was with her now, but he had done all he could. Now, the CPD would be needed. He would take care of that order after he spoke with Roger.

            Another disturbing piece of news for this morning, a Security Guard at the hospital had come up missing. He had gone to investigate the intrusion call, but that was all that was known. Probably, hung-over some place and would be found soon, so Travis hoped. He really hoped Sid didn’t do any-thing to that guard. Then, they’d be looking for the body.

            After a long straight way and a few turns, Travis was able to park quickly in the underground garage at the Headquarter. The Lab was in the basement, anyway. If Travis would stay in that huge, bright room too long, he’d get a headache. Way too bright for his tastes. He entered the Lab, nodded to a couple other techs and approached Roger.

            “Ah, good. That was quick,” Roger said. He moved on his rolling stool from his microscope to fetch some paperwork with a couple plastic evidence bags attached to hand to Withers.

            “Whatcha got?” Travis inquired.

            “I’m still waiting for all the evidence from COSI, but ... ” Roger fished out a tube with a different bullet (rather damaged nose) and continued, “ ... this was found lodged in a lamp-post in the lot. This was recent, also, but no blood on this one. A .38 caliber -- probably a revolver. They found a revolver in a near-by dumpster. It has Pete Young’s blood on the grip -- same DNA.” Roger paused as he read something, then continued, “Ballistics is testing now. I’ll let you know in an hour, or so, what’s found.”

Then, he took out the bullet and casing tubes, for which Travis was the most interested. The attached sheets of paper showed all kinds of typed forms and graphs on them. He held all of this out for Travis to survey.

            “You know partials are a lot of hard sorting for the needle through all that straw, even with the computer,” Roger stated, and then added, “These are all the ‘possibles.’” He thumbed up a sheet and pointed to a name on this page, “And then, this name printed out.”

            Travis read the name silently, and then just smiled to Roger with a wicked smile.

            “I thought that name would be of interest to you boys,” Roger said smugly.

×******Ø

           
  

         The conclusion of "The Case of the Red Painted Lips" will be put up in a couple of weeks.