Once Bitten, Twice Dead Page 11

  “So far there’s no murder.”

  “It’s coming. And I told you it wasn’t murder—it was an accident.”

  “Go on.”

  “He said he’d stop, and we were just going to pull Simon back up when Cody passed out and let go of the leg he was holding. He dropped to the floor. I guess I wasn’t thinking too straight because I made a grab for the leg Cody had just let go of. In doing so I loosened the grip I had, and Simon slid right out of grasp. Simon fell five floors head first right onto a cement sidewalk. He cracked his head open, and we were all arrested.

  “When we told our story, Cody wasn’t blamed because he had passed out. I got all of the blame, but I wasn’t trying to kill Simon. I couldn’t afford a lawyer, and the public defender I had couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag. I kept telling him to say it was just an accident, but he just kept telling me he’d handle it. I wanted to get up there and tell my side of it, but he didn’t call me or anyone else as a witness—he just said the prosecutor had no case, and thus he wanted a dismissal. The judge almost smiled when she refused him, but he did eventually get a reduced sentence for me. It took the jury only an hour to convict, and I’m in here for at least seven years. End of story.”

  “Did you ever have any contact with your Aunt Carla before all this happened?”

  “I had met her a couple of times. Oh, and I guess there was another time with the gun.”

  “The gun??”

  “Sometimes Cody and I would take the train to New York to get some good drugs. Once I decided to look up Carla. Cody and I went up to her apartment. I told her to stop bothering my mother. She said she wasn’t bothering her. We started to argue. Cody whispered to me, ‘Show her the gun.’ He tries to act tough, but he isn’t. But I thought maybe I could scare Carla into stop harassing Mom, so I pulled out the gun.”

  “Why did you have a gun?”

  “Cody got it for me. He had one, too. He said there were some dangerous people in New York, and we might have to protect ourselves. Once, when he went in by himself he was mugged and had some drugs taken away from him.”

  “What did Carla do when she saw the gun?”

  “She laughed. Cody didn’t like that. He was going to pull out his, but I was beginning to feel a little foolish. It didn’t seem like Carla was too scared of us. So we left, and that’s the last time I saw her.”

  “When was this?”

  “I don’t remember exactly, but I think it was a few weeks before she died.”

  “Where’s your gun now?”

  “When I knew I was going to jail, I gave it to Cody. He has two now. He probably feels extra safe.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  Winnie told me that Cody Phillips was a part-time handyman. “He really is a good carpenter, but he doesn’t like to work,” she said.

  Maybe it was a unique day today because Cody’s contractor boss had just told me that his helper was out on a job, and I found Cody repairing a ceiling in an older neighborhood in South Philly. As I walked into the house’s kitchen, I first saw legs and a torso up on a ladder. There was a missing head somewhere into the drop-ceiling.

  “Cody Phillips?”

  “I’m working.”

  “This is a police matter.”

  The ghost voice inside the ceiling responded, “I didn’t do it.”

  “What didn’t you do?”

  “Whatever it is you came here for.”

  Cody poked his head down to look at me. As he did so his hand scraped the part of the ceiling he was working on, and a cloud of dust filled with what looked like little raisins settled onto his blond locks.

  “Damn mice! They’re all over this house. If it’s anything I like, it’s those droppings on my head. But I guess since I’m so decorated now, I can talk to you.”

  A fairly good looking kid without any facial hair came down the ladder, brushing the poop off his head. He was tall and maybe too thin, as if drugs and not food had been his main diet the last few years.

  “All right, what is this ‘police matter’?”

  “I want to talk to you about the death of Carla Strand.”

  “Who??”

  “Winnie’s aunt. Your girlfriend, Winnie. You and she went to see Carla one day, carrying guns.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yes, that. Do you still carry a gun?”

  “It’s in my truck. I’ve got a permit for it. You never know what you’ll run into with these homeowners. They’ve gotten so crazy lately—they want something for nothing. About six months ago a guy threatened to beat me up if I didn’t lower the price. My boss sets the price—I don’t. Now I figure if anyone gets rough with me I can go out and get the gun.”

  “Did you take your gun and go see Winnie’s Aunt all by yourself a little while back?”

  “What are you talking about??”

  “Winnie’s Aunt was killed not too long ago.”

  “I didn’t shoot anybody. I’ve never even fired my gun.” Was this kid being clever, pretending to not know how Carla had died?

  “I’ve talked to Winnie; I know she gave you her gun. Where is that one?”

  “It’s at home. I keep one there and one in the truck.”

  “Is that one registered, too?”

  “Well. . .no. I just got it a little while ago.”

  “Maybe you wanted to help Winnie out against her Aunt, and so you took matters into your own hands.” I could picture Carla walking out onto the balcony to ignore Cody, and then him getting angry and grabbing her.

  “You’re trying to say I killed that woman. You’re loony. Why would I do that?”

  “So Winnie’s mom wouldn’t be bothered any more, and Winnie would be happier.”

  “I wouldn’t try to help her. Winnie is wacky. She’s in jail now for what she did at that party.”

  “You were at the same party.”

  “I was, but I wasn’t involved with what Winnie did.”

  “She said you were. She said both of you were holding Simon out the window—you passed out, and she couldn’t hold him any longer.”

  “That was her story at the trial, trying to get me implicated. I wasn’t even at the window.” Cody brushed more offending stuff off his head, causing another cloud of dust. I could now smell what he could smell. I couldn’t believe what he had just said.

  “You weren’t holding on to one of Simon’s legs, out the window?”

  “Here’s what happened. Simon was especially directing his comments at Winnie because she was drinking so much and acting silly. So she took hold of him herself—she’s a strong girl—and took him to the open window and dangled him out all by herself. Most of us were in the other room, but we could hear Simon screaming. Maybe we could have gone to his aid if we weren’t so wasted. But then we heard one awful scream. We ran into that other room and there was Winnie still standing at the window holding no one. Maybe she slipped, or she just flung him out the window—none of us ever knew. All she said when she saw us was, ‘Whoops.’”

  “That’s not the story she told me.”

  “Winnie lies. She probably said I was her boyfriend, but she was the one who attached herself to me. I’ve always tried to avoid her. Maybe it all was an accident like she said, but the point is I wasn’t involved at all, and that’s why I’m not in jail and Winnie is.”

  As I left the mouse house (I had seen three of them scurrying past me as I went down the hall), I wondered what the truth was. If Winnie was lying, could she also have been lying about never harming her aunt?? Maybe she had followed her mother to Carla’s apartment and had gone up there, pulled her gun out again but this time Carla knew Winnie meant it and she didn’t laugh. Possibly Winnie picked Carla up and took her to the balcony to scare her, and Carla might have struggled just like later Simon struggled, and both of them slipped out of Winnie’s hold. Winnie did seem to have a thing about heights. Carla’s grabbing of the railing was not enough to save her and she went over the edge to her death. Winnie might have co
nvinced herself back then that what happened between herself and Carla was an accident, and then maybe to prove that she could do the scary thing with no problem did it again with Simon.

  I knew I was being very hypothetical, but Winnie suddenly had become more important in this case than I had previously thought. I would have to talk with her again.

  However, in the space of twenty-four hours I became much more concerned about saving my own life.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  The next morning I was driving my dog, Damn, out into the country to give him his weekly run. Damn was fairly large and powerful, and he became frustrated in my small apartment. Out on Route 30, in Amish country near Lancaster, there was an open space that seemed to belong to no one. Damn and I would visit it, and the Damn dog could run until he got tired. I would get much face licking after my gift.

  As I got more out into the country the wide areas without clutter caused my mind to wander in a healthy way, away from my three cases. I was already daydreaming and didn’t notice the car following me. That is, I didn’t notice until I was smashed from behind going sixty miles an hour and driven off the road.

  I momentarily lost control of the wheel, and before I could grab it again I had hit a culvert, and the car began to roll. My head hit the steering wheel; then the airbag exploded wrenching my neck and twisting my arm beneath me, but my seatbelt held. From the backseat, Damn gave a yelp and flew through the air past me. The car turned over two more times, finally landing in an upright position.

  I could hardly turn my head, and my arm was sprained at the very least. I had a splitting headache, but I had survived. My dog was not so lucky. His eyes were looking at me, but there was no life in them—his head was turned at a bizarre angle. I unhooked my seatbelt and bent low over him, but there was no breath. I had lost my friend and companion. I just sat there for I don’t know how long holding the dog in my lap and crying like I would never stop.

  I finally did stop and began to ease myself out of the car. I could open the door only on one side. We were right next to a corn field, not too far from where Damn used to run. Since I was within sight of where my dog had enjoyed his greatest freedom and joy. I thought it would be appropriate to have the burial here. Disregarding the pain in my one arm, I carried the already stiffening body to the fringe of his playground, laid him gently down onto the grass, and then went back for the shovel I always kept in my trunk in case I had to dig out of a snowfall.

  An hour of digging later, I placed my beloved buddy into the shallow grave. What exactly is life that it can vanish so quickly?

  “Damn” was now the expletive that I kept repeating over and over as I drove my wounded car and self back home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  Even though I myself hadn’t felt I was progressing on any of the three cases, someone thought I was getting too close. But who, and which case?

  That road incident had been no accident. It was either a warning, or an attempt on my life. Stop investigating was the message. But whose nerve had I touched?

  Carla Strand’s case had been the one I had investigated last, so maybe I had hit on something there. In my mind I went over the last couple of weeks, but I could find no clue. I was still at square one, except now I had a dead dog and a fierce resolve to get the person who had done this.

  After more reflecting, for someone to do this to me so close to a case I was just connected to would place him or her in greater jeopardy than before, in case I survived. It would be more subtle to do this action from a case I wasn’t paying much attention to lately. My mind went back and forth like that in an abstract limbo.

  But then an incident happened that took the decision of where to go next, out of my hands.

  Ed Butcher’s most reliable employee was arrested. Cyril Caruso, the man who had called in sick causing Ed to be at his place of business that morning, had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

  Butcher’s wife, Larabella, had now taken over paying Ed’s bills, and checking the books she had noticed some discrepancies. Money was missing. She checked the logs to see who had been working each of those days, and it turned out to be Caruso. Larabella called him in, and he confessed. Cyril now had a new home in the city lockup.

  The man had his head in his hands when I entered his cell.

  “Cyril?”

  He didn’t look up.

  I added more strength to my tone. “Cyril Caruso!”

  My voice snapped him up. His face was ashen, with a hollow stare.

  “Who are you? Leave me alone.”

  We had never interviewed Caruso after Butcher’s murder. Again, looking back on it, it seemed to be laxity on Henry’s part. At the time Henry had said something about Caruso being such a faithful employee he would never have done his boss in. Even back then I had remembered one of the classes I had taken at “rookie camp.” “Never suppose anything in a case until you have investigated it” was drilled into us again and again. At the time I thought Henry was not being thorough, but I had no say in the matter.

  “Cyril, I’m Detective Stolle, investigating your boss’ murder. My first question is why have you been stealing from your employer?”

  Caruso’s eyes misted. He put his head back down into his hands.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  I knew criminals could put on some good acting performances, so I suppressed the sympathy I was feeling for this guy.

  “You didn’t answer my question, Cyril. Why did you take the money?” Before I went to the jail, I had phoned Larabella to ask her the amount that had been taken. She had told me it was bits and pieces, but over a three year period it had added up to $38,000.”

  I kept at the dejected man. “You took a lot of money, Cyril. Why?”

  “It was for my son.”

  “You stole almost $40,000 for your son?”

  He pulled his tortured face back up to me. “I’ve got five kids—none of them have gone to college. I could never afford it. Lyle, my youngest, had done better in his studies than any of them, and he wanted to go to dental school. I had saved some money but not nearly enough. So a couple of years ago I started taking from the market’s profits to at least start him in his first year of college. I knew I shouldn’t have done it, but I wanted to give my boy a chance.”

  “So Ed caught you, and you had to kill him?”

  “What? No, you’ve got it all wrong. Ed was like a father to me.”

  “So you’d steal from your father?”

  “I did do that. Most of the time my real father would use his paycheck for alcohol. I stole to save for my mom and me so we’d have food. I’ve always been poor.”

  If this was an act, Caruso was doing a pretty good job of it. My sternness was weakening, but I gave it one more shot, hoping a collapse might lead to a murder confession. “Now for sure, Cyril, your son won’t be going to dental school.”

  Caruso let out a wail, turned and punched the wall. The wall won the battle, and Cyril gave another yell at the pain he had just inflicted upon himself. That yell sounded both physical and emotional. Later I learned that Cyril had broken his hand. Maybe I had stepped over the line.

  Cyril was a thief but for a good cause, and the idea of murder seemed far from his goal. I had learned something. Yes, I had to be tough, but I didn’t have to be cruel. I was just beginning my career—if I kept on being an attacker, I could turn out to be as bad as the criminals I was pursuing. I had to not turn my hunting into violence. If I couldn’t stay rational, I had no hope of solving anything.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  I decided to stay on the Butcher case. Another area I hadn’t paid much attention to was Butcher cheating on his wife. It did place Larabella more in my sights as a possible suspect to avenge the infidelity, but also I had discovered that the woman Ed was cheating with was also married. Perhaps her husband discovered the affair and paid Ed back in spades (or in cleavers).

  I talked f
irst to the woman in question, Ann Reilly. She was a hairdresser at the “Hair today, gone tomorrow.” salon. I don’t think I’m overly attracted to women, but I could see why Butcher was drawn to Mrs. Reilly. She was small in height but well endowed in the chest area. Her petite face didn’t have a blemish on it. She looked close to my age, middle twenties. That probably was a factor also for Ed: a much younger person making him feel his youth again.

  I sat down with Ann during her break. She had a raspy voice. “I’d like to help you with your investigation, Detective, but I don’t know anything about Ed’s murder.”

  “How long were you together with Ed?”

  “It was over a year.”

  “Did it bother you that Ed was married?”

  “Well, I’m married also.”

  “Did that bother you?”

  “Not as much.”

  “Don’t you love your husband?”

  There was a long pause. “I think I don’t. He’s kind of brutal.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  “Don’s a truck driver and gone a lot. Often he drives cross-country. I get lonely and he gets horny. He comes home and wants constant sex. If I don’t give it to him, he slaps me around—not always, but sometimes.”

  “Has he ever seriously hurt you?”

  “I think he tries to scare me. I’m never really harmed. Maybe a bruise here or there. I think for him it gets rid of stress from the road.”

  I’ve always been amazed how many women make excuses for men.

  “What would happen if Don found out about what you were doing with Ed?”

  “That was always my worry.”

  “What would he have done?”

  “I wouldn’t like to think about that.”

  “Was your husband in this immediate area the day Ed was killed, or was he traveling?”

  “I know he was here because I was supposed to meet Ed that night. It was my day off, and I was gone from home all day shopping. I never did go back home. Ed didn’t show up that night at our usual meeting place. I waited an hour. Then when I got home Don was there. I didn’t expect that. I thought I had a free night with Ed because Don was supposed to be on the road.”