Once Bitten, Twice Dead Page 17

  LaComte was making a persuasive point about the perfume. But his comments made me go back, in my mind, to what I knew earlier when I had interviewed him: Carla taking his main supplier away from Pierre by offering her body, but then not giving it to him. This could have caused enmity on LaComte’s part. I still was not taking him off my list of suspects.

  Another person that Carla had seemed to be sexually free with was Benito Rosca, her first mentor. In my first interview he had bragged about their physical connection. Today I read to him from Carla’s diary: “The guy is terrible in bed.”

  “I don’t want to get too personal, Mr. Rosca, but were those words accurate?”

  Rosca’s haughty demeanor switched, in an instant, to anger. “Get out of here, Detective Stolle.”

  “I’m sorry to have hit a sore spot.”

  “I said get out of here!”

  If Carla had ever said something like those words in person to Rosca, I think I had just seen what his reaction would have been. When I had interviewed him earlier, Rosca had said that Carla had wanted to move on away from him because she had become too ‘independent.’ Maybe her independence had something to do with his sexual ability. My earlier thoughts about the aging Rosca using Carla to promote his youthfulness to himself would have received a severe setback with such a comment. If Carla had said such words to Rosca, could it have caused enough anger on his part to kill?

  One of the saddest entries in Carla’s diary had been about Ted Davis, her agent: “I think I’m falling in love with him.” Ted’s current status in the morgue now prevented anyone from ever falling in love with him again. My own eyes got misty.

  Even Carla’s therapist, Heinrich Auden, didn’t escape Carla’s criticism: “Among other things, he really doesn’t understand the human mind. He can’t seem to tear down the wall he has built to keep himself away from true intimacy.”

  It was ironic that the woman who had offered herself so freely to so many men would talk about intimacy, but that kind of connection is maybe what she deeply desired.

  When I read Carla’s diary words to Auden, he laughed. “Those words are something I’ve always known about myself. I’ve failed in every real relationship I’ve ever tried. But what Carla didn’t know is that wall helps me be objective with my patients. It helps me keep the right kind of distance from them, so I can actually hear what they are saying. I had told you I wasn’t able to help Carla, and I think it was because we become too close with each other—for awhile she climbed over that wall toward me. I know I have helped many of the other countless people I didn’t sleep with.”

  Carla’s words from the grave had caused many reactions. Her diary had kept many of my first suspects still on my list. It was interesting that despite Carla not having much satisfaction in her personal relationships, she did have good insight into what made other people tick. I think she would have made someone a nice lifetime companion.

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  “How’re those cases coming along that you’ve been working on?”

  A tall well-built, dark-haired man stood by my desk. I had seen him in the precinct office ever since I had started there. He was a fellow cop, but we had never talked.

  “My name’s David Selby. I know yours. Everyone talks about the rookie who’s got the tough cases.”

  “Aren’t all cases tough?”

  “No, actually some of then are easy. Some killers make mistakes; some don’t. I guess your killers don’t seem to have made many mistakes.”

  “I do have suspects, but there’s nothing that’s working toward a solution in any of the cases.”

  “Keep at it. You seem to have the makings of a good cop. First of all, you don’t seem like you give up easily. Secondly, in just a little while you have developed suspects. You’ll eventually solve those crimes.”

  “I hope so. . .uh. . .David. Thanks for the pat on the back.”

  For the next two weeks, my cases still proved frustrating, but my personal life perked up a bit. David and I talked a little more, and one morning we had coffee together before we went out for the day. I liked him. He was a good listener, and yet he did have firm opinions. He had depth, but seemed willing to accept new ideas. He was a twelve year veteran of the force. He had been a football player in college, and he told me that he thought he would like police work for its “action.” He added, “But after awhile I saw that we are the last defense for keeping the ordinary person safe. I’m proud I can do that. Both of my parents are teachers. I think they gave me good values.”

  I was beginning to think about David Selby when I wasn’t at work—sometimes when I was watching TV, or sometimes when I was getting ready for bed later that night. I kept telling myself I was just being needy because I was so isolated. I hadn’t really made any friends with the other men and the two female cops in the office. From day one, I had felt alone at work, and now that I had had lost my brother I felt even more alone. So what I was doing, I thought, was just reaching out to anyone who would offer a kind word to me.

  However, as the days went on, and David and I kept talking with each other, I saw that I was beginning to fall for him. He seemed to have some real goodness in him, plus a sense of humor. Being with him was fun.

  The only serious boyfriend I ever had was in college. We were together for almost two years. Brett liked to ski. I tried it a couple of times but couldn’t keep my balance, so Brett usually went out on the slopes with his buddies. It was about the only times we were apart. Then, in my third college year, Brett and two of his friends were buried in an avalanche. I hoped that Brett had died quickly.

  After that, I did go out with a few other guys, but I don’t know if I ever recovered from Brett’s death. Would I become serious over someone else, only to again lose him?? Brett’s death was so unjust. Sometimes I felt that was one of the reasons I became a cop—to try to do something about the unfairness in the world.

  But now there was a little more light in the world each day in the person of David Selby.

  A month later David asked me if I wanted to meet his parents. I didn’t hesitate. I wanted to know as much as I could about David and anyone connected to him.

  David’s parents lived in Scranton, Pa., up the northeast extension of the Turnpike, about sixty miles from Philly. We drove there on a Sunday. After a warm meal and warmer conversation, I was already beginning to attach myself to Paul and Florence. Florence taught English at the local high school, and Paul was a science teacher at the same school.

  Florence gave me a little background: “Paul and I met in college and fell in love with each within a week. It wasn’t exactly love at first sight, but pretty close. And, try as we might, we haven’t been able to fall out of love, for over thirty years now.”

  From Paul I got a little different family history about coal mining and rough going in the Scranton area during the Depression. “Both of our grandfathers worked the mines, and the times were lean. Even when we were growing up, there weren’t many luxuries—everyone was just glad if there was food on the table. I think both Florence and my sides of the family knew how to make the most of what we had. We’ve tried to teach that to David. He might not look it, but he’s turning out to be a pretty good kid. After we had David early in our marriage we tried to have more children, but it seemed that the Lord felt David was enough of a blessing.”

  “You’re embarrassing me, Dad.” David was actually blushing.

  After dinner, David and I took a walk, looked at the full moon and stars, and eventually held hands.

  Driving back to Philly, I leaned my head against David’s shoulder most of the way. I was very glad to have a new friend.

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

  An incident happened in the squad room today that set me back a little, but I think it turned out O.K.

  The last couple of weeks, whenever I came in to work, I noticed one of the other cops staring at me. Possibly in some situations I could take that as a compliment, but that p
articular stare didn’t seem friendly. After what then happened later, I understood that those looks I was getting were similar to the guy lining up a target.

  This morning I got the same stare, but as I sat down at my desk to plan my day’s itinerary I was surprised to see that guy standing at the opening to my cubicle. He just stood there and continued to stare.

  “Hello,” I said, beginning to get a little uncomfortable.

  “Hello,” I said again. Still no response. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  He finally spoke. “I just wanted to see that failure looked like.” Then he turned around and walked out.

  I was shocked. Had he said what I thought he had said?

  A few minutes later, as I was heading out to the street, I had to again pass by this guy’s desk. He was waiting for me. “Why bother to go out—you’re never going to solve those cases. Why don’t you just give up?”

  I wished that I had some kind of smart remark as a retort, but again I was rendered speechless. David and I now held regular morning coffee meetings. He had left earlier to check out a lead on a case. He said he’d meet me at the coffee shop.

  As I waited, I pondered on that morning comment. What could possess a fellow colleague to be so rude to me?? It had upset me. We cops should stick together.

  David finally appeared. He was excited—maybe his case was nearing a solution?

  I was right. “I think I can tie it up, soon, Raven.”

  His words made me feel worse. I was wallowing in my ineptitude. I hadn’t solved any cases. I craved some sympathy for myself, so I told David about what happened just an hour ago in the squad room.

  “Who’s that blond-haired kid who sits by the door—medium height, but kind of a solid build??”

  “That’s Petrosky. Phil Petrosky.He’s a jerk. No one likes him.”

  I told David what Petrosky had said to me.

  “Don’t let that guy bother you. He’s got a big mouth. Don’t pay any attention to him. Whenever he does solve a case, he brags about it for weeks. He has to put down others so that he can feel large.”

  “But David, I have been a failure. Petrosky is right.”

  “Look at you—he’s gotten to you. ”I’m gonna say something to the bastard.”

  “No, don’t. It’ll just cause a ruckus. Then he’ll probably say worse things to me.”

  After a few minutes, David had calmed down; and we talked about other things, primarily how much his parents had liked me during our recent visit. Those words did make me feel better. The rest of the day I was out of the office doing some interviewing, and eventually I forgot about Phil Petrosky. However as I checked back into the squad room before I went home, something else again reminded me of good old Phil.

  I was filling out some paperwork for a search warrant; at the same time I heard a commotion at the other end of the room. There was shouting, and what sounded like a fight. I quickly hopped on my desk chair and then onto my desk top to peek over the surrounding glass of my cubicle. I was just in time to see David land a punch squarely on the cheekbone of Phil Petrosky.

  Petrosky staggered backwards but then quickly recovered and bounced toward David, getting him in a bear hug. Within a few seconds, the other men in the office had pulled the two men apart, and held them. For the first time I noticed that Chief Brown was standing in his office doorway with his arms folded, which was always a bad sign. Brown bellowed, “Selby, Petrosky, into my office—right now! The rest of you, back to work; this isn’t a TV show.” After the two combatants now meekly walked past our irate leader, Brown slammed his door, hard.

  I did go back to work until, fifteen minutes later, that door opened again. I rose in my seat and again peered over my glass partition. Neither of the two gladiators looked happy. Petrosky walked right out of the room and down the stairs, onto the street. David caught my eye and came over to my desk.

  “What happed between you and Petrosky?” I asked.

  “I told him something like his mouth is bigger than his brain and to stop harassing you. He said something like, ‘Are you her guardian angel?’ and that set me off. So I slugged him.”

  “I did see that part. What did Brown say to you?”

  “He said what you’d think he’d say: the office is not a place for brawls; save your energy for the criminals. He upbraided me for throwing a punch—apparently he had heard us arguing and saw that. He didn’t want to know why, but then he surprised me by praising Petrosky for the cases he’d solved the last few months. But then in typical Chief Brown fashion he said, ‘You’re good at what you do, Petrosky, but you have the personality of an open sore. Work on friendliness—these people here in the office are not your enemies.’ Apparently Brown had known about how surly Brown had been. Not much gets by the Chief.”

  “You shouldn’t have done what you did, David, but I am glad you stuck up for me.”

  “The guy was being way out of line saying those things to you. And besides, I kind of like you. I wouldn’t mind being your guardian angel whenever you need one.”

  That night I slept with David for the first time. Our relationship had gone beyond “just friends.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

  The next morning I was still basking in the warmth of David holding me close the night before. I had not stayed overnight. We both said we should take this slowly, but both of us also admitted that at the moment it all was going quite fast.

  Possibly my body stimuli was helping my brain because looking through the morning paper I got a brainstorm of where to go next on the Procopius case. The paper had detailed the just completed trial of Garth Heller who had been convicted of murder in last year’s arson fire at the Cramer Fabric Store.

  The FBI had been after Heller for three years for allegedly setting other fires in New Jersey, New York and Delaware, but nothing conclusive had ever been proven until recently. The fire in the fabric store was different for two reasons: three people were killed in it, and also Heller had made a slip-up.

  The device he had used to start the fires had a simple but deadly construction to it. He would place four matches next to a cigarette and then roll it all up in a large piece of paper, with the cigarette sticking out. Then Heller would slip that entire piece of paper, with its lethal contents, in between whatever in the place that would quickly burn. He would light the end of the cigarette and exit the area. When the cigarette would burn about halfway down, it would ignite the four matches and the entire piece of paper. There would now be a pretty forceful flame which would immediately spread to whatever the paper had been stuck into. This technique always gave Heller plenty of time to flee the scene of the crime.

  What tripped him up this time was a detail that only the arsonist could have known.

  Why no one had suspected Heller for a long time was because he had the respectable job of being a fire inspector. So he would come to try to solve the causes of the fires that he himself had often set. Talk about job security.

  In the fabric store that day were a grandmother and her seven year old grandchild. They had both been in the back of the store and probably had been overcome by smoke inhalation. The police theorized that possibly the child had wandered away and the grandmother couldn’t find him right away. A store clerk who had seen both people in the store but not out in the parking lot after the building had been evacuated, also perished when he ran back into the fire to try to rescue them.

  What tripped up Heller was something he said when he arrived on the scene for supposedly the first time to start the inspection. One of his cohorts had commented on how sad it was that the grandmother and her grandchild had died in the fire. “And would you believe,” he said, “that the child still had part of his ice cream cone attached to his hand—it was burnt into the skin.”

  Heller then made his mistake by responding, “Yeah, mint chocolate chip—one of my favorites, too. I could die eating an ice cream cone.”

  Besides it being a most insensitive comment, how could Heller have know
n the type of flavor unless he had been there earlier to see and hear the grandmother and child? The cohort reported what he had heard, and the FBI had their link. Heller had been one of their prime suspects because he was about the only common denominator in the other arsons: every time there was a fire set, Heller would arrive on the scene. Of course he was the inspector and should have been there, so he was always cleared.

  Heller finally confessed and the paper said he had just been given three life sentences, one for each of the people he had killed.

  Of course the setting of fires by Heller and the way Randall Procopius had died stayed in my mind. Randall’s death was by no means subtle, but maybe Heller had been angry and lost control of his “slow burn” method. I wondered if once a firebug, always a firebug.

  I did some checking on Heller’s bank account and also his business activities this last year, and I found that I had good reason to want to talk to the man. There was a connection to Randall Procopius. However, some of my brainstorms lately had turned into gentle breezes, so I wasn’t totally confident. But now I had the extra incentive to show Phil Petrosky that I could solve a case, so I was going to check out every possible lead.

  I was developing a habit of visiting people in jail. At least they couldn’t run away from me. Garth Heller was doing some kitchen duty when I came up to him.

  “Mr. Heller, could I talk with you a minute?”

  “Let me just put away these pots and pans. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  Heller was a short balding man of maybe sixty. The wisps of white hair on either side of his head gave his face a fragile look, as if, he too, like his hair, would soon disappear. He had fresh scratches on his forehead and cheeks—I wondered if he had already been in some prison fights. People who were responsible for a child’s death were not very popular with a prison’s clientele.