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  “I know a cool place,” she said.

  “My name is Martin. Martin Wringer,” he said, handing over the bottle.

  “Donna. Call me Donna.” As she twisted off the cap, he watched her. She was an alcoholic in a bad way. Wringer knew immediately that this woman was not a prostitute. She wanted the bottle from him, nothing else. He would wager that she had no money and that was why she was no longer in the bar. Can’t drink without cash. This was all right with Wringer. It had been a while since having sex with a woman who did not expect him to pay for his pleasure. She had long, dark hair. It looked like she might be growing out the remains of a perm. Bright lipstick, heavy eye shadow, cheeks a little too rosy on pale white skin. Wringer found Donna cute, in a trashy, sexy way.

  Chapter 32

  Donna had Wringer drive north down Long Pond Road. “Ever been to Sawyer Park?” she asked. And he had, but not in years. He remembered picnicking with his wife and daughters. There had not been much by way of playground equipment, of course there were swings, a slide and one of those constructed contraptions that kids liked climbing on, running through tunnels and climbing across monkey bars. It was more than that which made the place beautiful. There were tall trees, a footbridge running over a brook and a mile or so of trails that led through shallow woods and along the water bank.

  Turning right, onto the unpaved roadway near the YMCA, Wringer remembered his visits with the family well. Taking the bottle from Donna, and after having a long drink as he steered the van toward the park, a few hundred yards away from the main road, Wringer felt anger welling up inside him.

  “I love it here,” Donna said. She lit a cigarette. In the fifteen-minute drive, she had consumed a large amount of the Jack Daniels. She did not look drunk, but the whites of her eyes had been ensnared in a web of red streaks. She was not slurring her words, but neither was she talking articulately.

  Wringer handed back the bottle. He parked in the last available spot, near the bridge, and shut off the van’s lights. He kept the motor running, the heater on high.

  While she smoked, Wringer and she passed the bottle back and forth. “This is a cool van,” Donna complimented. She kicked off her shoes and put her feet up on the dashboard. She cracked the window open some and flicked the ash off the end of her cigarette out it. “What do you do for a living?”

  Wringer did not feel like talking. He was pissed off at his wife. Who was she to throw him out of the house? He was the one who had paid the freaking mortgage. He paid the bills. Was she mad at him for losing his job, or for catching a disease from some two-bit whore? Couldn’t she see he didn’t mean anything by it? He had been distraught at the time. He had just lost his job and was confused, upset and lonely. She was up on some high-and-mighty horse, riding around like a queen—living in his castle—and judging him? Who in the hell did she think she was?

  “Martin, you all right?” Donna asked. She took her feet down. She sat facing him, leaning against her door. “You look sad.”

  “I am sad, Donna. I’m terribly sad. I lost my job. I lost my wife and kids and house. In just a few months, I’ve lost everything that was once important to me, Donna. I lost it all. The American dream? I had it, had it all and then lost it. I lost every freaking thing in the world that I once had. Lost it . . . it all,” Martin said, and was surprised to find himself crying.

  Donna reached out tentatively, and quickly ran her fingers through his hair. “You poor baby,” she said. She drank some more whiskey. She dropped her cigarette out the window. “Want to talk about it?”

  Wringer did not want to talk about it. He considered himself a private person. He was upset with himself for crying. He could not believe he was that out of control over his emotions. He blamed the alcohol. He held out his hand. Donna passed over the bottle. Wringer took a long swig. “No, Donna, no, I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  Everything seemed to move in slow motion for Wringer. It was the feeling he desired. He was not drunk, but he planned on becoming so. Whiskey had a different effect than beer. With beer, as with wine, people get that shit-faced smile, an unflattering grin that just would not go away. Whiskey effected people on a deeper level. It went to the heart of emotions and pummeled the crap out of senses. You did not giggle when you drank whiskey. You pondered life and tried to figure out what’s gone wrong in the world.

  “Yeah, well I know what you mean, you know,” Donna said. She put both her feet up on her seat. She spread her knees wide. She held the bottle between her thighs and had both hands wrapped around the bottle’s neck. “I was with this guy for, I don’t know, maybe six months. I was talking marriage, kids . . . and you know what the bastard tells me? One day were talking on-line, you know, and he says I’m scaring the hell out of him.”

  Wringer laughed. Donna looked like she might start crying. “What’s so funny? I didn’t laugh at you when you told your story,” Donna said. She was drunk. Now, Wringer could tell. However, drunk or not, Wringer did not appreciate the tone she used to address him.

  With his smile instantaneously vanishing, Wringer gripped the steering wheel with both hands. When he spoke, it was between clenched teeth. “What’s so funny is the fact that I’m talking about losing my life, Donna. I lost a job I’d held for decades. I lost a wife I’d had for just as long. I have two young daughters, Donna, and when I call home to talk to them, they say they aren’t ready to talk to me. What did I do to them? Nothing. So why are they giving me the cold shoulder? This, Donna, this is why my life sucks. You, on the other hand, are upset with a guy for dumping you. Men, my dear, are frightened at the thought of commitment. If you bring it up, and they talk about it—marriage, kids—so what? Yeah. Maybe one day they do want to get married and have children, and hey, what do you know, that’s what you want, too. But then you keep at them. You show them engagement rings that you think would look great on your finger, and you show them gowns that you think would be perfect to wear for the ceremony—and guess what? That guy is freaked out. He thinks of you, not as a girlfriend any longer, no, he thinks of you as a stalker. And you’re mad at the guy for being honest when he tells you that you’re scaring the hell out of him?”

  Donna stared at Wringer with the most hateful look he had ever seen. He reached for the bottle nestled against her crotch, and as he curled his fingers around hers, around the neck of the bottle, he let his fingertips brush across the fabric of her jeans.

  She stirred, held tightly to the bottle and continued to stare. He yanked on the bottle, and while staring back, took a sip—he noticed the change in her expression. “You want me, don’t you?” She said.

  He shrugged. It did not matter. He was feeling pretty drunk himself. Drunk, and tired. He would screw if she wanted to. He would sleep if she did not. At this point it did not matter.

  Wringer thought she seemed turned on by his lack of response and interest. He posed to her a challenge. He was also single—and she wanted desperately to get married, so who knew what ulterior motives lurked behind her own deranged skull.

  When she got on her knees and spun his captain’s chair around to face her, he became immediately aroused. She moved into the back of the van, taking him by the hand. He followed her, closing the drapes to the front of the cab. In the dark, they spent the next hour and a half getting to know each other more intimately, on an animal instinct level.

  And when they were done, when Wringer switched on the lamp, he saw the expression on Donna’s face change in the soft glowing light. “What are you doing with the knife?” It sounded like such a stupid question. It was also the last thing she said before, once again excited, Wringer pounced on her.

  Chapter 33

  Monday, January 21

  By noon, Michael found it impossible to work. His little cubicle felt more like a prison cell than an office. Though he had never felt claustrophobic before, he certainly was experiencing the phobia at a heightened level now. Breathing seemed painfully difficult. He sucked in each breath as though a plug w
as in his throat preventing the air from reaching his lungs. Loosening his tie did nothing to eliminate the sense of suffocating.

  Everything seemed to be getting more and more complicated in his life. He knew a lot of people who were on medication to prevent panic attacks. He always used to wonder why. Why can’t these people just control their emotions? Why do they need medication to help them remain calm?

  Well, he suddenly understood why, and would give anything for a pill to curb the strength of his sudden attack. As he got to his feet, ready to leave his cubicle, the telephone rang. He stared at it, reluctantly. He remembered Felicia calling him at home. What if it was Felicia on the line, again?

  “Rochester City Chronicle, Buzzelli speaking,” Michael said, hopefully. His wishful thinking was quickly doused.

  “Mr. Buzzelli? It’s Detective Jason Cocuzzi, Rochester Police Department?”

  “Yes, detective. What can I do for you?” Michael wanted to just hang up. A part of him could guess why the detective was calling him at work. Most of him did not want to know a thing. Deal with my attorney, he wanted to say.

  “We got back the results from all the samples you supplied.”

  “That was quick.”

  “You’re right, it was,” Cocuzzi said. “At this point, we are not actively considering you as a suspect in either murder.”

  Michael, for an instant, felt immediately relieved. A man of words, his relief stopped short of jubilation. “What does that mean, not actively considering me?”

  “Just as it sounds. Look, everyone in the city of Rochester at this point is a suspect. You should feel pretty good. Right now, we’re not looking at you any more. We’re going to be concentrating our efforts elsewhere. That’s the bottom line. Anyway, I called your ex-girlfriend, the attorney, and told her the same. I wanted to call you, as well. We appreciate how helpful you’ve been,” Cocuzzi said.

  An opportunity. “Is there anything I can do to help?” His spirits felt lighter. They were lifting.

  “It depends. Can you remember anything else about the night Vorhees disappeared?”

  “Nothing more than I’ve already told you.”

  “Then I’m afraid right now we won’t require any assistance.” Cocuzzi hung up.

  Michael hung up his phone and continued to stand in his cubicle. He had been cleared of the murders. The murderer was still out there. The police had wasted a lot of time and effort on him. The real killer could be long gone by now. Michael did not think so.

  Sitting back at his computer, Michael opened up a fresh page on his software application, and began writing. He wanted to document the conversation he had just had with the detective.

  He felt the anxiety he had been experiencing, slowly drain away. A lot of the pressure he had felt had been lifted off his shoulders. Not being the police’s prime suspect in a serial killing could do a lot to a person’s emotions. It was no wonder he had felt depressed lately. Even though he had known he was innocent, he feared wrongful prosecution.

  Michael found his supervisor and explained how he needed time off tomorrow for a funeral. He went back to work and concentrated on finishing his assigned work tasks. He did not have to work at Jack’s tonight, but planned to stop by. He wanted to fill Murphy in on all that had been happening, and apologize for missing work the other night. He also wanted to see Felicia. They needed to talk. Her call the other night proved she cared about him. She was not fooling anyone, even herself, but was just being stubborn.

  _____________________________

  Peter Cage wanted to go out for a beer after work. It was eight when they left the office. “We can have a drink and a meal. I don’t know about you, but I got crap in the fridge at home. If you don’t want to, I can always hit the drive-thru at a Mickey D’s or something.”

  Though Jason Cocuzzi was tired, he also felt hungry. It proved to be a rather long and unproductive day. Although it took some coordinating, they did manage to obtain permission from the bordering police departments to have uniformed officers’ stake out the Car-U-Wash locations. With Buzzelli eliminated as a suspect, the moral of the team working on the murders was taken down a few notches. They were now at square one as far as suspects went. Square zero made more sense, since they had not one suspect and leads were non-existent. “I don’t see why not.”

  After a few beers and a filling meal, Jason drove home in a drab mood. The seriousness of time weighed heavy on his thoughts. Though months had passed since the first murder, only little more than a week had gone by since the second body had been found. Something about the case bothered Cocuzzi. He was almost certain it was the same person who killed both prostitutes. He wondered why the killer had been less careful with the second victim. Why had the killer gone to such extreme measures to clean and scrub, inside and out, the first corpse, and basically just wipe down the second?

  The killer could be getting careless, growing less concerned with the aftermath of his actions and only concentrating on the ‘here and now’, a kind of the-world-revolving-around-him mentality. This would be bad. A serial killer is a unique kind of killer. One thing proves true. The killings generally become more frequent and the killings themselves become more grotesque.

  With close to two months between the killings, Jason Cocuzzi knew it would not be long before another woman was turned into a victim. And then it came to him. Chasing the killer might be too complicated in this situation. As he had explained earlier on the telephone to Michael Buzzelli, everyone in the city was a suspect. What they needed was a sting operation, a way for the killer to come to them.

  Chapter 34

  Tuesday, January 22

  Michael decided to take the entire day off from the paper, and after clearing this with his boss, felt better for having done so. When he had stopped to talk with Jack Murphy the previous night, he had hoped to see Felicia. Fatso had told him she had not been in. In a way, that news made Michael feel good. As best he could tell she had not worked since they had been together. Maybe their lovemaking had been as special to her as it had been to him. Her not being to work was a hopeful sign, anyway.

  Murphy understood what was going on and had not minded Michael missing a few days of work until things were sorted through. He had been more relieved to hear everything was straightened out between his cook and the police. Michael, before leaving, promised he would be to work as early as possible on Friday to give Murphy some extra time away from the diner.

  Now, after getting off the expressway, Michael drove west down Spencerport Road. He passed a large grocery store and a fast food place. On his right was St. Theodore’s Church. Michael found it unusual that Vanessa Vorhees was a Catholic. He thought most African American people were Baptist. Though he was no theologian, he did not think there was a big difference between the two beliefs.

  At one point in time at St. Theodore’s, there had been a parochial elementary school. Tuition rates kept going higher and higher, while enrollment kept decreasing. Eventually the school part of the church closed, but the church itself thrived, regularly undergoing major cosmetic updates.

  Michael parked in the mostly empty lot. A large white hearse sat in the loop by the church doors. Michael saw Sandy’s car and hoped Felicia was with her. He approached the church, noting the statue of the Virgin Mary struggling to keep her head above the snowdrift. Michael entered the vestibule and, through the next set of glass doors, could see the altar.

  No longer did the church resemble the standard two columns of pews. Instead there were six rows of pews in a semicircle around the altar. The vaulted ceilings and the circular shape of the altar made you feel as if you were in an immensely round room. In actuality, the room was still rectangular-shaped.

  Michael stepped onto the marble floors, stopped at the large marble fountain. He dipped his fingers into the Holy Water and made the sign of the Cross, touching warm, wet fingertips to his forehead, sternum, left shoulder and right.

  The casket was down this center aisle, a plain dark wooden
casket. People sat in pews on both sides of the casket. Michael heard people crying. Choosing to remain discreet, he sat in the last row, with Mass beginning almost on that cue. He followed along, saying the prayers, singing the songs.

  It had not been hard to see Felicia, with her hair worn up under a hat, with only wisps of that trademark burgundy hair dangling across her neck and down her back. Sandy stood at Felicia’s side. It was when the priest asked that everyone greet the person next to him or her, in a sign of peace, that Felicia saw him.

  He knew he must look pathetic, sitting alone at the back of the church. They made eye contact—she was crying. He showed her a somber smile. She returned it before slowly turning her attention back to the priest and his gracious words.

  Michael noticed an older white man sitting next to a young black woman. The woman was dressed in a black hat with a black veil and matching business suit. The woman had to be Vanessa’s mother, the way she was crying and holding the white handkerchief to her mouth through the entire service. The man had a comforting arm around her shoulder. Periodically she had reached up and held his hand, her nervous twitching fingers, seeking to touch . . . what? A lover’s hand?

  It was after the church service, and after Vanessa Vorhees was lowered into the ground, that Felicia finally approached him. While they stood on the cemetery road, near the gravesite, she walked swiftly up to him, wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face into his chest. Her tears soaked through his shirt, felt cold on his skin.

  Michael had no trouble hugging her, holding her while she cried. He wished he could take away her pain, to stop her suffering. He knew he could not. He remained silent, and while she continued to cry, he just rubbed her back.

  He watched over Felicia’s head as the people disassembled. Then Felicia and Sandy hugged and kissed each other before Sandy walked away. Many of them looked at Michael and Felicia, but showed little interest. Aside from the man who had his arm around the woman in black, they were the only white people in attendance.