Johnny Blade Page 21

  Chapter 46

  Jason Cocuzzi had forgotten what it felt like to sleep. He was up and around, but thought he might resemble a zombie more than a homicide detective. He was not complaining. He could go home and sleep for a few hours any time he wanted and no one would say a word about it. What surprised him most was his affiliate partner, Peter Cage. The man had unsurpassable stamina. Cocuzzi did not know why, but could not deny the competitiveness inside him. Cage, several years younger, should have more energy. Knowing this, however, did not make it any easier. In many ways, Cage was a lot like Cocuzzi, and at this point, Cocuzzi was not exactly sure how he felt about that.

  Cocuzzi was late for the meeting he had called. When he entered the tiny conference room, which resembled a classroom with rows of school desks with chairs, several plain-clothes police officers began to applaud. “Glad you could make it,” one of the officers called out, heckling. This brought around a much-needed bout of laughter.

  Cocuzzi, holding a piping hot cup of coffee, spotted Detective Cage at the front of the room, sitting on the edge of a desk. Christine Wrzos, the undercover prostitute was in a chair in the first row, smiling at him. She was still dressed like a whore. For reasons he could not explain, seeing her dressed that way—or maybe it was just because he was seeing her again—excited him.

  “All right, all right. Knock it off.” He made his way to the head of the room. He set his coffee down on the desk as Cage stood up, and took a seat along side Officer Wrzos. A pang of jealousy tightened in Cocuzzi’s stomach. As a professional, Cocuzzi pointed a finger at Peter. “You should be up here with me.”

  Peter Cage smiled and shook his head. He was making eyes at Wzros, but only so Cocuzzi could see. “Nah, I’m all right. I’ll listen from here.” He winked at Cocuzzi, the way a buddy might wink at his friend, as if saying—watch me. I’m going to make it with this chick.

  “Detective Cage, up here. Now.” It was an unnecessary order. There was no reason for making the Irondequoit detective stand at the front of the room. Cocuzzi knew he was acting foolishly, like a child. Maybe it was because he felt so tired. He only hoped no one else was smart enough to sense his jealousy.

  Once again, Cage took his place sitting on the desk. Officer Wzros was looking at Cocuzzi and he suddenly felt uncomfortable. It was evident by the look on her face that she knew exactly what had just happened.

  Deciding he had better move on, and quickly, Detective Cocuzzi cleared his throat. “Things went well last night. Though, to the best of our knowledge, we have not apprehended our infamous Johnny Blade—we did make nearly a dozen arrests. Officer Wrzos, nice work.”

  Playfully obnoxious cheers and whistles overtook the room. “Settle down,” Cocuzzi said. Cage was smiling at Christine Wrzos, and Wrzos was seductively smiling at the other officers in the room. Aside from Cage’s presence, Cocuzzi was pleased with his group. They got along and worked well together. “Extensive background checks are still being run on the twelve men arrested last night.”

  “And one woman,” an officer added.

  “And one woman,” Cocuzzi said, sheepishly.

  “But she looked like a man,” the same officer commented.

  Everyone laughed, including Cocuzzi. “Okay. We’re going to set up the same sting and run it just like last night. We’ll only get so many consecutive nights of this before word spreads and the johns quit coming around.

  “I want to take a serious second here and thank all of you for your hard work and professional abilities. Last night went smoothly because of the abundance of talent in this group,” Detective Cocuzzi said. Those in the room clapped and whistled. “I know most of you, like myself, are putting in long hours on the case, and I appreciate that. It’s important to me to express these feelings. You are all outstanding officers. Regardless of how things pan out, I want you to know I think this is a perfectly assembled team full of more ability than should be allowed in one station.”

  More applause erupted. It felt like a high school pep rally. Cage wore a grin that suggested as much. He kept looking from Cocuzzi to the other officers in the room. Caught up in the moment, even he was clapping his hands.

  “What’s with the schpeil?” An officer asked. “Yeah. What gives,” another called out.

  “On Monday, the FBI will be in town and more than likely they will pull rank and jurisdiction,” Jason Cocuzzi said, cautiously. His words were like a pin. The team’s balloon quickly deflated. “Listen, though. Listen. It doesn’t mean we’re off the case. And even if we get taken off the case, the key thing here is that the serial killer be caught and stopped. That’s the key thing. We can’t let pride—my pride, and your pride—keep us from working together with the FBI to achieve a common goal. Johnny the Blade is loose and on a rampage. Innocent women are being brutally murdered. If the FBI can lend us a hand, or if we can lend them a hand, and we solve this case—then the reward for our efforts is solid. We will have made the streets safer for the people in Rochester. That’s our job, ladies and gentlemen. Our job is simple. We need to work to keep the streets safe, and the added bodies from the FBI will only make our mission in this instance that much easier. Our objective can only become that much more attainable, obtainable . . . whichever, what ever.”

  For a minute the room remained silent. Detective Jason Cocuzzi had everyone’s attention, but no longer held their enthusiasm in his hand. It was Christine Wzros who, when she began to clap, slowly and methodically at first, the others joined in. The clapping came out like a chant or a bass drum beating in time with an increasing tempo.

  Peter Cage stood up, swept away by the moment. He clapped in time with the others. “You know what,” he shouted. “You know what this means? This means we need to catch this bastard before the weekend is over. We need to show the FBI just what kind of law enforcement team we have here in Rochester!”

  Peter Cage spoke words moving the police team into a frenzy mode. Christine Wzros stood up next to Cage and clapped even faster. Cocuzzi controlled a sudden urge to knock the young detective on his ass. His speech had done fine. The team had responded. He did not need Cage stepping in to steal his thunder. Damn him!

  As the police officers filed out of the room, Cocuzzi stood with his back to the desk, sipping his still piping hot coffee. Wrzos and Cage were still huddled close together and talking. Cocuzzi almost spit out his coffee when he heard detective Wrzos giggling. Before she walked out of the room, she turned and waved. Part of Cocuzzi believed that the wave was for his benefit, as if she might be teasing him.

  “Man, she’s hot. Isn’t she hot, Jason?” Peter Cage asked when the door to the room closed and the two officers were left alone. He stood with his hands in his pockets while chewing on his lower lip. “Think I should ask her out?”

  “I think you should keep your mind on your work. We’ve got a near-impossible task in front of us. We need to stay focused. Getting all messed up like . . . look at you? You resemble a school boy with that dumb look on your face,” Jason Cocuzzi said. He felt disgusted.

  “I could be in love,” Cage said in a serious voice. “This could be it, and I’m not kidding around here.”

  Cocuzzi wanted to say, ‘It could never work.’ He wanted to tell the Irondequoit cop to forget about it, that Detective Wrzos was out of his league. None of these things were true, though. Cocuzzi knew he was just feeling jealous and sorry for himself. Wrzos was more Cage’s age. They would undoubtedly have more in common. Cocuzzi kept his mouth closed and left the room, taking his cup of hot coffee with him.

  Chapter 47

  Michael Buzzelli sat at his computer. The articles he had been tenaciously working on neared completion. They were the personal pieces on the locals at Jack’s Joint. It took some doing, but Michael was able to contact Jeff Marks, a friend of his who was interning at Strong Memorial Hospital. He left a message on the young doctor’s pager. When the telephone rang, Michael was a little annoyed with the disruption. The piece he was working on flowed. He hated to
lose that train of thought.

  “Hey Mike, what’s going on?” Jeff Marks asked. The voice sounded tired. Michael could only imagine what it must be like working in a hospital, based on the drama shows he had watched on television.

  “Thanks for calling back. How have you been?” Michael asked. Small talk was a necessity, something he had learned about when working on the college paper. You wanted everyone to feel like your close personal friend. It just so happens Jeff had been Michael’s close personal friend all through high school. “How’s the internship coming along?”

  “It’s rough. You know how I debated between law school and medical school? Sometimes I wonder if I made the right decision,” Jeff said. Michael now wished he had gone to see Jeff, instead of contacting him by phone. He cringed as he realized who he reminded himself of—Matthew Sinopoli.

  “You wouldn’t want to be a lawyer—they have no ethics, no values. How would you feel defending a guilty man? What if you got some homicidal maniac off of murder charges on a technicality? Could you live with yourself knowing a killer was free just because you were good at your job?” Michael tried to rationalize. As much as he understood why every defendant deserved a lawyer, he never liked the idea of killers getting off on a technical issue. It was a disturbing flaw in the system.

  “Looking at it that way, no. I guess I wouldn’t want to be a lawyer. It’s just they got me working in the ER and . . . take last night for example, we had to turn away a person who was without insurance. The lady wasn’t hurt, like with an injury, but she was clearly suffering from manic depression. In my opinion, this woman was suicidal. Her showing up at the hospital was a cry for help. Why shouldn’t she feel that way, right? You need help, you’re in pain, where do you go? The hospital. And what did we do? We sent her back out into the streets because she wasn’t injured and because she hadn’t actually tried to commit suicide, there was no immediate danger. I think the receptionist gave her a flyer for a help line, or a clinic, or something,” Jeff Marks said.

  Michael was at a loss for words. He could not know how his old friend felt. “It’s got to be tough.”

  “Yeah, and the night before last, a three year old died under my care. It was a little boy. He got into the cupboards under the kitchen sink. He swallowed like a gallon of paint thinner. The cupboards had this kind of plastic lock that goes around the two handles, but the parents must have gone under there for something and disengaged the thing. Now three is pretty old. So the kid drinks the stuff, I mean it smells sweet, right? And he’s smart enough to put it back and close the cupboards. By the time the parents realize the kid is sick, a lot of time has gone by. Even more time goes by before they bring him here. There was nothing we could do. Nothing. I had one of the nurses lead the parents into a conference room, and then I had to tell them that their boy was gone.”

  Michael could not help feeling like crap. “Are you all right?”

  “I will be. They tell me this all takes time. I have to work on separating myself from the patients. It feels like an oxymoron. My job is to help the patients, to know them better than they know themselves, but then I’m not allowed to get close,” Jeff said. “Look, I’m sorry. I know this isn’t why you called.”

  “Forget about it, Jeff. It’s no problem. We ought to plan to get together sometime, drink some beers, or something. Sounds like you need a night out and away from the job.”

  “It sounds great. I have no idea when, with school and the internship—my life is more than full, but I’d like to get together when I have a free night. You’re right. It’s something I could use. Now, why have you called? I got your message, and you’re right, the name ‘Speed’ isn’t anywhere in any admittance forms,” Jeff said.

  “But the scenario?”

  “The scenario isn’t on any forms—the way you told it, either. However, we have a few patients at the hospital brought in under arrest. Is this a young, black male?”

  Michael picked up his pen and prepared to write on his tablet. “Yes.”

  “He went over a railing at Midtown Plaza not too long ago?”

  “Right.”

  “His real name is Harvey Brown. Aside from some injuries, he’s fine. He has already been released from the hospital.”

  “Police have him in custody?”

  “Don’t know. You’d have to ask them. Look, I hate to dump on you and then cut out, but my pager just went off again. I’ll give you a call sometime, all right?”

  “That would be great Jeff. Thanks for the help.”

  “Anytime. Take care.”

  “Yeah, Jeff, you too.” Michael hung up the telephone feeling a little depressed. For a while he sat still and thought about the situations Jeff had described. Day in and day out he saw people suffering. Most of the time he would be able to help those people, and that had to feel wonderfully gratifying. There had to be times, like with the three-year-old boy, however, that made you wish you went into sales instead.

  When the telephone rang a few moments later, this time Michael was thankful for the interruption. He needed a break from his thoughts. “Hello?”

  “Michael? It’s Felicia.”

  Michael thought his heart might stop beating. He sat up straight in his chair, as if she might be able to see his poor posture. “Mad at me?”

  “Mad? No, not really. It’s why I’m calling.” Felicia let silence fill the line. Michael respected this and waited. He knew when she was ready, she would tell him what was going on. “You know how my father’s sick? Well he’s been home for a few days.”

  “How’s he doing?” Michael asked. He did not want to interrupt her, but needed to ask. Though his parents were relatively young, it could only be a matter of time before they began to experience health problems. He did not care to imagine losing either his mother or father.

  “Better, much better. The doctors have him on this bland diet. He hates it,” said Felicia with a little laugh. “You know, I haven’t even seen him yet.”

  “Not at the hospital?”

  “I waited there, but when he was well enough for us to visit, I just couldn’t bring myself to go in,” Felicia said in a somber tone of voice.

  Michael knew she had to be smiling and wished he could see her face. “I’m glad to hear that—that your father is doing better, not that he hates his new diet.”

  “My mother just called. She and I, and even Marcia—my kid sister, have been talking on the phone a lot these past couple of days. I think I got so mad at you because of them. They’ve been saying the same things to me, you know, about going back to get my diploma and everything,” Felicia said.

  “I didn’t mean to be a bother to you. I just care. I can’t help that,” Michael said.

  “I know, and I believe you. I believe them. So, anyway, after you left I was pissed off at you and my mother and sister, and I was ready to throw those books you left for me in the garbage, but I stopped. I dropped them and crumbled to the floor. I was so beside myself, I didn’t know what else to do but stay on the floor and cry,” Felicia said. She was crying now, Michael knew. “It hit me, Michael, like a bolt of electricity in the ass, it hit me. I’m a two-bit whore and why? Why should I be doing this? Forget all the things I said to you back at the restaurant. Why am I a whore now? Why am I being so stubborn?”

  “Felicia—”

  “Let me finish, please. Let me just say these things. If you weren’t too mad at me, if you are still interested, I would appreciate your help. I want to earn my degree and get into some other line of work,” Felicia said.

  Michael thought he might cry. Hearing Felicia say these things made him feel wonderful. “I would be delighted to help you.”

  “Delighted? People say that word?”

  Michael laughed. “Just dorks like me,” he said.

  “One other thing. I’ve kinda mended some wounds at home. My mother wants me to come to dinner tonight. I told her I would. She asked if I wanted to bring you. She and Marcia like you, I guess, though I can’t understan
d why,” Felicia said. “I have never brought a guy home, and I know it sounds stupid—going to have dinner with my parents, so if you don’t want to—”

  “Hey, Felicia, are you trying to un-invite me before you even invite me?” Michael asked. “Because if you’re inviting me, I’d love to go.”

  “You would? For real?”

  “Tell me what time.”

  “Five.”

  “I’ll pick you up at four-thirty,” Michael said, and hung up.

  Chapter 48

  Veronica and Victoria sat huddled close together on their bed. Veronica kept a protective arm wrapped around her sister. They both had stopped crying, but neither could stop trembling. Veronica could not get the image of her mother covered in blood out of her mind. She never knew her father could be so vicious. She knew when her father lived home her parents fought a lot, especially in the last few years. She had never seen her father strike her mother. The more she thought about it now, the more she realized that the violence had to be going on. It explained a lot.

  Veronica could remember one day in the summer. Her father had come home early from work. He was drunk. Veronica could always tell. He would talk and walk funny. When he would catch her looking at him silently questioning his behavior, he would stare her down—challenging her to say something. She never did. The look in his eyes was enough to keep her from opening her mouth. On this one summer day, when he walked into the house, he sent Veronica and Victoria to their rooms. She and her sister stayed by the door and listened to the argument. Their father was home from work early because of the lunch their mother had packed for him.

  “Peanut butter and jelly?” he had said. “Am I some kind of kid?” With each sentence, his anger intensified. He had raised his voice, but was not quite yelling. “I’m working my ass off—slaving my fingers to the bone, and when I go to lunch and expect a satisfying meal, I find a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on plain white bread. You know what the guys did? They laughed at me. One guy, Stan, he asked me why I didn’t have you cut the crusts off the edges.”