Anyway, the drizzle is turning into a heavy rain.
And I have never liked the darkness or dampness that come with a storm.
Still Life
It was two in the morning, raining to beat all hell outside, and it felt good to be sitting opposite Johnny Knowles sipping hot coffee, Johnny had his jacket off, with his sleeves rolled up and the .38 Police Special hanging in its shoulder holster. He had a deck of cards spread in front of him on the table, and he was looking for a black queen to put on his king of diamonds.
I was sitting there looking past Johnny at the rain streaming down the barred window. It had been a dull night, and I was half-dozing, the hot steam from the coffee cup haloing my head. When the phone began ringing, Johnny looked up from his Solitaire.
‘I’ll get it,’ I said.
I put down the cup, swung my legs out from under the table and picked up the receiver.
‘Hannigan,’ I said.
Johnny was watching me now.
‘Yep,’ I said. ‘I’ve got it. Barney. Right away.’
I hung up and Johnny looked at me quizzically.
‘Young girl,’ I said. ‘Gun Hill Road and Bronxwood Avenue. Looks bad, Johnny.’
Johnny stood up quickly and began shrugging into his jacket.
‘Some guy found her lying on the sidewalk.’
‘Hurt bad?’ Johnny asked.
‘The guy who called in thinks she’s dead.’
We checked out a car and headed for Gun Hill Road. Johnny was silent as he drove, and I listened to the swick-swack of the windshield wipers, staring through the rain-streaked glass at the glistening wet asphalt outside. When we turned off White Plains Avenue, Johnny said, ‘Hell of a night.’
‘Yeah.’
He drove past the Catholic church, past the ball field belonging to the high school, and then slowed down as we cruised up to the school itself.
‘There he is,’ Johnny said.
He motioned with his head, and I saw a thin man standing on the sidewalk, flagging us down. He stood hunched against the rain, his fedora pulled down over his cars. Johnny pulled up alongside him, and I opened the door on my side. A sheet of rain washed into the car, and the guy stuck in his head.
‘Right around the corner,’ he said.
‘Get in,’ I told him. I moved over to make room, and he squeezed onto the seat, bringing the clinging wetness of the rain with him. Johnny turned the corner, and the old man pointed through the windshield. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Right there.’
We pulled the car over to the curb, and Johnny got out from behind the wheel before the man next to me had moved. The man shrugged, sighed and stepped out into the rain. I followed close behind him.
The girl was sprawled against the iron-barred fence that surrounded the school. She’d been wearing a raincoat, but it had been forcibly ripped down the front, pulling all the buttons loose. Her blouse had been torn down the centre, her bra cruelly ripped from her breasts. Johnny played his flash over her, and we saw the ugly welts covering her wet skin. Her skirt and underclothing had been shredded, too, and she lay grotesque in death, her legs twisted at a curious widespread angle.
‘Better get a blanket, Mike,’ Johnny said.
I nodded and walked to the car. I took a blanket from the back, and when I walked over to the girl again, Johnny was getting the man’s name and address.
‘The ambulance should be along soon,’ I said.
‘Yeah.’ Johnny closed his pad, took the blanket and draped it over the girl. The rain thudded at it, turning it into a sodden, black mass on the pavement.
‘How’d you find her?’ I asked the man.
‘I been workin’ the four to twelve at my plant,’ he said, ‘out on Long Island. I usually get home about this time when I got that shift. I live right off Bronxwood, get off the train at Gun Hill.’
‘You were walking home when you found the girl?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What’d you do then?’
‘I walked clear back to White Plains Avenue, found an open candy store and called you fellows. Then I came back to wait for you.’
‘What’d you tell the man who answered the phone?’
‘All about the girl. That I’d found her. That’s all.’
‘Did you say she was dead?’
‘Well, yes. Yes... I did.’ He stared down at the girl. ‘My guess is she was raped.’ He looked at me for confirmation, but I said nothing.
‘I think you can go home now, sir,’ Johnny said. ‘Thanks a lot for reporting this. We’ll call you if we need you.’
‘Glad to help,’ the old man said. He nodded at us briefly, and then glanced down at the girl under the blanket again. He shook his head, and started off down Bronxwood Avenue. We watched him go, the rain slicing at the pavement around us. Johnny looked off down the street, watching for the ambulance.
‘Might be rape at that,’ he said.
I pulled my collar up against the rain.
We got the autopsy report at six that morning. We’d already found a wallet in the dead girl’s coat pocket, asking anyone to call a Mrs. Iris Ferroni in case of accident. We’d called Mrs. Ferroni, assuming her to be the girl’s mother, and she’d identified the body as that of her daughter, Jean Ferroni. She’d almost collapsed after that, and we were holding off questioning her until she pulled herself together.
Johnny brought the report in and put it next to my coffee cup on the table.
I scanned it quickly, my eyes skimming to the ‘Cause of death’ space. In neat typescript, I read:
Sharp Instrument entering heart from below left breast.
I flipped the page and looked at the attached detailed report. The girl had been raped, all right, consecutively, brutally.
I turned back to the first page and looked at it once more. My eyes lingered on one item.
Burial Permit No: 63-7501-H.
‘Now she’s just a number,’ I said. ‘Sixteen year old kid with a grave-number.’
‘She was seventeen,’ Johnny said.
‘That makes a big difference.’
‘I think we can talk to her mother now,’ Johnny said.
I rubbed my forehead and said, ‘Sure. Why don’t you bring her in?’
Johnny nodded and went out, to return in a few minutes with a small, dark woman in a plain black coat. The woman’s eyes were red, and her lip trembled. She still looked dazed from the shock of having seen her daughter with the life torn from her.
‘This is Detective Hannigan,’ Johnny said, ‘and I’m his partner, Detective Knowles. We’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.’
Mrs. Ferroni nodded, but said nothing.
‘What time did your daughter leave the house last night, Mrs. Ferroni?’ I asked.
The woman sighed. ‘Eight o’clock, I think,’ she said. There was the faintest trace of an accent in her voice.
‘Did she leave with anyone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who?’
‘A boy. He takes her out sometimes. Ricky. Ricky Tocca.’
‘Do you know the boy well?’
‘He’s from the neighbourhood. He’s a good boy.’
‘Did they say where they were going?’
‘To a movie. I think they go up to Mount Vernon a lot. That’s where they were going.’
‘Does this Tocca have a car?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you know the year and make, Mrs. Ferroni?’
‘A Plymouth,’ she said. ‘Or a Chevy, I think. I don’t know. It’s a new car.’ She paused and bit her lip. ‘He wouldn’t hurt my daughter. He’s a nice boy.’
‘We’re not saying he would,’ Johnny said gently. ‘We’re just trying to get some sort of a lead, Mrs. Ferroni.’