‘I understand.’
‘They left the house at eight, you say?’
‘About that time.’
‘What time does your daughter usually come home?’
‘One, two. On weekends. During the week... well, I liked her to come home early...’
‘But she didn’t, is that it?’
‘You know how it is with a young girl. They think they know everything. She stayed out late every night. I told her to be careful... I told her... I told her...’
She bit her lip, and I expected tears again, but there were none. Johnny cleared his throat, and asked, ‘Weren’t you worried when she didn’t show up this morning? I mean, we didn’t call you until about four a.m.’
Mrs. Ferroni shook her head. ‘She comes in very late sometimes. I worry... but she always comes home. This time...’
There was a strained, painful silence. ‘I think you can go now, Mrs. Ferroni,’ I said. ‘We’ll have one of our men drive you home. Thank you very much.’
‘You’ll... you’ll find who did it, won’t you?’ she asked.
‘We’ll sure as hell try,’ I told her.
We picked up Richard Tocca, age twenty, as he was leaving for work the next morning. He stepped out of a two-story frame on Burke Avenue, looked up at the overcast sky, and then began walking quickly to a blue Ford parked at the curb. Johnny collared him as he was opening the door on the driver’s side.
‘Richard Tocca?’ he asked.
The kid looked up suspiciously. ‘Yeah.’ He looked at Johnny’s fist tightened in his coat sleeve and said, ‘What is this?’
I pulled up and flashed my buzzer. ‘Police officer, Tocca. Mind answering a few questions?’
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘What did I do?’
‘Routine,’ Johnny said. ‘Come on over to our car, won’t you?’
‘All right,’ Tocca said. He glanced at his watch. ‘I hope this doesn’t take long. I got to be at work at nine.’
‘It may not take long,’ I said.
We walked over to the car and I held the door for him. He climbed in, and Johnny and I sat on either side of him. He was a thin-faced kid with straight blond hair and pale blue eyes. Clear complexioned, clean shaven. Slightly protruding teeth. Dressed neatly and conservatively for a kid his age.
‘What’s this all about?’ he asked.
‘You date Jean Ferroni last night?’ Johnny asked.
‘Yes. Jesus, don’t tell me she’s in some kind of trouble.’
‘What time’d you pick her up?’
‘About eight-fifteen, I guess. Listen, is she...’
‘Where’d you go?’
‘Well, that’s just it. We were supposed to have a date, but she told me it was off, just like that. She made me drive her to Gun Hill and then she got out of the car. If she’s in any trouble, I didn’t have anything to do with it.’
‘She’s in big trouble,’ Johnny said. ‘The biggest trouble.’
‘Yeah, well, I didn’t have...’
‘She’s dead,’ I said.
The kid stopped talking, and his jaw hung slack for a minute. He blinked his eyes rapidly two or three times and then said, ‘Jesus, Jesus.’
‘You date her often, Ricky?’
‘Huh?’ He still seemed shocked. ‘Yeah, pretty often.’
‘How often?’
‘Two, three times a week. No, less.’
‘When’d you see her last?’
‘Last night.’
‘Before that.’
‘Last... Wednesday, I guess it was. Yeah.’
‘Why’d you date her?’
‘I don’t know. Why do you date girls?’
‘Why’d you date this girl? Why’d you date Jean Ferroni?’
‘I don’t know. She’s... she was a nice kid. That’s all.’
‘You serious about her?’ Johnny asked.
‘Well...’
‘You been sleeping with her?’
‘No. No. I mean... well no, I wasn’t.’
‘Yes or no?’
‘No.’
‘What time did you pick her up last night?’
‘Eight-fifteen. I told you...’
‘Where’d you drop her off?’
‘Gun Hill and White Plains.’
‘What time was this?’
‘About eight-thirty.’
‘Why’d you date her so much?’
‘I heard she was... hell, I don’t like to say this. I mean, the girl’s dead...’
‘You heard what?’
‘I heard she was... hot stuff.’
‘Where’d you hear that?’
‘Around. You know how the word spreads.’
‘Who’d you hear it from?’
‘Just around, that’s all.’
‘And you believed it?’
‘Well, yeah. You see, I...” He stopped short, catching himself and his tongue.
‘You what?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Let’s hear it,’ Johnny said. ‘Now.’
‘All right, all right.’ He fell into a surly silence, and Johnny and I waited. Finally, he said, ‘I saw pictures.’
‘What kind of pictures?’
‘You know. Pictures. Her. And a guy. You know.’
‘You mean pornographic pictures?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Then say what you mean. Where’d you see these pictures?’
‘A guy had them.’
‘Have you got any?’
‘No. Well... I got one,’ the kid admitted. ‘Just one.’
‘Let’s see it.’
He fished into his wallet and said, ‘I feel awful funny about this. You know, Jean is dead and all.’
‘Let’s see the picture.’
He handed a worn photograph to Johnny, and Johnny studied it briefly and passed it to me. It was Jean Ferroni, all right, and I couldn’t very much blame the Tocca kid for his assumption about her.
‘Know the guy in this picture?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘Never seen him around?’
‘No.’
‘All right, kid,’ Johnny said. ‘You can go to work now.’
Richard Tocca looked at the picture in my hand longingly, reluctant to part with it. He glanced up at me hopefully, saw my eyes, and changed his mind about the question he was ready to ask. I got out of the car to let him out, and he walked to his Ford without looking back at us. The questioning had taken exactly seven minutes.
Johnny started the car and threw it into gear.
‘Want me to drive?’ I asked.
‘No, that’s okay.’
‘This puts a different light on it, huh?’
Johnny nodded.
We staked out every candy store and ice cream parlour in the Gun Hill Road to 219th Street figuring we might pick up someone passing the pornos there. We also set up four policewomen in apartments, thinking there was an off chance someone might contact them for lewd posing. The policewomen circulated at the local dances, visited the local bars, bowling alleys, movies. We didn’t get a rumble. The Skipper kept us on the case, but it seemed to have bogged down temporarily.
We’d already gone over the dead girl’s belongings at her home. She’d had an address book, but we’d checked on everyone in it, and they were all apparently only casual acquaintances. We’d checked the wallet the girl was carrying on the night of her murder. Aside from the In-Case-Of card, a social security card, and some innocent pictures taken outside the high school with her girl friends, there was nothing.
Most of her high school friends said, under questioning, that Jean Ferroni didn’t hang around with them much anymore. They said she’d gone snooty and was circulating with an older crowd. None of them knew who the people in the older crowd were.
Her teachers at school insisted she was a nice girl, a little subdued and quiet in class, but intelligent enough. Several of them complained that she’d been delinquent in homework assignments. None of them knew anything about her outside life.