Amanda Matetsky: Murder Is A Girl’s Best Friend

I melted faster than the snow on my eyelashes. “He was my best friend, too,” I said, writhing in the agony and ecstasy of having once been truly loved. Then, unable to endure even one more second of such open (okay, naked ) emotion, I hastily excused myself and bolted for the ladies’ room.

I STAYED IN THE BATHROOM FOR ABOUT five minutes. I would have stayed longer, but some woman (a rather tall redhead in a green wool dress, I soon found out) kept knocking on the door and asking if I was all right, did I need any help. I told her I was fine and that I’d be out in just one second. Then I flushed (even though I had no reason to), wiped the tears out of my swollen eyes, powdered my nose, and went back to the table.

“Are you okay, Paige?” Terry asked as soon I took my seat.

“I’m fine,” I lied, hoping the sight of my raw, puffy, mascara-smeared eyelids wouldn’t make him feel worse than he already did. “I just needed a little breather.”

“Then do you mind if I talk to you about something else? Something really important. Something that doesn’t have anything to do with Bob?”

“Not at all,” I said. Truth be known, I was desperate for a change of topic.

The expression on Terry’s face went through a series of dramatic transformations. First he looked bewildered, then horrified, then violently enraged. Then he reared back in his chair, heaved an enormous sigh, lowered his head, and sadly scraped his fingers through his ghostly white hair. “I hate to burden you with my problems like this,” he said, groaning, “but I really don’t know what else to do. You’re the only person I can think of who might be able to help me.”

“Me?” I said, in wonder. “Why me?”

“Because I trust you,” he said. “And because you’re brave and smart, you live in New York City, and you write for a national true crime magazine. I’ve read all your stories and I know how gutsy, clever, and driven you are. And I know that truth and justice are very important to you.”

His flattering words made me giddy. I was used to being ridiculed for these “unfeminine” traits, not praised. “What is it you need?” I said without hesitation. “I’ll help in any way I can.” The theme song of the Superman television series was swelling against the sides my cranium.

“I need somebody to believe me,” Terry said, clenching his teeth between words. “I need to be taken seriously, for once. I’ve tried everything under the damn sun! I went to the police again this morning-for the third time-and I begged and pleaded with them to continue the investigation, but they just won’t pay any attention to me. They keep insisting I don’t have any proof. They say the case is as good as closed.” His chin began to tremble.

“Police? Evidence?” I perked up like a puppy with a pork chop. “What case are you talking about?”

Terry’s face had turned almost as white as his hair. “My sister’s murder case.”

“Oh, my Lord!” I croaked, head spinning. “Your sister murdered somebody?”

“God, no!” Terry cried, looking at me as if I’d just sprouted fangs and fur. “Somebody murdered her!”

I was shocked into silence (a few moments too late, as usual). My stomach turned over and a new stream of grief spewed down my spine. Choking back another rush of tears, I reached across the table and grabbed Terry’s hand. “Oh, Terry, that’s so horrible!” I said. “I’m so, so sorry…”

“She was just a kid,” he moaned, shaking his head in despair. “She hadn’t even turned twenty… ”

“When did it happen?”

“Three weeks ago.”

“Where?”

“Here. In New York. Judy moved here about a year and a half ago,” he said, “soon after I got back from Korea. Well, moved isn’t really the right word. She sort of ran away from home.”

I was curious to know why Judy had run away, but other, more pressing questions were popping out of my mouth. “Where in New York did it happen?” I sputtered. “How was she killed?”

Terry’s pale face tightened up like a fist. “She was shot to death in her apartment on West 26th Street. Two.22 caliber bullets to the heart. Her watch and her purse were taken, so the police are convinced she was killed during a random burglary, that her death was in no way premeditated.”

Terry’s account jostled my memory. I recalled reading about the murder in the papers, cutting out the brief articles for our clip files, and asking Pomeroy if he wanted me or Mike to do a write-up for the magazine. He said no, it was a boring crime-that dispassionate, unplanned homicides were “as interesting as his Aunt Martha’s grocery list.” For obvious reasons, I chose not to relate Pomeroy’s remarks to Terry.

“And you’re not convinced it was a chance killing?” I asked Terry. “You don’t agree with the police?”

“You bet your sweet ass I don’t!-forgive my French. For one thing, there were no signs of breaking and entering. No smashed windows or locks, no jimmy scrapes on the door. And there were no signs of a physical struggle, either. Aside from the bullet wounds, Judy’s body didn’t have a mark on it. No cuts or scratches, not even a bruise. And, believe you me, Paige, if my little sister had caught somebody trying to rob her apartment, there would have been a big struggle-gun, or no gun. She wasn’t a coward like me. As young as she was, Judy was tougher than nails-and she loved a good fight.”

“You told this to the police?”

“Of course I did! I told them a lot more, too. They just chose not to listen.”

“Who did you speak to?” I nervously inquired. “Who was the detective in charge?” Since my homicide detective boyfriend’s precinct didn’t encompass West 26th, I was certain it wasn’t Dan Street, but I held my breath and mentally crossed my fingers anyway.

“Sweeny,” Terry said. “Detective Sergeant Hugo Sweeny. ”

Whew! My relief was palpable. I was eager to help Terry if I could, and I was raring to pursue the story of his sister’s murder, but if Dan had been working on the case, I would have had to decline. I would have had to bow out completely-or at least pretend to. Even with Dan not directly involved, I’d have a lot of pretending to do…

“What makes you so sure Detective Sweeny is wrong?” I asked, snatching my cigarettes out of my purse and lighting one up. “Maybe the burglar shot Judy the minute she saw him, before she could put up a struggle, or react in any way to what was happening.” I offered Terry a smoke, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“I could believe that if the shooting had been sloppy,” he said, becoming more agitated, “if at least one of the bullets had missed the heart and hit her shoulder, say, or her leg. But both slugs hit dead center, and they were fired at close range. Judy wasn’t killed by a burglar,” Terry insisted. “Whoever shot her stole her purse and watch just to make it look like a burglary!” His face wasn’t as white as his hair anymore. Now it was chili-pepper red.

“Was her apartment ransacked?” I asked, keeping my tone as calm and professional as possible.

“The place was a mess,” he said. “At least that’s what the police told me. They said everything was turned upside down. And I believe them, since the apartment was a wreck when I got here. The police were responsible for some of the disorder themselves, of course-they had rummaged through everything looking for clues-but they weren’t the cause of the major destruction. That was the murderer’s handiwork.”

“Was anything else taken?” I asked, still exploring the burglary angle.

“I don’t know for sure, but I doubt it. Judy never owned anything worth stealing. She was a salesgirl in the lingerie department at Macy’s, and she didn’t make much money at all. I don’t even know how she could afford to rent her own apartment. She used to room with two other girls down on 19th Street, but she moved out and took her own place a few months ago.” Terry pulled a paper napkin out of the table dispenser and dabbed it over his perspiring forehead.