Эд Макбейн - Learning to Kill - Stories

The girl was sprawled against the iron bar 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 center, 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 you’re needed.”

“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.

“Yeah.”

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 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, it 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 lips trembled with her grief. She still looked dazed from the shock of having seen her daughter with the life torn from her.

“This is Detective-Sergeant Hannigan,” Johnny said, “and I’m his partner, Detective-Sergeant 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 and touched her forehead. “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 neighborhood. 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.”

“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 like 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, 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. 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 Nash 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 officers, 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 won’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.

“Now 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, and 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.”