Read The Boric Acid Murder Online
Authors: Camille Minichino
Tags: #Revere Beach (Mass.), #Police Procedural, #Mystery & Detective, #Boric acid, #General, #Boston (Mass.), #Lamerino; Gloria (Fictitious character), #Women Sleuths, #Fiction, #Women physicists, #Detective and mystery stories; American, #Massachusetts
The Boric Acid Murder (20 page)
ON THE WAY HOME, I reviewed the interview, primarily to fix it in my memory, since I hadn’t taken any notes. What struck me was that Derek had so many motives, from betrayed lover to avenging grandson, with important, controversial documents in between. And Matt had admitted that Derek’s alibi was no better than John Galigani’s. Both men had claimed to be home alone by midnight on the night of the murder. Finally, Derek was certainly strong and tall enough to have overpowered Yolanda.
Derek Byrne—means, motives, opportunity. Almost too easy.
I turned my attention to Derek’s father. Councilman Byrne’s parents weren’t exactly innocent victims of Sabatino Scotto. They must have known the risks. Unfortunate as it was, the Byrnes weren’t the first to suffer the tragic consequences of drinking alcohol from a backyard still. I imagined, however, that these facts might not have curbed the young Brendan Byrne’s deep resentment of the Scottos. And a desire to kill them? That was the question.
Derek had told me his father knew he was about to break up with Yolanda. Would that give the councilman more or less motive to kill her? Would it be easier to murder your son’s exgirlfriend than the one he’s still seeing? Or, since she’d no longer be in line to give his family an heir with dreaded Scotto genes, would that ease the tension? I wished I knew the criminal mind better. Or at all.
It wasn’t any easier to understand Yolanda’s life. A picture
emerged of her flitting from one man to another. Derek. John. Taruffi? Derek had implied there were others. I shook my head in dismay.
emerged of her flitting from one man to another. Derek. John. Taruffi? Derek had implied there were others. I shook my head in dismay.
A glance at my briefcase, on the passenger seat like a silent, comforting friend, gave me hope. The land-use documents were tucked into a side pocket. At least I’d made some progress, and Rose would be pleased.
I CAME HOME TO a bright orange six on my answering machine, representing nearly my entire complement of friends and relatives.
Andrea called to thank me for dinner. She wanted to get together to review the outline she’d prepared for her first class with Peter Mastrone. Three months ahead of schedule, a woman after my own well-organized heart.
My Worcester cousin, Mary Ann, welcomed me back from my vacation in California. She had a way of sounding like my old-school aunts and uncles who could appear positive, then make you feel guilty a nanosecond later. “I’m sure you would have called me eventually,” Mary Ann said in a sweet voice.
The call from Rose sounded like an encrypted message setting up a hit. “My man in Chelsea is ready to accept the package,” she said. “Let’s arrange a pickup and drop-off time.”
I’d taken the legal documents from my briefcase and flipped through them while I listened to my messages. I was immediately intimidated by their official look—very wide margins, numbered lines, the seal of the City of Revere, a generous sprinkling of heretofores and henceforths, one or two Latin phrases per page, and strange alphanumeric strings, like 710CMR7.65(2)(d)(iii)(a). I flipped past the pages of text to the drawings, noting the scale on one of the close-ups—1” 3/32”, it read. I never understood why engineers wouldn’t adopt the metric system, but that was the least of my problems as I tried to interpret the sheaf of papers.
Three of the drawings looked like a child’s rendition of the library building from different angles, with trees no better drawn than I could do. There were also aerial views of the
interior and exterior, showing parking spaces for more than one hundred cars.
interior and exterior, showing parking spaces for more than one hundred cars.
I was glad someone else was responsible for authenticating the papers. How would you ever know? Probably some very high technology analysis made it easier to distinguish real from fake documentation. But then I tended to attribute all progress to the advance of technical knowledge.
From Erin Wong’s message I learned that Tony Taruffi was ready to deliver the model reactor to the high school. I wasn’t quite prepared for the project, but I knew that another meeting with him would be to my advantage, as far as information-gathering. It gave me secret pleasure that I intimidated him. Not something I was proud of.
I made a callback list. Andrea. Mary Ann. Rose. Erin.
Elaine Cody’s call was also in code. “Let me know how the project is going. Any milestones? Have you set a deadline yet?” I wondered how Matt would feel about being referred to as “a project.”
Matt’s call was last. Could he come by with the old police files on the Scotto trial?
“Please do,” I said, returning his call first.
But Rose beat Matt to my apartment, not waiting for me to call her back.
“I can’t linger,” Rose said. “I have an appointment with Cappie at three. Do you have the goods?” She winked, and pulled an imaginary cloak across her face.
I handed over the papers, stuffed into a manila envelope at the last minute, at her request.
“In case they’re watching,” she said.
I thought her attitude was a little extreme for someone who hadn’t even had her tires slashed.
AN HOUR OR SO LATER, after a suitably long greeting, I briefed Matt on my meeting with Derek. I emphasized his comments on Yolanda’s active, polygamous love life.
“Parker and Berger are working that angle. Don’t worry,” he said.
But I did. I wanted my old life back, the one where Rose and Frank and Matt and I played canasta every week, and all the Galigani children were safe and happy and untouched by serious crime.
Matt read to me from the police file on the old Scotto case.
“Listen to what they found in Scotto’s backyard, up on Malden Street. And I quote: two fifty-gallon stills in operation, condenser cisterns, coils, five-ply burners, gasoline pressure tanks, tanks full of mash, tanks full of water ready to set, and five-hundred-gallon reserve tanks above the still for pumping the mash. There were hoses, receiving kegs to catch the whiskey when it came out of the stills, filter barrels, sacks of barley, caramel coloring for the brandy, ten-pound packages of yeast, sugar. Plus hydrometers, test tubes, and a row of two-burner stoves, coal-oil lanterns—it goes on and on.”
“Wouldn’t it have been hard to hide all that paraphernalia?”
Matt nodded. “It makes you think the police knew all this was there, but didn’t bother to do anything about it until someone died.”
“I’m certainly glad that doesn’t go on these days,” I said.
“Right.”
We smiled at our mutual, clever sarcasm.
Matt and I took turns with the arrest report, the fingerprint form, evidence inventory, and a set of articles from the
Journal.
We fell into our comfortable routine for working a case together, alternately reading to ourselves, mumbling aloud when something caught our eye, asking a question, throwing out a theory. And, of course, nibbling on Sees nuts and chews from Elaine.
Journal.
We fell into our comfortable routine for working a case together, alternately reading to ourselves, mumbling aloud when something caught our eye, asking a question, throwing out a theory. And, of course, nibbling on Sees nuts and chews from Elaine.
“Involuntary manslaughter,” I said. “Remind me what that is.”
“Recklessly causing death under circumstances manifesting extreme indifference to human life.”
“Not that you know it by heart.”
He gave me a smile and we said together, “It’s what I do.”
“It’s easy to see how ‘recklessly’ fits,” I said. “These amateurs with no knowledge of chemistry put together makeshift
equipment to purify poisonous, denatured, industrial grade alcohol. They use lead and zinc in the construction of the stills and storage vats. And under the conditions of extreme heat, the poisons are distilled right into the alcohol.”
equipment to purify poisonous, denatured, industrial grade alcohol. They use lead and zinc in the construction of the stills and storage vats. And under the conditions of extreme heat, the poisons are distilled right into the alcohol.”
“Now who sounds like a textbook?”
I shrugged. “Misuse of science, even chemistry, galls me. I just saw an op-ed piece in one of the old
Journal
clippings in this pile. They cited cases of brain damage and insanity that resulted from drinking moonshine. Byrne’s mother, Grace, was blinded and his father, Brendan Sr., died, as sure as if Scotto had administered the poison directly.”
Journal
clippings in this pile. They cited cases of brain damage and insanity that resulted from drinking moonshine. Byrne’s mother, Grace, was blinded and his father, Brendan Sr., died, as sure as if Scotto had administered the poison directly.”
“The newspapers were pretty tough on him. At least there’s that consolation.”
“True. It’s a wonder he was let out on bail. Not to mention he was a perfect candidate for maximum flight risk.”
“He was a U.S. citizen, though,” Matt reminded me. “And it depends on who was on the bench that day.”
“You mean, maybe one of his customers?”
“Exactly,” Matt said.
“Here’s a description of Scotto. Five feet one and a half inches tall, one hundred sixty-five pounds—”
“Chunky,” Matt said, sucking in his stomach.
I nodded and tucked in my own. “Brown eyes, dark hair parted in the middle. Sounds like my Uncle Jimmy, except for the tattoo. Scotto had a bunch of grapes on his arm. I would have expected a heart or a—”
“Grapes, grapes.” Matt’s muttered interruption was accompanied by his rapid shuffling through papers scattered on my coffee table. “Where did I see something about a bunch of grapes?” He picked up a typewritten form, so yellow and brittle with age that pieces of it fell onto his lap. “Here it is, on Mrs. Scotto’s list of jewelry stolen from her bedroom vanity. One of the most expensive pieces was a pendant with sapphires and emeralds arranged like a bunch of grapes.”
“A family symbol, I guess.” I put down my folders and leaned across to look at the photograph clipped to the report, one of a set that cataloged Celia Scotto’s extensive jewelry
collection. Diamond earrings, a cross set with rubies, elaborate necklaces and brooches. Nothing so frivolous as my boron pin.
collection. Diamond earrings, a cross set with rubies, elaborate necklaces and brooches. Nothing so frivolous as my boron pin.
“That’s strange,” I said. “You think she’d cover for her husband and not confirm the reports that he stole her treasures and ran. I wonder why she turned him in?”
More shuffling while Matt found the report he was looking for. “She didn’t. Look at the timing on this. A week before he disappeared, while Scotto was still at home, out on bail, she reported a robbery.”
“Someone else stole the jewelry?”
“Or they were setting up a cover story together.”
“It seems we’re learning something new every minute on this case, even though it’s been closed for fifty-five years.” But did any of it matter? I wondered if Matt had the same doubts about researching an interesting, but potentially useless, period in Revere’s history. I didn’t want to break our rhythm by asking, and we’d almost finished with the material he’d brought.
We’d gone through several day’s worth of the
Revere
Journal,
the Chelsea Record, and the
Winthrop
Sun Transcript
. I didn’t know there were so many separate small-town publications. We had only one more envelope to go—more articles and photographs from the
Journal
published during the days following Mr. Byrne’s death and Scotto’s arrest. The longest piece included a snapshot of a crowd in front of City Hall, taken before the bail hearing, protesting the potential release of Sabatino Scotto. We could make out signs that included every derogatory term we’d ever heard for Italian-Americans: PUT GINNEYS WHERE THE MOON DON’T SHINE. SPECIAL JAILS FOR WOPS. KILL DAGO MURDERERS. PUT SCOTTO’S BODY ON A BOAT TO ITALY. “Just like a reporter to focus on the most inflammatory responses,” I said. Then I thought of another reporter, John Galigani, and blushed at my stereotyping.
Revere
Journal,
the Chelsea Record, and the
Winthrop
Sun Transcript
. I didn’t know there were so many separate small-town publications. We had only one more envelope to go—more articles and photographs from the
Journal
published during the days following Mr. Byrne’s death and Scotto’s arrest. The longest piece included a snapshot of a crowd in front of City Hall, taken before the bail hearing, protesting the potential release of Sabatino Scotto. We could make out signs that included every derogatory term we’d ever heard for Italian-Americans: PUT GINNEYS WHERE THE MOON DON’T SHINE. SPECIAL JAILS FOR WOPS. KILL DAGO MURDERERS. PUT SCOTTO’S BODY ON A BOAT TO ITALY. “Just like a reporter to focus on the most inflammatory responses,” I said. Then I thought of another reporter, John Galigani, and blushed at my stereotyping.
“What have we here?” Matt asked. He pointed to a young man, isolated from the group, leaning on a lamppost on Broadway. A sullen, troubled look marked his long, narrow face. It
was a close shot, and even with the grainy, old newsprint you could tell his eyes were a light, penetrating hue. The caption read, YOUNG BRENDAN BYRNE, VICTIMS’ SON, RECOMMENDS NO MERCY FOR SCOTTO.
was a close shot, and even with the grainy, old newsprint you could tell his eyes were a light, penetrating hue. The caption read, YOUNG BRENDAN BYRNE, VICTIMS’ SON, RECOMMENDS NO MERCY FOR SCOTTO.
“Hmmm.” The syllable came out of both our mouths, and we sat back, as if we both had enough to think about for a while.
ROSE RACED US UP Broadway through rush-hour traffic, under the overpass, and into Chelsea.
“Cappie’s ready,” she’d said, unannounced, standing on my threshold at eight o’clock on Wednesday morning.
For the second time in two days, she’d skipped the phone call that usually preceded her visits. Even if she was only one floor below my apartment in the Galigani Mortuary, Rose would use the intercom first if she felt like coming up for a coffee break.
“You never know, Gloria. You could be entertaining,” she’d say with a wink that meant,
I can only hope.
I can only hope.
Apparently her son’s predicament had caused her to change her habits. Including her driving habits, I noted with alarm, as she whipped around an enormous Stop & Shop truck.
I’d expected to find Rose’s man, Cappie, between a checkcashing office and a bail bondsman, all establishments with bars on the windows and doors, so I was surprised when we pulled up to a new two-story office building with attractive landscaping. I brushed past pink roses, pansies, and orange and yellow flowers I couldn’t name. Day lilies, Rose informed me. Her look said she’d expect anyone who could recite the elements in the periodic table to know the name of a simple flower.
Cappie, I learned, was short for Caporale. Christopher Caporale was an expert in a field I didn’t even know was a field, authenticating documents. He had a boyish face, though I could tell from his posture and his gait that he was my age or older.
His brown eyes seemed extra wide, as if he needed all the lens aperture he could get to inspect the fine print on documents.
His brown eyes seemed extra wide, as if he needed all the lens aperture he could get to inspect the fine print on documents.
His office was a treat to behold—more like a lab. Cappie’s table had graduated cylinders with brushes, styluses, and out-of-the-ordinary pens. Neat shelves with beakers and microscopes in all sizes, lighted magnifiers, lenses, calipers, filters, diffraction gratings, stacks of cotton swabs. A row of liquids in many hues—a viscous blue, thin reds and purples, a yellowish suspension in a gel. Something about the arrangement reminded me of Frank Galigani’s embalming prep room with its jellies and creams, and wax—for filling in deep wounds, Frank had told me gratuitously.
Instead of New Age posters like the ones that papered Tony Taruffi’s walls, an enormous periodic table adorned the space behind Cappie’s workbench. One side of the room was dedicated to a state-of-the-art computer system with the largest scanner I’d ever seen. I felt at home.
“I’m glad to finally meet you, Dr. Lamerino,” he said, drawing my attention away from the photo of a hunk of titanium that filled the 22 block of the chart.
He led us to a corner with a round table and upholstered chairs—his conference area, kept neat for visitors like Rose and me, I guessed.
I ran my eyes over a column of framed certificates, lined up vertically next to the window. Cappie was named as a member of the National Association of Document Examiners, a statecertified document examiner, an instructor to police personnel in eighteen states, a lecturer in statement analysis. And he’d done a stint with the Democratic Party, investigating voter fraud. As long as his credentials were authentic, we were in good hands.
“Did Rose ever tell you about the forgery ring she and Frank were in?” Cappie asked me, pouring coffee from a blackringed dewar.
I looked at my friend, my eyes wide. “Forgery?” We’d taken seats around a table that was clear except for the manila envelope with the documents I’d received from Derek Byrne.
“I told you about it, Gloria,” Rose said. She nudged my arm as if to jog my memory. “It was about ten years ago, maybe more. A block of five hundred blank death certificates was stolen from the old Revere General Hospital, which of course isn’t there anymore.”
“I got the police to work with Rose and Frank.” Cappie sounded like a proud mentor. “The Galiganis pretended to want to buy some certificates, and they roped in the guys.”
“We really didn’t have much to do with it,” Rose said. “The police just used our name and the mortuary to lure the crooks, but they wouldn’t let us be in the building.”
I had only a vague recollection of the police taking over the Galigani Mortuary, an incident well before the Revere Police Department and Sergeant Matt Gennaro had piqued my interest in matters of law enforcement. I found myself wishing I’d been there for the bust.
“Matt wasn’t involved,” Rose said, as if I’d asked. “The police put the word out through their informers, and then they were waiting in Frank’s office when the guys came. They used undercover people that sort of looked like me and Frank. One of them was Rusty Nigro’s daughter, if you remember her, just in case anyone had seen us. It was pretty exciting, even if we didn’t get to see it go down. That’s it, isn’t it, Cappie? Go down?”
Cappie smiled. “You’ve got it, Rose.”
“I can see why blank death certificates might have some value to a criminal, but why would a funeral director want to buy them?” I asked.
Cappie pushed up the sleeves of his light denim shirt, revealing smooth-skinned, nearly hairless arms. His face, too, seemed to be preadolescent, as if he hadn’t needed his first shave yet.
“Remember, it’s usually the undertaker who obtains the death certificate from the hospital or nursing home or whatever, and files it with the Board of Health. They can’t get a burial permit until then. Also, the certificates have the official seal on them, so all someone has to do is fill in the form, and the
person is dead.” Cappie snapped his fingers, snuffing out a life. “Say, it’s a criminal-he can come back as someone else.”
person is dead.” Cappie snapped his fingers, snuffing out a life. “Say, it’s a criminal-he can come back as someone else.”
“You never know what’s valuable,” I said, amazed at this world I’d never lived in.
Cappie nodded. “Even with all this new Internet stuff, there’s still a lot of checkpoints that require paper. There’s a big market for blank birth certificates, too. And immigration forms, marriage licenses, military discharge papers—you name it.” He ticked off the desirables on long, graceful fingers that seem out of proportion to his short, stubby body, as if they’d been specially designed for fine penmanship. “People use the blanks to steal an identity or create a new one, or—and this is big business—to claim benefits like VA and social security.”
“Imagine,” Rose said. She shook her head in distaste at an invisible criminal seated in our midst.
“And don’t think there aren’t some funeral directors out there, among others, who wouldn’t blink an eye at helping someone do this, if the price was right,” Cappie added.
Rose’s face took on a sad expression. The way mine did whenever I learned of a scientist who wasn’t a pillar of integrity.
Cappie spread the contents of our envelope over his table. “Yep, there’s still a lot of paper crime. Speaking of which …” He tapped our documents with his index finger.
“Paper crime?” I asked, my body responding with an excited twinge.
“I’ll say. These papers have been altered, no question. Where did you say you got them?”
I explained what little Derek had told me of the papers having been found among material the library was storing for the Historical Society.
“It’s no surprise that they haven’t been filed. It’s a pretty crude job of doctoring, I must say. Let me show you.”
Cappie smoothed out one of the folded line drawings of the land bordered on three sides by Lowe Street, Library Street, and Beach Street. On the fourth, the south side, was the new
Immaculate Conception Church, its parking lot butting up against the library lot. He’d selected the one with a simple outline of the library building, showing not much more than the shape of the building and its position on the lot.
Immaculate Conception Church, its parking lot butting up against the library lot. He’d selected the one with a simple outline of the library building, showing not much more than the shape of the building and its position on the lot.
“See this number right here. It says the existing lot is 26,572 square feet. Well, that’s enough to include the proposed extension. Pretty handy, isn’t it? But with my EUV machine—never mind what that is—and a few years’ experience, I can show you a dotted line that’s been erased.”
Rose and I leaned on the table, on either side of Cappie. We both squinted, as if we could make our eyes as keen and probing as a licensed document examiner’s equipment. I had to admit it was difficult to see the line under Cappie’s stylus, but my eagerness to believe it was there added a dimension. I expect it was the same for Rose, and we both made appropriate
Eureka
noises.
Eureka
noises.
Cappie set aside his thick lens and stylus. “I was able to determine the original numbers, at least approximately. It’s my belief that the lot below the deleted line is only a little more than twenty thousand square feet, and above the line is another six thousand or so square feet.”
I sat back and took a breath. “And they’ve made it look as though the whole lot was one piece, all of which has belonged to the library from the beginning.”
Cappie nodded. “Or at least as far back as has ever been recorded. They erased the two numbers, and put in the total. I didn’t even try to date the ink on the new number, because the rest is so obvious.”
“What are the chances that someone would be taken in by this?” I asked.
“If you ask me, it’s a piece of cake to figure this out. Ordinarily I’d have to scan in the document and use some fancy image-processing software to detect writing that might have been erased. But I didn’t need anything that sophisticated for this, just that instrument in the corner.” Cappie pointed to what looked like an elaborate microscope with appendages of light sources and calibrated staging areas. “It uses infrared light and
filters to differentiate inks and papers and bring out hidden material. It’s pretty standard equipment.”
filters to differentiate inks and papers and bring out hidden material. It’s pretty standard equipment.”
“So the Church’s experts will probably also know these documents are forged?” Rose asked.
Cappie seemed to nod and shake his head at the same time. “I’d like you to think I’m a genius, but I can’t imagine anyone but an amateur being fooled by this. It’s as if they weren’t really serious about it.”
“Well, we can’t thank you enough, Cappie,” Rose said. “You’re the best.”
Cappie brushed away her compliment. “Nah, the right light, plus a few chemicals and a touch of photographic artistry. That’s all you need to do this job.”
“Right,” Rose said, winking elaborately. She discreetly placed an envelope where the documents had been. I guessed they’d agreed ahead of time on a fee for services.
I wasn’t quite finished with our expert. “If it’s such an amateur job, then why do you think they bothered to do this at all?”
Cappie shrugged. “They probably hired this out, and being unacquainted with the criminal element, they got gypped,” Cappie said.
I tried to imagine the meticulous Dorothy Leonard getting “gyped.”
Cappie continued. “Maybe it’s a stall, while they get some other paperwork through. Some deadline they had to meet, and this buys them time.” A slight grin formed on Cappie’s blemish-free face. “Or maybe they’re just stupid. Criminals usually are, you know. Did you hear the one about the bank robber who slipped a GIVE ME ALL YOUR MONEY note to the teller, written on the back of one of his own deposit slips?”
It was an old story, but we all laughed. I remembered similar stories from Matt. But I didn’t for a minute think Derek Byrne and Dorothy Leonard were stupid.
Now that we had the facts on the documents, I struggled to tie the crime to Yolanda’s murder. Neither John nor Derek thought she cared at all about the expansion, but it was possible
that she discovered the fraud and decided to cash in on it. Anyone capable of dumping John Galigani could do anything, in my biased view.
that she discovered the fraud and decided to cash in on it. Anyone capable of dumping John Galigani could do anything, in my biased view.
Rose had begun to pace, her rhythm interrupted by obstacles common to a laboratory environment—a small centrifuge, power supplies, tanks of chemicals. I had the feeling our project was minuscule on the scale of things Cappie usually handled, and that he did it so quickly as a favor to the Galiganis.
“But assuming it was the library director and/or the assistant director—they’re intelligent people,” Rose said.
“Doesn’t mean they don’t do stupid things in a time of crisis,” Cappie said.
“I hope that’s it,” Rose said. “Otherwise, if they weren’t serious, they also wouldn’t be likely to kill someone to keep from being exposed.”
“Good point,” I said.
And bad for John’s case, I thought.
ON THE WAY TO HER CAR, Rose and I linked arms. We walked in silence, until I inadvertently shared my thoughts. “I wonder if John knows about the forged documents?” I mumbled the words to myself, then caught my breath when I realized I’d spoken aloud. “Rose, I didn’t mean to imply that John …”
“Don’t worry, Gloria, I’m not going to snap at you. I hope I never do that again.”
My jaws relaxed. I could see the deep shades of fatigue around Rose’s eyes, the untended pallor of her cheeks. “It was perfectly understandable. You’re doing very well considering all that’s happened.”
Rose shrugged. “Not really, but thanks for saying that. And I don’t know why John hasn’t offered to help—like on TV when reporters or cops are accused of a crime they go out on their own investigating, and then duke it out with the real guilty one. I don’t know whether to be glad or sad he’s not doing that. He sits around the house playing with his laptop all day.”
I nodded. “People react differently.” Gloria, the insightful friend to the rescue.
Other books
Beauty & The Biker by Glenna Maynard
Cry Father by Benjamin Whitmer
Surrender by Peters, Heather
And Then Things Fall Apart by Arlaina Tibensky
Summer's End by Lisa Morton
(5/10) Sea Change by Parker, Robert B.
Tax Cut by Michele Lynn Seigfried
Unlocked by Evelyn Adams
My Secret Master (A Dark Billionaire Romance) by Flite, Nora
A Well Kept Secret by A. B. King
