The Dog Killer of Utica (11 page)

“Yes. Now give me the normal human opinion rather than the pitch of a soulless lawyer.”

“Where’s the irrefutable linkage of gun and shooter? Okay, okay. Totally likely the same shooter, but no proof yet
that it was and who would have the motive to kill a dog and then Freddy? How are they connected, if they are?”

“Both dogs?”

“Very nice, Catherine.”

“What do you always tell me? Humor knows no pieties? Our only weapon against the dark?”

“Forget it, Catherine. What’s the connection of those two shootings with the shooting of Bobby Rintrona? If there is one.”

Her cell. Belmonte. She listens without responding until the end, when she says, “This is insane.”

“What is insane?”

“Antonio called him to the house because—they have a Jack Russell terrier, named Jack Russell, did you know that, Eliot?”

“They don’t
have
one, Catherine. They
had
one. Isn’t that what you’re going to tell me?”

“Milly’s walking him. They’re in the driveway—no, I mean
she
’s in the driveway and the dog’s in the snow-covered lawn area on one of those retractable leashes that allows the dog—there was a shot. The dog’s head exploded. Something else. Worse. Apparently the bullet, which passed through the—it must have ricocheted off the driveway because Milly—a fragment shattered her knee. She’s at Saint Elizabeth’s where Don talked to her. Antonio is adamant. None of this gets out to the public.”

“What did she tell Don about what she saw?”

“Nothing. No car. No drive-by. Nobody around. Don concludes high-powered rifle with a scope from somewhere on the hill across from the driveway. No witnesses.
No neighbors. Don says it would be highly unlikely to find a shell casing because the shooter, if he didn’t pick it up, fired from wooded and brushy terrain, and it would take many men scouring foot by foot in the deep snow and anyway Antonio wants this thing kept secret for some reason.”

“If Don’s right—”

“Don’s always right, El.”

“A precision shot intended for the dog’s head. The shooter could easily have killed Milly, but didn’t want to. Where was Antonio when the shooting occurred?”

“Don didn’t say. Why?”

“If he’s at home, he’s in the clear.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“Call Don, tell him to pin that down. How did Antonio learn of the shooting is the point.”

“You actually think—”

“Rule nothing out in advance. Isn’t that what you’ve taught me, Detective Cruz? Motive—Jesus, I have no clue. Kill his own dog? Put his wife in danger?”

“See the pattern, connect the shootings, Detective Conte. Tie irrefutable forensics to a subject who will never take the stand. The D.A. invents motive. Because the jury wants a story. Motive is beside the point except in those bullshit novels of the courtroom.”

“Motive is totally irrelevant to the real-life police work of solving crimes? You can’t mean that, Catherine.”

“Largely irrelevant. The pattern. The forensics. Plus one other thing: luck. Let’s review the facts.”

“Okay: Bobby. Three from a car. What does three tell us, Catherine, if not that the shooter intended murder?”

“What else it tells, El, he, or she, whatever, was not that good with a handgun. It’s hard, very hard, to be accurate with a handgun unless you have a lot of practice.”

“Wait. Not necessarily. Maybe the shooter
was
good with a handgun on the practice range with a paper target. But with an actual human target, for the first time, he loses his composure. He’s like a first-time deer hunter with buck fever when the buck crosses his path, which he can’t hit no matter how close.”

“Which leaves us at square one.”

“The killer of Bobby’s dog, though. Bing! One shot.”

“What we know about Troy, El: two different guns, two different cars. But likely same shooter because no other theory makes sense. Day one, Bobby. Day two, his dog. Same shooter, El. Has to be.”

“Who suddenly becomes a deadly marksman?”

“No, El. Who gets lucky with the handgun, but whose target is obviously the dog, lucky or not.”

“Okay, Freddy Barbone. Head shot up close. Someone he knows, he lets in after hours. Rock solid theory, no?”

“Rock solid, even though there is no such thing.”

“The virtual decapitation?”

“Rage murder, Mr. Conte. Someone who secretly hates Freddy.”

“The Robinsons’ dog. Has to be the shooter who did Bobby’s dog. Has to be.”

“Who’s not that good with a handgun and knows it. But a high-powered rifle with a properly calibrated scope—we say ‘has to be,’ El, when we
know
nothing. Anybody with minimal long-gun experience can be deadly with a properly calibrated
scope. Anyone with some hunting experience. You’re going out to dinner and you just ate half of my—”

“Okay. If the same shooter in all cases, Catherine, then each of the targets has something in common with the others.” Pushes the plate back to her.

“If the same shooter, then Freddy—what, my sauce is bland?”

“Freddy has something in common with Bobby? I’m in the dark.”

“Yes, Eliot. If the same shooter.” Pushes the plate back to him. “My sauce is lousy?”

“And they each have something in common with the dogs?” (He laughs.)

She’s suppressing a smile: “Absolutely.”

“If we had a motive, we could find common ground.”

“Ass-backwards, El. The ballistic linkage of Bobby and Freddy gives us eventually a prime suspect and a twisted motive in some sick psychological underground. We have a likely killer. The pattern and the forensics give us the real killer, not the likely one. Motive? Who cares at that point?”

“A lot depends on Antonio’s whereabouts, if they can be innocently accounted for. I can think of two theories, mutually exclusive, depending on—”

(The doorbell.)

“Saved by the bell, El, because we’re still at square one. We have nothing.”

Angel Moreno. Conte invites him in:

“No way, Jefe.”

“In a big hurry, Angel?”

“Otherwise engaged, yeah.”

“Santa’s watching, Angel. Are you naughty or nice?”

“Christmas shopping. Last-minute anxiety, Jefe.”

“You have money for that?”

“Strictly online, big man, the new American way.”

“That requires—”

“Yeah. Credit card.”

“Obviously, you don’t have a credit card.”

“You got that right, señor.”

“I don’t like the implication, Angel.”

“Yeah.”

“Why did you knock on the door?”

“I been hackivatin’ on your behalf. That Mirko the Bosnian did something stupid. Got married in Syracuse.”

“Can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear that news. Thank you, Angel.”

“I don’t disrespect marriage all three genders every which way, Jefe, but fuckin’
Syracuse
? Know where I’m at?”

“I do.”

Glancing to the kitchen. “I see the fox of all foxes is back. She be
La Jefa
over your ass.” She waves to him. “I think she like me. Beware of the young male stud, Jefe.”

“You’re still thirteen, Angel?”

“Don’t take me and the fox lightly, man.”

Conte laughs.

“Think I’m a clown, Jefe?”

“I think you’re the best. No one in your league, Angel.”

“Yeah. One other thing. That Martello groper? He’s lunching with Congressman Kingwood hush hush concerning the drama of Sunday.”

“They said drama?”

“Kingwood said that word, which I analyze as bullshit on Sunday, no disrespect to the legitimate theater. Give
La Jefa
my love. See! She be blowing me a kiss. She already make her choice.”

“Wait. What about you, your Dad, and me go bowling sometime over the holidays?”

“All due respect to the proletariat, but Angel Moreno don’t feature working-class recreations.” He goes.

She says, “Where that kid came from only God knows.”

“Literally. Listen. I’ve got to leave soon. Where are we with our so-called theory?”

“We have no theory. All I can think of is tell our friends with dogs, ‘potty train your dog.’ ”

“Kyle and Mark have a dog.”

“So does Tom Castellano.”

On the way to Joey’s, Catherine’s words keep repeating in his head. Tell our friends … potty train your dog. Our friends.
We
, the link? The figure in the carpet? But Freddy was no friend … Punch a brick wall, Eliot. Where’s your guardian angel? What’s her name?

He pulls over, makes a call:

“Tony, Eliot. You at Joey’s?”

“Where else would I be?”

“Just making sure.”

“You don’t sound like yourself, El.”

(The ghosts of his murdered daughters grip his throat.)

“El, you still there?”

“Just making sure, Tony.”

He drives off only to stop in the middle of the next block to make another call. This one not in anxiety, but with cold calculation:

“Robby, it’s me.”

“Yeah.”

“Milly’s birthday—Jeez, it slipped my mind. I’d like to wish her belated felicitations. How’s she doing? It’s been a while.”

“She’s in Florida for the holidays.”

“Oh … so how was your day, Robby? How’s it going, man?”

“I hardly ever hear from you anymore, and you’re asking me about my fuckin’
day
? Milly’s birthday was a month ago, which you never forgot for ten years and you didn’t forget this time either because you sent a card a month ago. Stop bullshitting me.”

“Jeez, my memory’s gone to the dogs. Maybe the incomparable Jack Russell the Jack Russell would be willing to give it back to me.”

(Silence.)

“Come on, Robby, don’t you think that was somewhat witty? That little dog Milly’s so crazy about is a real sweetheart. And smart? I never saw smarter.”

“Why did you call?”

“Just wanted to talk. I miss us. Don’t you?”

“Sure.”

“The opera on Saturday afternoons—just us two—the amazing sandwiches Milly put together. They’re doing
Il Trovatore
this Saturday with Anna Netrebko. Remember that sultry Russian beauty? We saw her in
Lucia
. A voice like that, you
said, pouring from that body? You said it was better than the best sex. You said it was like her voice was doing you. Let’s go down to Troy for the high-def broadcast. What d’ya say?”

“I doubt it.”

“What d’ya say this summer we resume the varmit hunting we did in high school? Remember the fun we used to have? The rats at the dump, big as cats? Jeez! What an amazing deadeye you were, Robby!”

(No response.)

“Remember that time we took our father’s .22 Hornet up to Smith Hill? Near the TV Towers? We took little Tony Senzalma, who’s shaking like a leaf in the backseat near that souped-up .22 with the zeroed-in scope. Bullets the size that dwarf normal .22 bullets. Like a .30 caliber. Deer ordnance. Assassination ordnance, you might say. And I’m driving and I spot a woodchuck fifty yards out and stop the car and you’re about to get out with the rifle—what did I tell you? Do you remember?”

“Fuckin’ roly-poly cocksuckers are too smart, you said. They hear the car door open and run down to their underground apartments. Then you said—”

“I don’t believe I spoke so obscenely. Roll down the window, Robby, is what I said. And you did. You didn’t get out. You rested the barrel on the doorframe. Boom! Right through the head. You were always a great head shooter, it was your specialty, the head shot, and it was the biggest one we ever saw. Remember little Tony’s reaction?”

“He cried.”

“We stretched that thing out on the sidewalk in front of our father’s house and his length ran the entire width of
the sidewalk. He had to weigh thirty-five pounds, at least. He was growing huge with impunity up there because no one ever shoots a rifle within city limits unless—you still there, Robby?”

“Unless? Unless
what
?”

“Silvio willed that rifle to you in honor of your superior marksmanship. You still have it, I presume?”

“Yeah, and fuck your presume.”

“Something wrong, Robby?”

“Like you care. I’m coming down with something. I need to go to bed.”

“Give Milly my love. Hope she’s in tip-top these days.” (No response.)

“You have my love too—despite whatever.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“One more thing, Robby.”

(Line goes dead.)

Anthony V. Senzalma picks unhappily at a plate of small, spicy-hot sausages, as he awaits Eliot Conte in Joey’s office, in the uncommunicative company of bodyguard #1—a slim, stern-faced African-American dressed in a form-hugging, custom-made Italian suit with a .44 Magnum, long barreled and silencer equipped, resting in her lap. For the duration of the dinner, Geraldine Williams will not take her eyes off Conte, whom she had judged correctly, six months ago, to be unstable.

The Giant of Mary Street, as Senzalma thinks of him, parks behind the restaurant and hurries through a sudden cutting wind and steeply plunging temperature to a door alongside a large, stinking garbage dumpster. Waiting for him, as usual, in a surgical mask, is bodyguard #2, Dragan Kovac, a Bosnian immigrant of sumo-wrestler build. The big Bosnian says, “How’s it going?” Conte replies, “Good, and you?” as the Bosnian frisks him, though in desultory fashion.

Conte enters, is met by bodyguard #1 who frisks him again, this time rough and shameless over every inch of his body. She says, “Shoes.” He complies. She puts them out of reach. The odd couple, Conte and Senzalma, embrace, take
their seats at the desk, Senzalma behind, Conte in front, with his back to bodyguard #1, who sits in a far corner. Conte turns to her—it’s a ritual moment with them—says, “You’ll make some guy happy with that big thing in your lap, Geraldine.” According to script, she replies with a nod and the smallest trace of a smile.

Six months ago the fire-breathing right-wing talk radio host had knocked on Conte’s door after dark, in the company of his bodyguards, and said, “I’ve come in long overdue gratitude.” After a thirty-year hiatus in their friendship, Senzalma suggests they get together regularly. The apolitical Conte, who couldn’t help tuning in daily to Senzalma’s show, surprised himself by agreeing to the proposal that they meet soon at Joey’s, in clandestine fashion. Senzalma was an irresistible abomination.